When I was 35, I lived right on Venice Beach in Los Angeles, overlooking Muscle Beach and the White Men Can’t Jump basketball courts. My neighborhood was a frequent location for movies, and for television shows like Baywatch. Despite the frenetic and bizarre activity going on all along the tourist-filled boardwalk, depression and social withdrawal had made me very reclusive. When the money ran low and I had to get out of my cave to find a job, I found one at a small bar in a hotel just a few blocks away in Marina del Rey, the legendary singles locale in LA ever since it was created from wetlands a generation earlier. The “World’s Largest Man-made Yacht Marina” boasted 10,000 boats, thousands of inexpensively-made but expensively-priced apartments, dozens of restaurants and countless bars that all served as meeting places for horny singles, and more than a few horny marrieds.
Bartending might seem an unlikely occupation for a reclusive, withdrawn depression-sufferer. But the clarity of the roles made it easier for me: I pour/you drink, I flirt/you tip. The difficult interactions with complete strangers were made easier by the presence of the long mahogany barrier that existed between me and the customers. The customers came and went at fairly predictable intervals, none lingering too long, and I could keep up with the best of them in repartee, banter and travel experience. And a big factor in choosing a singles bar in which to work was that I was horny, very horny. It had been months since anything but my own hands and a favorite toy had touched me anywhere interesting. My mouth was so hungry for cock or pussy that I started salivating every time I thought about what I would desperately like it to be doing later.
On this Friday night the hotel in which the bar was located was filled with a small convention of retail store managers, and many of them drifted in before or after dinner with their colleagues. Now all that remained were a half dozen “locals” who were trying to figure out the new bartender—a fairly attractive blonde in a red faux-leather mini-skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse that was so sheer that her prominent nipples poked through with nearly every move I made. What was not obvious was that I was wearing nothing at all under the miniskirt, something that one would only discover by groping me inappropriately—and I was hoping desperately to be groped inappropriately.
One of the locals, a cute, little dirty-blonde named Debbie, was perplexed. She proudly announced that she had blown every bartender who’d ever worked at the bar—right there behind the bar. Her companion for the evening, a charming but hard-drinking pilot named Al, who made one want to avoid his airline, was egging her on, saying she had to do it. And I was offering neither resistance nor encouragement to help her dilemma, an expressionless half-smile that added to her confusion. Four other locals were weighing in on the topic: out of work actor Tony, who seemed to be attached to the lovely, young, redheaded sometime-hooker Katie; and boat builder Darren, who was hovering around the buxom, brunette Sandy, who seemed to be the most reserved of the group.
I was pretty sure that I would have sex with any one of them—hell, maybe with all of them at once—if they’d approached me in the right way, but I was less than a week into the new job and didn’t want to jeopardize it by hooking up with anyone too obviously or too soon. I was horny, but I was also trying to be a little bit practical.
I was at the other end of the bar, near the wide entrance from the hotel lobby, when my attention was first diverted, then riveted, by the sight of a tall brunette walking toward the bar, backlit so that the only view was of long legs, and long, dark hair gone slightly wild. The woman stopped at the entrance and turned around as though looking for companions in the lobby. My jaw dropped and I stopped working as I saw that the woman was not only tall and slim, but also wore exceptionally tight designer jeans wrapped snugly around a magnificently shaped ass that made the curve from thighs to hip to waist a downright erotic experience.
My God, she just has to come in here. What can I do?
“Um, excuse me, Miss, can I help you?” I called to her. She turned toward the bar again and suddenly materialized in front of me. I have no memory of how she got there. All I knew was that I was facing a beautiful, wild, green-eyed sexual animal who was making me warm and wet and nervous and excited. As usual, the most obvious reactions came from my now-extremely-erect nipples, whose full shape could be seen through the translucent material of my blouse. I had to say something. What?
“Hi, I’m Gay,” I said as I held out my right hand. She took it, shook it and held it gently for a moment too long, sending electric charges up my arm and into all the parts of me that were already racing in fifth gear.
“You’re gay?” she asked as she cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
That I was bisexual was not in doubt, but it was always a spur of the moment thing usually fueled by a few too many drinks and a proposition I couldn’t refuse. I didn’t have enough confidence in my gaydar to ever initiate an encounter, just to make myself very, very available. I wanted to scream, I’m queer as a three-dollar bill and I want to you to fuck me right here, right now! Instead, I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said with what I hoped was a warm, inviting smile:
“My name is Gay, and you are?”
“Sonia. I’m Sonia.” She drew out the first syllable and her pursed lips looked invitingly kissable.
“Well, Sonia-with-a-long-sexy-O, what can I get you?” I wanted to tell her that I was the best thing on the menu, that she could get a to-go order.
“Coke would be nice.”
“I don’t think that’s been on the menu here since the ‘80s,” I replied, hoping I could coax a smile from that beautiful, intense face.
