Dripping at the Bar--Chapter 2 [FM] | 2016

I follow John into the men’s room. It’s crowded. My heartbeat speeds up—a combination of nerves and red bull. I’ve never fucked in a bar bathroom before, and I can’t believe I suggested it. Part of me wants to turn around and leave. Another part of me is loving how it feels to be the focal point of the room, the thing that doesn’t belong.

There are two stalls, both occupied. The floors are clean and they have big, tan tiles. I look over my shoulder and spot myself in the mirror. I like how my ass fills out my short yellow dress, and I especially like my naked back and black choker, my hair tied up to reveal as much skin as possible. Were I in a different mood, I might call a girl dressed like this a slut.

Honestly I’d call her a slut in the mood I’m in right now, too, only I’d mean it as a compliment.

I don’t know what to do. There are two lines of guys waiting for the urinals. I’m standing by the granite sinks, holding hands with the head bartender, who seems to be assessing the situation with as much excited confusion as me. He reaches down and grabs a handful of my ass. My mouth waters. I have a fidgety, desperate need to take action. My pussy is still wet from grinding on that hipster. John’s more muscular, more my type. But I know what he’s got in store for me. I vaguely miss the surprise of the rando’s hands and smells.

I’m about to bail. This is too weird. I figured I’d let John fuck me in the stall, fill the hole I’ve been filling all night with drinks, and then we’d be on our way. The stall doors remain shut, though. I check the shoes. Neither guy is seated. They’re probably getting high.

I turn for the door, but John grabs me by the wrist and I’m grateful. I’m not sure whose arms I’ll wander into and at least John’s are familiar, at least I know he won’t hurt me.

John kisses me with a ton of tongue and grips each of my ass cheeks with his huge hands. His mouth tastes like gin, which makes me think of Christmas trees, which makes me think of my dad putting the star on top, which makes me think of how much Dad would hate me right now, kissing a Puerto Rican eleven years my senior in a men’s room in Hoboken.

John smiles into my mouth and then lifts me onto the granite sink. I hear somebody say, “Oh shit look at this,” and I wrap my legs around John’s body, my black heels crisscrossing behind his back. He grinds the crotch of his jeans against my bare, wet pussy and lets his tongue play with mine. I open my eyes. I have the undivided attention of every man in line. Again I think of my father, disgusted with me, and that makes me feel disgusted with myself, and somehow that makes me even hornier.

I hate that shame makes me wet. But also I like it, since it feels good to be wet.

I’m confused. I need more. More what?

Attention. Distraction.

I push John away, hop off the counter, and fall to my knees. The tile is cold. “Oh my God,” says somebody. John looks down at me like something he’s proud of. I am in charge of him and everyone else in here, I realize.

It’s a scary realization, because I know my power is fleeting. Any of these fucking drunk dudes can make a joke of how in-charge I feel. They can destroy me.

Somehow this danger makes turns me on. I think of my dad. I can’t help it. He’s always there, wishing I was somebody else.

I take my time unfastening John’s belt. It’s a dramatic thing to do in front of a dozen men, and I play it out, batting my eyes at him like some type of coked out porn star. I discover that he’s wearing baby blue boxers covered in watermelons. This makes me break character and laugh. I can’t help it. John laughs, too.

When I take out his cock—6 inches, girthy, brown, and uncut—I lick from the base of the shaft to the head, I sense some of the onlookers moving closer, openly gawking. Tomorrow I’ll hate myself, I realize.

But tonight I won’t. Tonight I’m in charge. Tonight I’m filling the holes in myself, even as I open up new ones.

I pull John’s pants down to his ankles, grip his strong, fuzzy thighs, and start bobbing my head on his dick. I close my eyes. The room goes quiet. All I can here is the distant thump of house music out in the club. The awed quiet is electric, it’s mine.

I open my eyes and look up at John. He's looking over my head, watching me work in the mirror. I start deep-throating, which is easy with John, since he’s not as big as a lot of the men I’ve sucked off.

The moment my lips touch his stubbly pubes, somebody says, “Oh that’s good. Oh fuck, dude, you lucky fuck.” I do it again. The same guy says, “Holy fuck.” Somebody else says, “You getting this?” I don’t know what that means, but I don’t care. I just love that I’ve turned this bathroom into a dirty theater.

I decide I’m going to make him cum in my mouth right now because I like controlling him so easily, but then somebody says, “Bro, fuck that bitch,” and I’m overcome by a slut’s desire to give her audience what it wants.

I stand up and kiss John, just to give him a little taste of his dick, just to own him a little bit in public.

Then I turn around. In the mirror I find a small white slut with smeared lipstick, surrounded by a semi-circle of men, one whose pants are down. I bend over the sink, my face inches from the mirror. I lift the hem of my dress onto my back so my bare ass and pussy are visible to everyone. I wiggle for them. They’re so quiet. A bright light flickers in my periphery. In the reflection I spot a guy snapping pictures of my ass with his cell phone. Again I have a vague awareness of tomorrow’s shame, of my father’s shame. Again this makes me wetter.

John clasps my hips. His hands are so big and I feel so small. He doesn’t take his time. He immediately starts fucking me hard, and the surrounding men start cheering him on. “Fuck that slut,” says one. “Beat that pussy up, bro,” says another. “What a good whore,” says a third. This hateful language does more for me than the John’s dick, which does quite a lot. I’m cumming quickly, but the orgasm is faraway because I’m preoccupied with making eyes at a black guy in skinny jeans, who is staring at my face in the reflection and unabashedly holding his package. “I’d suck your dick now if you asked me to,” I try to communicate to him with my eyes, as my whole body jerks forward with each of John’s thrusts. The black guy smiles like: “I know.” I let my eyes rove across the mirror, from jealous face to jealous face. Multiple men are grabbing themselves. Somebody says I’m his dream girl. “Where do you want it?” John gasps. “In me,” I say. The guys explode with cheers. “Fill that bitch up,” somebody says, and that makes me cum hard, a deep overwhelming wave of pleasure that makes me momentarily forget who I am.

John slaps my ass and then unloads inside me. As his cum oozes into my pussy, I lock eyes with a man in the mirror. He’s in the back of the group, and he knows me. It’s the scruffy-faced hipster I was grinding on earlier. He’s sipping a drink through a straw, and I can’t tell if he likes me or hates me. Maybe both.