Behind the Bar

I’m not the kind of girl who picks up guys in bars. But then, I’m not a girl who’s had much time to figure out what kind of girl she is. Either way, I’m a girl who likes a vodka martini, extra dirty.

And tonight I’m lonely. And tired. And…hungry. Increasingly hungry. Wolfish, almost. I make myself sit up straight. I don’t want to come across as a vulture. But certainly there must be something here worth putting in my mouth.

This is ostensibly a biker bar, but it’s fallen prey to obstreperous gentrification. A few grizzly originals still sit in the corner, probably reminiscing about the days the place used to serve “porn ‘n’ eggs” brunches on the weekends. Now it’s clear that even as a theme bar the place is dying. The real bikers had found other places with better parking and fewer bros.

I have tonight off. “Night off” is still a very novel concept. My ex conceives “motherhood” as a subgenre of “self-sacrifice,” and has so often praised how much I “give up” for the family that I almost forgot I never agreed to sacrifice a damn thing.

Now, as we drag toward the final ink strokes on the divorce paperwork, I have this thing called “free time,” that’s no longer considered to be anyone’s property but my own. I can do what I want with the time. And, apparently, what I want tonight is olive-flavored vodka and the company of strangers.

I’ve always felt comfortable around bikers. Don’t get me wrong, I know bad biker gangs still exist, but I grew up around big teddy bears on wide hogs who would rather gather toys for tots than brawl in a bar. This erstwhile biker bar still feels like a relatively safe place to relax despite the recent patina of “bro” that has settled over the place.

The place isn’t empty, but there are enough stools for everyone’s coat to have a seat of its own. Across from me on the wide loop of the bar is a man. He sits spotlighted like something from a noir film press release. He’s oblivious. I’m judging him. 

He’s wearing a crisp blue button-down shirt that presses the “uh-oh bro” button in my brain, but something about the details tug at me. He’s tieless, the top button of his shirt undone. His hands are wrapped around a bottle of Old Style, an empty shot glass upside down next to it. His elbows rest on the bar, crisp cuffs neatly folded back to reveal colorful ink adorning his wrists. It looks like the tattoos stretch up under his cuffs. Does he have full sleeves?

Intrigued, I drag my eyes back up to his collar. Is that a tentacle winding its way up his clavicle to wrap behind his ear? I study his face. A softly squared jaw. No facial hair. No piercings. He wears horn rim glasses with thick black frames. His eyes are grey. A clear, unexpected grey that might have been blue in a different light. Under the bar light they’re almost silver. He blinks and I realize with a start that I’ve been staring directly into his eyes. 

I feel a hot flush creeping up my neck, but the martini in me gives the bartender a “hey come take my order” head twitch. Lacking anyone else to serve, she’s at my disposal. 

I lift my fresh Old Style in a toast to the gentleman, who toasts me in return with the beer I’ve sent him. The long bar gives me time for further observation as he strolls over to my side. 

I toss back a quick shot of tequila. Yep. I am officially buzzed. Maybe that will excuse my flushed cheeks. Maybe dudes who drink Old Style in biker bars don’t mind flushed cheeks. 

His hair is a dark blonde, almost brown. It’s made slightly darker by whatever product holds it in a mini-pompadour. Kind of an “office rockabilly” look. His “casual Friday” black jeans complete the corporate rebel look. I can’t wait to figure out his story. 

“Pixy,” I extend my hand. To my surprise, instead of shaking it, he brings it almost to his lips and executes a slight, courtly bow, keeping eye contact the whole time. 

Oh. 

I like that. 

“Nathan,” he announces himself as he gently releases my hand, “Many thanks for the beverage.” His eyes follow mine to where our hands have just parted. “Apologies for not kissing your hand,” he almost stutters, “I don’t like to presume…”

“You have my full permission to make out with my hand when next we meet.”

Is the alcohol making me clever or silly? To my surprise he reddens and turns his attention to his beer, which is dripping little beads of sweat in the slightly sultry bar. At least they haven’t started blasting the air like a fucking Applebees yet. 

As he lifts his beer to his lips a cold drop of condensation rolls off of the brown glass and falls onto my leg just below the hem of my faded black denim shorts. I let out a little gasp as the icy droplet rolls down to nestle in the crease between my thighs. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

He grabs a small handful of napkins from the bar and rushes to pat my leg dry. Unthinkingly he slides his hand between my thighs to catch the errant droplet and I squeeze my legs together, catching his hand in a grip my Pilates instructor would be quite proud of. He looks up, startled and wide eyed, “Oh, god, I’m so sorry—“

“So,” I keep my tone as casual as possible, “what do you do?”

