Flaunting the Rules and Taking Control

This story was written in response to a challenge to write a piece of fiction that flaunted “the rules” (as imposed by some other entity). Challenge accepted. Rules flaunted. If reading this makes you uncomfortable, then I have succeeded as a writer. Leave comments if you feel the need. Feedback always appreciated.  

Control

I stroked the glass with my thumb, dragging beads of sweat down the smooth surface to pool at the bottom. “Gimme another.”

The bartender glanced at the full glass sitting in front of me, then leveled a bored look at me.

Fucking prick.

“The ice’s melted.” I threw a crumpled twenty-dollar bill on the glass-covered wooden bar.

The bartender wiped the counter down with a large off-white rag, deftly pocketing the money before he grabbed the warm drink and dumped it down the sink behind the bar. “Two parts Kahlua, one part vodka—”

“Caramel vodka,” I said. “It’s got to be caramel vodka.”

“Right,” the bartender said, nodding. “I knew I forgot something.” He pulled out bottles and poured the liquids in a tall glass filled with ice.

I cleared my throat. “Two parts chocolate liqueur.” Waste of my twenty dollars.

“Right, right—and a splash of root beer.” He slid the drink to me across the slick counter. “Oh, and of course, your straw.” He produced a paper-covered straw, holding it up to me as if it were the key to some magical city.

If only he knew.

I nodded once, which was being far more polite than I felt, snatched the straw and ripped off the paper before shoving it in the drink and swirling it around and around.

The bartender watched, waiting for me to test the concoction.

“It’s fine.” I waved off the inevitable question without tasting the drink, then mumbled a “thanks.”

He smiled—more of a grimace, really—and moved further down the counter, wiping up nonexistent spills.

“Fucking prick,” I mumbled. He looked back at me, his manicured brows raised in question. I turned away, drink in hand, swiveling on my barstool until I was leaning back against the bar.

I couldn’t blame the guy for wanting to talk to me—to anyone. It was Tuesday afternoon and the bar was dead. Even the dust bunnies were bored. The lunch rush had consisted of a businesswoman dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit who ordered two olives for lunch, washed down with a neat martini. She’d kept every muscle clenched, holding her lunch in one hand and a phone in the other. It was one of those new-fangled phones that did everything—a phone, a texter, an Internet connector, a radio, an alarm clock… It likely had a vibrator as well, but I doubt the businesswoman bothered with that function. Or maybe she relied on it too much. Why bother with men when a machine can do the job?

Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned. I glanced around the empty bar. Old-fashioned, maybe, but at least not out of date. The bar was in serious need of a refresher. In its heyday, which had to have been more than four decades ago, the dark wooden tables had likely welcomed patrons to a regal, dignified establishment. Pretentious shit. The 1970s had brought brown-and-orange carpeting, cheap gold lamps, and faded peach-and-brown rainbow curtains covering the few windows. The 1980s contributed beer posters. Near-naked women with flat stomachs and big tits hawking beer.

What was wrong with women today? They were all big tits and vibrators and absolute control. What was that term they used to describe it? Penis envy, that was it. They preferred manipulating a cold, battery-operated machine between their legs to being pliable under a man’s hands all in the name of control.

Thank God my wife wasn’t one of these “I can do it all myself” women. She’d been a good wife, a real woman, one who knew how to take care of a man’s needs. She didn’t need big tits or machines. Or control.

I winced, looking away from the posters. Big tits got in the way. I liked them little, like my wife’s. Visions of our wedding flashed through my mind, her smooth, flat chest, my sun-blackened hands drag down her pearly, virgin skin, from her neck to her chest, two tiny pin pricks of nipples becoming rock hard under my calloused skin.

Stop it!

I stirred the drink and tried to control my breathing since controlling my dick was clearly out of the question. I whirled around to face the bar again, setting the drink down and hiding my excitement under the overhanging wood.

“Everything okay?”

I nodded, but didn’t look up at the bartender, who started wiping down the bar yet again. He moved the rag in slow, deep circles moving back and forth along the bar, creating a slick sheen in his wake. I licked my lips as my hands itched to slide along the smooth surface, feeling the warmth of young skin as they circled down to the tiny belly button, my thumbs stroking along either side.

I shook my head, trying to clear the vision. “Another,” I said, sliding the glass across the bar.

The bartender looked at me without picking up the glass. “You okay, man?”

I nodded, pointing to the drink.

“Maybe you’d better slow down. Don’t want to have to call you a taxi.”

Fucking prick. “I should be charging you for having to listen to such lame sarcasm.”

He shrugged and poured the drink down the drain. He didn’t bother using a new glass this time. I briefly thought about calling in a health code violation, then realized I’d have to find a new bar. Not worth the effort.

A new bar would bring new stresses, a new neighborhood, a new bartender to train, new people sitting on new bar stools trying to strike up new conversations. All I wanted was the old.

I stirred the drink in the dirty glass using the same straw. “It was my wife’s concoction. The drink.”

“Oh?” He stood watching me, holding the rag in both hands, his arms lax.

If I squinted, the rag looked like a diaper. Or maybe a loincloth. I suppressed a shudder that brought me to a full erection.

“She got me.” My voice cracked with desire.

Loincloths were my weakness. They gave the wearer a false sense of modesty while making it so easy to slide my hands up underneath them, finding the wet steamy treasure below.

I shifted on my stool, trying to escape the pressure pulsating against the seam in my jeans.

“Sounds like a good woman,” he said.

“She died. Car accident.”

“Sorry, man. That’s tough.”

I shrugged. “Shit happens.” My dick screamed in protest at my nonchalance. I hadn’t had a steamy treasure since she died. I was overdue.

“How long’s it been?” he asked.

“We’re doing the one-year memorial service tonight at the kids’ house.” She had been the only one to understand me, to help fill my needs, even the darkest ones. And she had never batted an eye at my requests, never lorded it over me, never tried to control me.

“Being with family is good,” he said. “Gets you through the tough times.”

I dropped the straw in the drink, reached into my back pocket, and pulled out my wallet, flipping open to the family picture.

“Good looking bunch,” he said.

“Yeah.” I stroked the picture with my thumb. It had been summer when we took the picture, and the granddaughter had been wearing a bright yellow tank top and cotton shorts. I rubbed my thumb up and down, still feeling the tight seam of her shorts running between her legs. She had been the last treasure my wife had brought me, her breath still smelling of the kahlua-chocolate-alcohol mixture.

“Won’t be the same without her,” I said shoving the wallet back in my pocket. The throbbing from the front of my pants screamed at the unfairness of it all. It didn’t want to share its limited space. It wanted to go back to the way it was, to be free to indulge. To be a fucking prick.

I reached down and gave it a light patting, commiserating our unfair sentence.

Comments

  • I really liked the set up and could totally visualize the scene. The dialogue was spot on. The only problem I started to have was understanding the drift from ‘everyday’ reminiscences to the ‘dark side’. Was I wrong that this ended up in Never-Never-Go-There Land?

    Kiri SalazarMarch 30, 2015
    • You’re not wrong — definitely went in Never-Never-Go-There Land (a turn of phrase that I love, btw). The idea is that he misses his wife because she was the only one who accepted his “activities” (which he is trying to not think about, but he can’t think of his wife without thinking about them). Thanks for the feedback!

      C. JaiMarch 30, 2015
  • I do believe all of the concepts you’ve introduced on your
    post. They are really convincing and will certainly work.
    Still, the posts are very quick for novices.
    May just you please prolong them a bit from next time?
    Thanks for the post.

    MahjongJuly 13, 2015

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