“Coca-Cola will be fine,” she said, smiling broadly with the mouth I wanted to kiss me, her green eyes twinkling with delight.
“Nothing stronger?” I wanted her drunk so that maybe she would think me worthy of her obvious sexual energy.
“No, afraid not. That’s off-limits for me.”
“Good that you know that. The only difficult part of this job is dealing with people who shouldn’t be drinking. It makes me sad.” I drew her Coke into the finest tall crystal glass I could find, added a splash of Rose’s Lime Juice and garnished it with a section of lime. I wanted to dip a nipple into it, offer her a taste and ask her if I could pour—pour it all over me!
“That’s on the house.” And so am I!
“You treat all the hotel guests that way?” Oh my God she is staying here! I want desperately to be her midnight snack, her room service, her breakfast in bed.
“Only the special ones, and Sonia, you are one of the very special ones.” Oh shit, I hope I didn’t overdo it. I wish the hell I knew what I was doing. I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve got to do something. We’ve been staring into one another’s eyes for the seconds, minutes, hours or however long it had been since she sat down at my bar.
“I think I’ll put on some CDs and maybe those folks’ll start dancing, and maybe even leave.” I nodded toward the half-dozen people closely huddled at the other end of the bar.
The music came up and, sure enough, the three couples at the other end of the bar ambled out onto the dance floor.
“So, do those sell a lot of drinks?” What the hell was she saying? Oh, I see, she’s staring at my nipples. Oh god, they give me away very time. Maybe that’s good. Oh shit, maybe it isn’t.
“I don’t know about selling drinks, but they seem to attract tips pretty well.” I wanted to raise my hand high and jump up and down like a school kid with the answer, to yell, Choose me, choose me!
“Are they always that long?” Oh God, she’s talking about my nipples, my best feature, my best friends!
“Um, well, they’re always kinda poky, but they’re appear to have some extra incentive just now.” She smiled again! A beautiful smile that lit up her face and mischievous green eyes, a face framed by that long brown hair. A few strands, wildly out of place, ran across her forehead and down her smooth cheeks before settling into a contrast with the denim off-white shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down her chest. Because the fabric was so thick, very little showed, but it was obvious that her breasts were large and low slung—which meant they were real—I love real boobs!
“Can I see them?” She wants to see them! See them? Hell, she can suck on them until sunrise! But I can’t just take off my blouse with other customers here, even if they are sexually liberated. What to do?
“Why don’t we dance?” My suggestion took me by surprise, and her, too, but she broke into a grin and stood. I came out from behind the bar undoing buttons and when we met to figure out who would lead, I pulled my blouse open and fell against her chest. Until this point I didn’t know she was wearing cowboy boots—hell, I didn’t even know she had feet; she just moved from the entrance to my bar as an apparition, an animal on the prowl. Oh, I hope so much she’s an animal on the prowl for me. With me in cute little sport-shoe sandals, she was at least four inches taller and her large, low slung breasts met my little nipple holders as we embraced.
“Now, open your blouse, too.” My voice was noticeably husky even to me as I stared into her eyes and dared her to reciprocate.
“In public, right here? They’re a little floppy, ya know. If you spin me, someone could get hurt.” I laughed and our eyes met again and I did it, I actually did it. I started to unbutton her blouse as we swayed to the sweet, soft music, hardly dancing, just bringing our bodies together.
“Well, if they look like they’re getting out of control, I’ll just have to grab ‘em.” She laughed at that, tossing her head back, her wild brown hair flying. She’s playing with me; oh my God, I want her to play with me in so many ways.
When I had her shirt unbuttoned, I pulled it open and held her close, and we both looked down to check one another out. My little 34Bs with the pencil-eraser nipples, her large 34Cs with big, smooth areolas that I wanted to touch and kiss and lick, succulent little buttons at the center of each that made my mouth water.
I have no idea whatsoever how long we clung to one another, but I do know that our hands explored as much as they could reach while we embraced breast to breast, our open blouses keeping our nakedness at least somewhat private between us. I do know that she wore no panties at all and I know she now knew that I wore none under my mini skirt. The music ended and we each buttoned one strategic button mid-torso and returned to our places—me behind the bar, she in her seat in front of me. I buttoned a few more buttons and went to the other end of the bar to refresh the drink of the half-dozen remaining customers.
When I returned to Sonia, she asked:
“Got any bar snacks?”
“Oh, sure, Sonia. Sorry.” Filling a clean bowl with the dry, salty snacks, I put it in front of her. I loved saying her name, a name I now associated with wild animal sexuality.
“I was thinking something less dry, maybe even wet.” She arched an eyebrow impishly. I blushed. I flushed. I gushed. I was completely kerfluffled.