“Video games!” he blurts, and I release his hand. He semi-collapses onto the bar stool next to mine, holding on to his beer like it’s a load-bearing support beverage. “I.. ah.. I produce video games. Sort of. I’m semi-retired.”

He suddenly has my full attention. “Oh? Which ones? For what consoles? Do you do platformers or open world RPGs or MMOGs?”

He raises a surprisingly delicate eyebrow. “You a gamer?”

I nod so hard I nearly pop the flimsy neck strap of my halter top. “When I can. I love puzzle games, adventure games, Zelda, Pikmin, Katamari Damacy, stuff like that.”

“Then I am sorry to inform you that I mostly work on PvP fighter games.”

I’m amused to find myself a little disappointed. Just moments ago I was judging him for not being biker enough. Now I’m disappointed he doesn’t make my favorite kind of video games. 

“Which one?”

“I did some work on Tekken 7,” he is obviously underselling his role. His chest is actually puffed out a little. 

“No. Way. That’s literally the only fighting game I’ve played. Like, my college friends and I were obsessed and we rented a massive TV so we could play it over holiday break. I got blisters on my thumbs.” 

“You want to know something else that’s really fun?” He leaned a bit forward, his eyes flashing under the overhead spots, “They let me do one of the voices. Not, like, the main dub, but some of the fighting sounds.”

“No. Who?!?”

“Kuma.” 

“THE BEAR?!?” I can’t help but laugh. He grins back, fortunately appreciating the humor. He has a crooked smile. If he were a swashbuckler, I might call it rakish. 

“Please.” I beg him as seriously as I can manage, “please do the sounds for me!”

He looks a little taken aback. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t expect to be asked that when you say you voiced a fighting bear.”

“Pixy, right? Well, Pixy, believe it or not, the average person can’t name a single Tekken character let alone which one is the bear. So the conversation doesn’t usually get this far.”

It suddenly occurs to me that he may also be a wee bit tipsy. This gives me an odd little confidence boost. I lean close to his ear. He smells… amazing. Cedar and honey and… leather? I almost forget what I’m doing. 

Oh yes. 

“What if we go outside? Will you growl for me then?”

I’m close enough to see the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Close enough to see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I resist the urge to bite his neck, hard. 

Very hungry. 

I lean back, the air a few degrees cooler 3 feet from his increasingly attractive body. 

“I’m going to go to the ladies room and you can make bear noises for me after that.”

Locked in the graffiti-covered stall I ponder my next steps. What do I want to do with this very interesting gentleman? I’m not quite ready for the full Monty tonight. I don’t want to be bothered with condoms and finding a private place and… ugh. I’m already tired just thinking about it. 

But I am very, very hungry. 

My mind made up, I reassemble myself and return to the main bar. 

He’s standing by the bar, beer in hand, gulping down the last of it. In his other hand hangs a sleek leather riding jacket. An equally sleek helmet nestles under his arm. So, he is a biker after all. Ish. 

As I walk up he addresses me, “Pixy?”

“Yes, Nathan?”

“We meet again?”

Playing obliviously into his snare, “Indeed.”

He brings out the crooked grin again.

“In that case—” 

He swiftly but gently catches my hand in his. Again, he raises it, this time pressing his lips to the back of my hand. I suddenly realize why Victorian women needed fainting couches. I nearly swoon, and I don’t even have half my oxygen cut off by a whalebone corset.

His lips are soft and he lingers, pressing lightly before he disengages. This produces a soft, satisfying little cartoon kiss sound that makes my heart flutter unexpectedly. 

“Does this mean you’re coming outside?”

“Sure, why not? It’s rare that I meet someone who appreciates quality bear sounds.”

My beer is still mostly full, but I drain it in three long swallows, gulping deeply. 

“Wow,” he states, looking somewhere between impressed and alarmed. 

“Yeah, I don’t really have a gag reflex. It’s a long story.”

It isn’t really a long story. I had so much orthodontic work done as a teen that I just became inured to things being stuck in, prodded at, and occasionally accidentally dropped down my throat. By college I could out-chug the entire rest of the theater department without even trying. 

However, it seems an indelicate time to mention Dr. Max’s fumbling fingers. Not when there’s a chance I could get this man to growl like a bear. 

