Friday night in Anytown, USA. High school football is king for students and former jocks lying about their glory days on the gridiron. (What the fuck is a gridiron?) Since I know more about quantum physics than football the local dive was my destination along with the other drifters and losers, my intimate circle without any intimacy.

I'm Iris Periwinkle,  mid-thirties, no Prince Charming for me. Not because I'm picky, because I'm a lesbian. After showering, I put on my still-clean-from-last-week bar clothes;  gray cotton leggings, Kentucky Wildcat pullover, blue Nike  sneakers along with black push-em-up, push-em-up, way-up bra, and matching bikini panties in case I get lucky ( guffaw... I make myself laugh sometimes.)

Walking into the noisy Stagger Inn,  a honky-tonk bar full of honkeys,  no one greeted me with cheers a la Norm. But I still felt at home in this dump with its peanuts and bullets on the floor, once even a severed penis when Lorena Bobbitt worked the door. Immediately the blur of neon PBR signs and the clattering of plastic beer mugs began to overwhelm me.

Nor was the endless loop of Buck Owens helping. No pleasantries were exchanged with other patrons. I was like a ghost, unseen and only heard annoyingly like the faint buzzing of a mosquito inside the ear canal.  

Despite being a semi-regular I always felt as out of place here as Homer Simpson at a Mensa convention. I motioned to my favorite barmaid, Lisa. She's my favorite because she laughs at my lame-ass jokes and tolerates my even lamer flirting. The gorgeous brunette also doesn't giggle when I order a Zima as the others do. It doesn't hurt that I tip lavishly, like a Tokyo businessman at a Sailor Moon cosplay.

Tonight, I switched to a Mojito, savoring the minty aroma, masking the pervading scent of testosterone and chewing tobacco. It felt good to be out, away from my house where I normally sit home alone more often than McCaulay Culkin, stoned, talking to my dog and Amazon Echo and laughing maniacally at chick flicks and Benny Hill. 

Quickly I made my way to my favorite spot, a small, lonely oak table in a dark corner. How could I feel such overpowering sorrow in a place full of raucous laughter? That is my mutant ability. My second rhetorical question; why am I even here? I rarely drink and with Willie on the jukebox, I was reminded it must be 420 somewhere. But this bar also has good memories. This was where I first heard Guy Clark sing "Desperados Waiting on a Train," a sorrowful song that reminded me of my deceased dad and I am grateful for that. That thought fueled my melancholic smile as "Tears of a Clown" began to blare through cheap, blown speakers.

It's not like I don't have friends. I do but they tend to tiptoe around me like I'm on suicide watch. Oh sure, I once gobbled eighty-two sleeping pills, but it was an accident. I thought they were Sweet Tarts.  That incident capped off a traumatic breakup with a kind, loving woman who could no longer cope with my never-ending insecurities and ugly as Sid Haig (too soon?) jealousy.

I buried my sorrow and began fucking any woman who moved... and a couple who didn't. I used to be the life of the party, but it was the Republican Party so that's not saying much. Now I sit alone sipping a watered-down cocktail, living in mortal fear of even a microsecond of eye contact.

Still, I managed to glance up long enough to spot HER standing at the end of the bar like a lighthouse, both beckoning and warning of impending doom. My type: leggy, languid, long dirty-blonde hair. (Although with my need I could easily settle for a little person with red dreadlocks.) I would have hurdled my way to her but I also have an intense fear of rejection stemming from a near-tragic heart transplant experience. So I needed a positive sign for reinforcement. Perhaps music.

Bruce's "She's the One" played but it was too vague to be helpful. I waited. Glancing at her surreptitiously,  she stood casually elegant in her black low back top with mid-thigh maroon skirt. In those brief seconds, she spurned several male suitors, increasing my hopes she played for my team. I could only hope because my team was in the midst of a terrible losing streak. 

Finally, Lady Gaga's "Shallow" played. Since I'm as shallow as a wading pool I knew it was kismet. The tantalizing dance of seduction could now begin. Staggering to my feet, she seemed miles away, not the twenty feet she actually was. I began walking unsteadily like Karloff's mummy of yore, stumbling and shuffling toward tonight's true love. My progress impeded by the so-called dancers. Weaving through them like Jack Torrance through a maze at the Overlook Hotel, my heart felt like a Ginger Baker frantic drum solo, palms sweatier than Trump's as he awaits legal advice from his court jester, Rudy Giuliani. 

My optimism waned as the watching bikers chanted, "dead woman walking."

Taking a deep breath, I approached shaken and timid, extending my hand, "Hello. I'm Iris. I'm so lucky I'm not diabetic because you are the sweetest thang I've ever seen." (With a smooth line like that how can I possibly still be unattached? It's a mystery even meddling kids can't solve.)

The vision replied, "I'm Alexa. (Oh God, the same name as my Echo whom I chat with each night. This truly is fate!) We shook. She grimaced like a purple McDonald's character as she felt my clammy palm. My eyes transfixed to her dazzling scarlet lips which led my cheeks to chameleon into the same shade, noticeable to all. My legs became as shaky as a cheap card table but I regrouped.