“Hop up on the bar and sit facing me,” she said, not asking but not exactly commanding either, just stating the obvious. Oh my god, she wants me! Without giving it a second thought, I jumped up on the bar and slid forward, my legs dangling over her side of the bar. I spread my legs and presented her with a full view of a naked dripping-wet pink pussy. I was so glad I had shaved before coming to work. I braced myself with one hand on the bar, and used the other to play with her long, wild, brown hair, to touch her neck, her cheek, her chin, her lips. She moved slowly, tantalizingly forward, planting random kisses on either of my inner thighs. She was an inch from my wet sex and I knew that at any moment her tongue would find my slit.
Instead she moved her head up my body and boldly suckled on my erect nipples, sending jolts of electricity to my already wet pussy. How could she possibly know that my nipples are my best features, my best friends; that they are so sensitive that I can sometimes come when they are licked and sucked? She licked and sucked and nibbled my sensitive buds to a rosy redness, and finally I managed to huskily whisper:
“I’ll give you a half-hour to cut that out.”
She had another idea, and it wasn’t a bad one at all. Her mouth dove back down toward my dripping pussy and hovered in front of it as though waiting a tantalizing moment before attacking.
But she teased me again, using a hand to move lightly just across the tips of my inflamed outer lips and using her breath to stimulate my hypersensitive sex. I bucked up against her, but she eluded my thrusts, until finally she touched me with her tongue, lightly, just tickling me. Fingers found my lips and gently began to pry them apart, then her tongue began to lap up the juices I was secreting as she swirled her tongue all around my clit, time after time. I was on fire. I was wet; no, I was literally dripping wet, sitting in a pool of my own juices. With those first few touches I was already near orgasm, so excited was I by this woman who had so completely overwhelmed me. I was completely, but delightfully, out of control.
“Fuck me, Sonia,” I pleaded, unnecessarily, for she had just thrust two fingers into me and was further energizing me by moving them in and out rhythmically. Her thumb circled the o-ring of my anus teasingly and her tongue eagerly lapped up every bit of juice I produced. She traced lines on either side of my swollen clit, daring it to grow more, to emerge from its hooded hiding place. She sucked on my pussy lips and pulled them apart.
My free hand found one of my nipples, and twisted it and pulled it and pinched it to the limits of its tolerance. Miraculously, Sonia used her free hand to treat the other nipple identically. How could she know so much about my body? In one sense there was a mind-boggling jumble of activity all aimed at producing a giant orgasm that I could already feel beginning in my extremities and moving toward my center. In another sense I could feel every single thing that was happening to me, and I wanted to scream…or laugh…or cry…or erupt in the most amazing orgasm of my life.
Sensing how close I was, Sonia accelerated her manual fucking, and thrust her face against my sex; her face must be covered with my juice. At last her tongue made direct contact with my clit and my climax burst forth from deep within, convulsion after convulsion completely absorbing my every nerve ending. I put a hand in my mouth and bit it to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. My body had turned dark pink in one giant blush, or flush. And my sex creamed Sonia’s face with a gushing of my love juices. The waves continued and she seemed determined that her tongue feel every undulation. Thoroughly sated at last, I fell back onto the top of the bar.
As I began to regain my bearings and opened one eye to try to recall where I was, Sonia grabbed my face and pulled me back up to her. We exchanged a long, slow, wet kiss. When I tasted myself on her mouth, I expanded my licks and kisses to the rest of her come-covered face. At last, fully realizing where I was, I looked around, and the six patrons of the bar broke into applause. And I broke into an even darker blush.
“Oh, shit,” was my eloquent response. Then, I thought, the hell with them and I looked into Sonia’s eyes and said, “Thank you, Sonia. Thank you so much.” And gave her a tongue kiss that pleaded for more.
“Thank you, Gay, for the nice bar snack,” Sonia replied. “You’re so sweet I could just eat you up.”
“I think you just did,” I smiled.
The first of the spectators to speak was Debbie. “I’m glad I didn’t try it. I never, ever could have done that as well as Sonia did.” She looked a little disappointed, so I winked at her to let her know that I might let her try.
“Oh my God, it must be closing time,” I said as reality began to intrude on my reverie.
“Well past,” Debbie told me. “We’ve closed up the bar; you just need to drop your money. We’ve done this before for bartenders whose minds—and, um, other things—were elsewhere.”
I turned to Sonia with a boldness I rarely felt and said, “I’m hungry.”
“For what?” she asked coyly, batting her long eyelashes.
“For you! Your place or mine?”
“My place is right around the corner—103.”
I grabbed the money in the till, put it in a bag and dropped it into the safe without counting it. I came around the bar, grabbed Sonia by the hand and we strode out of the bar, destination very clear in both our minds. Within a half-dozen steps, we’d released hands and each fondled the other’s closest butt cheek as we continued our short walk to what we knew would be even greater sexual adventures.
Even through my lust-stoked sexual haze, I realized that I was going to love this bartending gig.