Out front of the bar I inhale deeply and without regret despite the mix of city smells tumbling together. Asphalt, fried foods, the distinct metallic tang of the overhead El tracks. And, at the edge of it— cedar, honey, and leather. I lean against the rusting yellow support beam. 

“Well?” 

He seems genuinely nervous. “I don’t want to be too loud.” He gestures at the nearby “please respect our neighbors” sign that the new, presumably corporate owners have tacked to the front door. 

I look pointedly about at the dull roar of city nightlife around us. A pair of drag queens stumble down the other side of the street, singing ABBA loudly—and not even the same ABBA song. A small amoeba of genuine bros is loudly debating which bar to hit next as they eddy around and past us. A very drunk woman is berating the dude helping her into her Lyft, shouting the words WORSHIP! MY! PUSSY!  ALAN!!! over and over as he sheepishly hands the driver a twenty. 

“Not tonight, Brenda!” He tries to not-shout over her. “Maybe I can worship next time.” He narrowly avoids shutting her foot in the door. She immediately sticks it out the open window and wiggles her toes. The driver shouts at her to put on her seat belt and she shouts YOU! BETTER! WORSHIP! at the ceiling of his SUV. 

Nathan tilts his head in acknowledgment of the general chaos. He clears his throat, then lets out a roar best described as “conversational.” I lose it. 

“It’s… it’s so CHILL!”

“Well,” he defends himself, “they need all kinds of sounds to mix together. They can’t ALL be bloodthirsty death roars!” He’s smiling, though, as if his little performance had produced the desired effect. “That’s only one of the two sounds though.”

“Oh? Is the other one a bloodthirsty death roar?”

“No,” he takes a step closer, “it’s more of a growl. It’s probably too loud out here for you to hear it, though, unless I get, like, right in your ear. 

“I’m game,” I crook a finger in a classic “c’mere” gesture and tilt my ear invitingly his way. 

He steps inside my personal bubble and leans close, a slight cushion of air between us.  Overhead, the El clatters past, drowning out even the fading strains of “Dancing Queen.”

As the rumbling of the El fades, I realize a deeper rumble is coming from Nathan’s chest. It isn’t even emanating from his mouth, really. The sound seems to come directly from the region where poets place the heart. 

“Wow,” is my line this time. “How are you doing that?”

I’m briefly distracted from his lightly stubbled jawline by this fascinating bit of vocal production. 

“It’s kind of, like, a heavy metal singing technique.”

“You sing heavy metal?”

“No,” he admits sheepishly, “I just thought it would be cool to learn how they do it so I, uh, took a class.” His eyes dart sideways as if checking to see if I’ll mock him for this, but I’m holding my hand in front of his chest. 

“May I?”

He nods, and I rest my hand lightly on the crisp cotton of his shirt. Again he leans close to my ear and he growls. The sound seems to surround me as his chest vibrates against my hand. 

“May I?” he whispers in my ear, and I nod breathlessly, hoping I’m correctly understanding the question. 

His lips brush against my neck, tentatively. As if giving me a last chance to change my mind. I let out just the smallest growl of my own and suddenly his arms are around me and his lips are burning into my neck. I feel his teeth graze my skin and I find my fingers wound into the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He sinks his teeth in and I let out an involuntary moan almost as loud as the chorus of Mama, Mia! I laugh at myself, but it comes out as a sharp gasp. Apparently I’m not the only one feeling hungry. 

I feel myself growing more pliable as he nibbles his way along my collarbone, stress draining down the nearest gutter as my body forms to his. My free hand explores his back, the subtle definition there betraying a man with a personal trainer. I make my decision. 

I lower my lips to his ear. Give his earlobe a light nip. This time he moans, though not nearly as loudly as I had. Well, maybe he’s not quite as affection-starved as a recently divorced mother with only a handful of satisfying sexual experiences in the last 20-something years. 

It’s my turn to tickle his ear as I breathe, “I’ve been feeling hungry all day.” To further illustrate my meaning I gently grind my hip against his rapidly growing hard-on. “Do you want to go somewhere a little more private and see what I can find to nibble on?”

His breath is coming heavily now, his eyes halfway closed. Just to make sure he understands me, I add, “or maybe a sucker?” as I delicately cup my hand over his fly. My own irregular breath is beginning to give away how badly I want to suck this man’s cock. 

He nods, somewhat dazed. “Do you know somewhere?”