 "I have two questions, m'lady."

"Ask away, gorgeous, " she said, offering a flirtatious smile.

After checking for a white cane I continued. "First, may I buy you a drink?"

"Of course, I would be honored. Now your second question, enchantress?"

"May I borrow twenty bucks?" I joked, humor being my most effective defense mechanism. To my utter surprise, she immediately opened her Coach over the shoulder purse before stopping her and explaining the feeble joke. She even feigned a laugh worthy of Meryl Streep. Lisa brought her daiquiri and we toasted of things to come. My fingers brushed hers without her calling the cops so I was happy for baby steps.

Optimism is never a word used to describe me so I waited for the protestations to begin. They never did. Licking my lips sensually and symbolically, the gawking bikers broke into whoops and hollers like auditioning for Pee Wee's Big Adventure 2. The only thing missing was "Tequila."

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter?" Alexa recommended to my disbelieving ears. Before replying I checked her for an Adams Apple or any unsightly bulges, then took her hand and led us outside as the adoring bikers dropped to their knees, genuflecting. Taking separate cars, she followed my Griswold family truckster home, disregarding every speed limit.

I could not give her time to come to her senses. The entire route I was giving the sign of the cross and kissing rosary beads. Not to be confused with the anal beads I hoped would soon make a surprise appearance. 

Arriving home I played it nonchalantly,  tossing only a few rose petals at her feet before bowing and opening the door. I was concerned about my first move. Should it be slow or should I appear confident? Being confident would require acting chops I don't have, however. My dilemma was moot as Alexa wrapped me in her arms and kissed with a fervor I haven't felt since my days at the convent.

I was overjoyed to feel her hunger, like an anemic vampire. She expertly skidded my pullover up and off before unclasping my Frederick's of Compton bra. My perky breasts were available to her and she knew it. Her ravenous lips locked eagerly around my stiff left nipple, her fingers expertly pinching and twisting the right.

Lifting my left leg, balancing on the right like Mr. Miyagi, I pressed my knee into her already damp panties as our moans harmonized like a Beach Boys tune. Now I felt more in control, my normal role. My teeth pulled on her bottom lip, my hands gripped her delicious bottom, nails digging in slightly.

"Take me," she purred, writhing into me like a shapeshifter. She wouldn't have to ask twice. Making her clothes vanish like David Copperfield I plopped her onto my couch. Her screams proved she liked it until I discovered her bare ass had located the exposed spring I kept meaning to repair. Kneeling, spreading her legs lewdly I dove into her divine pinkness, slurping and savoring her nectar relentlessly.

My stiff tongue explored like Ponce de Leon, lapping high and low, my ample saliva adding to her messy state. With the alcohol providing phony courage, my fingertip even massaged her vulnerable but exposed rosebud (with apologies to Orson Welles). She didn't say stop so I didn't.

Her bare foot slid between my legs and began moving as if she had restless leg syndrome. I was gushing through the lace onto her skin. We were now wearing each other as we established that beautiful rhythm on our first time together. Quite impressive. My tongue and finger both buried in their orifices of choice, my nose pressing her clit as her release flooded my face, my own climax occurring simultaneously.

Breathless, I straddled her legs and we kissed. No tender bullshit. We KISSED. A series of sloppy kisses that caused my heart to swell and my still twitching pussy to leak. With my palms cupping her glowing face, I looked into her half-closed eyes and whispered, "I love you."

You stupid bitch!!! Why did I do that? Why did I say that? My only hope was that her orgasm had struck her deaf but that seemed a longshot.
.
Of course, she heard it. She jumped up abruptly, knocking me off her lap onto the floor and began to dress quickly, citing her need to catch up on weed-eating. She then sprinted to her car, shattering the fifty-yard dash record, leaving me sobbing on the floor. Assuming the fetal position, I wish just once someone would run to me, not from me.

Just once I would love to see a joyous look on a lover's face as she ran to me with open arms. Just once! But I fear that ship has sailed. Trent Reznor once wrote about everyone eventually going away. I just didn't expect Alexa to go away so quickly. But, as always, this is all my fault. I wish once I could blame someone else. 

But wishes seldom come true. Not for me.

I could still taste Alexa. I prayed the taste would linger for days but I knew better. Even the impressive wet spot on the cloth couch cushion would evaporate eventually. The tears beneath my head might take longer since I refresh them nightly. Why had I said those accursed three words? They blurted out automatically, like saying "bless you" when someone sneezes.

I try to remain cheerful. I really do. But the only joy I can gain from tonight is by lying on my floor, I located my favorite, missing dildo hidden beneath the couch. "Welcome back, old friend. I love you. Do you have any Sweet Tarts stored under there with you?" I wish!

I want to express my sincere appreciation to both Audrey X and Vanessa 26 for their support and evaluation of this story. Both are incredibly gifted writers and even better friends. You're both mentioned in my will. No money, just mentioned in passing.