I take his hand, pulling him after me down the brick side of the bar to the alley at the back. 

I pull him around the corner, into an alcove created by a rear service door.  I know from my days smoking pot with the kitchen staff that this door isn’t in use. It’s blocked by a wheeled metal storage rack that they move every time the fire inspector comes. Otherwise, this is just an unused little puddle of shadow, perfect for my nether-farious plans. 

“Here?” he pants. 

In answer, I grab the front of his button-down and drag him to my lips, pulling his shirttails loose in the process. My fingers find the denim of his waistband, pulling him closer still. I relish the feel of rough brick against my exposed back, the sandpaper stubble of his jawline sliding between my shoulder and ear.

His teeth find my neck and he bites down again. I take in air with a gasp and let it out as a low moan. His cock, pressing against the faded black fabric of his fly, nudges at my fingertips. I curl them more deeply over the edge of his waistband and catch the head of his cock lightly between the knuckles of my middle and pointer fingers. I give a light tug and am rewarded with an answering throb and an incoherent noise from the back of his throat.

His head lolls back slightly and I catch his eyes, which are beginning to glaze over. They widen as I swiped my thumb over the head of his cock, slippery with his first drops of… enthusiasm. 

Still locking eyes, I slowly bring my thumb to my mouth. Lick it lightly. Almost lose my focus at the taste. 

Disguising my weakening knees, I place my other hand on his chest and push him back against the opposite wall. He goes without protest, only a small gasp as his back impacts the wall. Holding his gaze, I slide my thumb into my mouth. I press gently against his chest, keeping him at arms length as I slowly pull my thumb from my mouth, using my tongue to snag every last drop. One of us moans, I’m not sure who. Maybe both of us. His chest is vibrating again.

My knees fully buckle and this time I let them. They’re taking me where I want to go, anyway. 

My hand slides down his chest, curls again around his waistband. I bring my other to join it, the air cool on my wet thumb. I smile up and slowly run my tongue over my lips.

I pop the metal button on his fly and he relaxes further back against the wall, almost panting. I turn my attention to his zipper. Good. This is my favorite part. 

I run a single finger down the metal teeth, feeling his cock strain behind it. Ragged breath. Teasing myself as much as my victim, I sloooowly drag the zipper, biting harder on my lower lip as each set of teeth separates. 

“Patience,” I tell myself. 

He whimpers.  

I smile. One more set of metal teeth eased apart. 

Underneath are pale blue boxers, tented where his hard-on demands my attention. A single pearlescent blue button holds him captive. I delicately close my teeth around it, place a quick kiss on his cock through the fabric, and snap the flimsy threads with a sharp twist of my head. I demurely spit the button into the air, where it describes a glittering arc before becoming yet another bit of alleyway debris. 

Its sole obstacle removed, his cock pops forth from its fabric prison and absolutely insists I grasp hold of it. I happily do. 

I pause for a moment, savoring the extraordinary contrast of soft on hard. My whole body thrums as I slowly move my closed hand. My fingertips, the palm of my hand sliding over the satisfying swell. I feel an answering echo between my own legs as my pussy is electrified by the sensation. 

Slowly. 

Sloooooowwwwly. 

This is no longer about him. I genuinely hope he will enjoy himself as well, but I’m here to enjoy every last twitch, throb, and pulse with my entire being. 

I touch the tip of my tongue to the head of his cock, swiping at the second glistening drop my attention has summoned. I lean back and let it string out, gazing up to watch him watch me. Feeling, rather than hearing, the low rumble that seems to emanate from his soul. 

Snake-like I strike, popping the head of his cock into my mouth, briefly sucking. I intend to tease him further, to pull back immediately, but my appetite has other ideas. The taste, his smooth skin, the heat of him. I stop, not frozen, but… still. Eyes nearly closed. Mouth full. The warmth of the night against my back. Rough cement against my knees. My senses reel and I growl again, letting the vibrations do their own dirty work. 

All thoughts of slow teasing gone, my world narrows to sensations: his salty sweet cum on my tongue, the swell of muscle beneath skin, responding to every minuscule movement of my mouth. I pull gently. Sigh and swallow. Place a gentle kiss on the tip of his cock and allow him one last instant of eye contact before I swallow him whole. 

This is what I’ve come for, pun intended. It has been too long since I’ve had a chance to scratch this particular itch. I feel his cock slide into my throat at the same time as I feel the the tight fabric of my denim shorts press against my swollen pussy. As I rock forward on my knees, the slight movement presses the rough fabric against my clit. I hum with pleasure. Or rather, I try to, but my vocal cords seemed to have something in the way. 

Not satisfied, I push deeper, eliciting a sound somewhere between “oh!” and “gahhhhh” from the man attached to the cock I am craving. 

My lips meet the cold metal teeth of his fly and I shudder with pleasure at the sensation. My nose presses against the crisp cotton of his boxers, inhaling the smells of cedar, honey, and lust. I find I’ve wrapped my hands around his pleasingly defined ass, my thumbs digging into his hips.Yep. Definitely a personal trainer. He doesn’t seem to be complaining about the half-moons my nails are digging into his hips, but I still take a moment to relax my grip as I close my eyes. And swallow. 

My whole world narrows to the exquisite pressure of his cock in my throat. That, and the growing throb between my own legs as I feel his cock jump in response to each swallow. My heartbeat accellerates and I feel a flush creep up my chest. 

A small pebble under my knee keeps me lightly grounded in reality. I free a hand momentarily to brush it away. Reality is free to fuck off. I’m enjoying the early effects of a little light voluntary asphyxiation. As my head grows lighter, every sensation amplifies. 

I continue swallowing rhythmically. Reaching up, I guide his hand to my throat, letting him feel the shape of his cock through the skin. He moans, rubbing gently. I close my hand over his, pulling it tighter as I slow, deepening each contraction of my throat muscles. This is a thousand times better than yoga, stretching places no asana could reach. 

His legs begin to shake and I feel an answering quake from my own damp thighs. Even the slightest movement of my hips is pushing me closer to finishing before he does. I slide one hand through his open fly and gently cup his balls, which are tightening with each squeeze of my throat. I crooked my finger and lightly place my knuckle juuuust behind his balls, where I can feel the soft bulge of the base of his shaft. I press gently with my knuckle in rhythm with each swallow. 

“Oh god,” he moans, “oh god oh god oh god I’m gonna-“

I come as he comes, the thump of his orgasm pulsing over my tongue, a sensation more satisfying than most meals. An answering pulse hammers through my body, traveling outward from both my throat and my throbbing clit. The waves meet in the middle and crash back again and again. I follow each throb with a ripple of my tongue. I swallow hard, feeling each gulp in my guts. 

I pull back to relish the taste of his cum on my tongue. I swallow and summon forth one last orgasmic spasm with a long, slow lick from the base to the tip of his near-perfect cock. He lets out a guttural sound as he sways, catching himself with a hand on the opposite wall of the small alcove. It’s the only sound I’ve heard him make that’s deeper than his heavy metal bear growl. 

I give his cock one last gentle kiss, eliciting a rogue twitch from the otherwise exhausted member. I tuck him away inside his adorable cotton shorts and kneel for a moment, arms around his waist. The cool teeth of his zipper press into my cheek as waves of pleasure continued to rock me. Coherent speech is not possible. Standing up is out of the question.

A warm hand drops to my shoulder, and his other gently caresses my cheek. He slides his hand under my chin, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. Feeling more vulnerable than usual, I leave my guard down and hit him with the full force of my raw desire as the last few waves of pleasure rolled over me. 

“Wow,” he breathes. 

I nod, slowly. Lick my lips and feel a bonus jolt roll through me. Release the softest moan. 

He helps me to my feet and I collapsed against him, my sweaty head against his still-heaving chest. We stay there, nestled in the shadows for a brief infinity. Floating on a small island of cement and postcoital glow. 

Finally he straightens. He takes my hand and pulls it to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on mine until the last moment, then closing them as he presses first his lips, then his forehead to the back of my hand. 

“Pixy,” he says, bringing himself upright with a sigh, “It has been an absolute pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I manage to respond, my voice slightly raspier than I expect. 

“If you ever want to hang out again-“

“I should probably get going, I-“

“Sorry, you first.”

“Oh.” Now it’s my turn to clear my throat, “I was just saying that I should go.”

“Of course. A woman as fascinating as you must have a lot of demands on your time.”

I try not to preen as his eyes imply they would love to demand more than my time. 

“But, listen, come find me any time you feel… hungry.”

“Oh? Where do I find you?”

“Usually here.”

He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, pushing the rolling metal rack aside.

“I mean, it’s my bar.”

He grins and gives a little wave as the door clicks gently shut.  

Fuck.