Liquor in Front, Poker in the Rear

The gravel crunched under my feet with every step as I headed toward the front door, and I was actually grateful for the noise as it was the only thing around me that seemed normal. As I reached for the door of the Apache, that small degree of normalcy vanished. Pulling open the heavy wooden door with a large round porthole in it, I stepped into a room that might as well been on the other side of the world, but I knew my adventure was only beginning. This place was a bar, and though I was an adult, I was still two years shy of the legal drinking age.

It was actually darker inside than the parking lot outside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I tried to survey the unfamiliar surroundings. The only lighting in the room, beside a pair of flickering fluorescents behind the bar, were a half-dozen neon beer advertisements. The floor was unpainted concrete, the tables were linoleum tops with chrome legs and matching vinyl covered chairs much like that of the Cadillac Bar -- sans the Mexican beer logos.

I tried to act as cool as possible as I made my way through the maze of tables and chairs to the bar. I eyed two men sitting at the far end of the bar as I gingerly settled on a bar stool far enough away that my conversation with the bartender wasn't likely to be overheard.

As the bartender approached me, my stomach did several pretty serious flip flops. The guy was probably in his mid-fifties, slick-backed gray hair, big barrel chest and a three-day growth on his face -- sort of like an unshaven Rush Limbaugh.

"What can I do for you kid?" He said as he stood in front of me. My stomach did two more flip flops.

Still trying to be as cool as possible, I managed to say, "How about a Lone Star?"

"Twenty-one?" he casually asked.

"Well, actually I heard you can get laid around here," I blurted out, trying not to directly answer his question.

An empathetic smile spread across his face as he casually reached into the tub of ice between us, pulled out a Lone Star longneck, popped the top and placed it on the bar in front of me. "Two bucks," was all he said.

The chalkboard behind him clearly said all longnecks $1, but I didn't question him. Reaching into my front pocket, I pulled out a tight little roll of three $20 bills. Smartly peeling off a crisp Jackson, I quickly placed it on the bar. I was a little surprised to see him ring-up one dollar on the cash register and bring me back eighteen dollars in change, but I didn't dare say anything.

"Finish your beer kid and then go around back. Knock on the screen door, they'll be expecting you," he said before turning and walking away.

I mumbled a "Thank you," but if he heard me, he didn't acknowledge it, he just kept on walking.

The cold beer actually felt good on my stomach, and I probably sat there nursing it for seven or eight minutes. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I began to study all of the neon beer signs adorning the room. There was a Budweiser sign over the pool table that featured prancing Clydesdales, a Hamm's sign featuring the cascading waters of the Minnesota 10,000 lakes country, and of course, the obligatory Pearl and Lone Star Beer signs with scenes of the Texas Hill Country. However, the sign that amused me the most was an old hand-painted wooden sign behind the bar that in faded red letters read, "Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear." The rumors must have been true, and a brief wave of courage quelled some of my peskiest butterflies.

When there was nothing left in the beer bottle, I pushed it to the bartender's side of the bar, slid off my barstool, and headed nonchalantly for the front door. I turned and waved to the bartender and said, "Thanks," but again, if he heard me, he didn't say anything, nor did he even look my way.

As I stepped outside, the cool air felt good on my face, and the crunch of the gravel under my feet again restored that little bit of the normalcy I craved. I walked around to the back of the stucco Apache as instructed and found an old wooden two-story farmhouse. The two buildings were connected, but obviously, the farmhouse was much older. The Apache was probably added to the front of the house in the 1930s when Prohibition ended, and the old German farmers realized they could make more money selling beer than they could ever make raising cotton.

Around back, I discovered what was probably the back door or kitchen door of the original farmhouse. And as described, there was an old wooden screen door. A bare-blub hung from the ceiling of a small porch roof that jutted out from the back wall -- but no porch, just concrete steps that led up to the door. I flatten my hair with both hands, took a hard swallow and knocked sharply on the wooden frame. Almost immediately, I heard high heal footsteps coming my way on a wooden floor, and the butterflies instantly returned.

The old kitchen door swung open, and the first thing to hit me was a waft of cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap perfume. The smell of cigarette smoke was actually stronger than that of the Apache around front, and the cut-rate fragrance only accented it. The second thing to hit me was the sight of the woman standing in front of me. She was dressed in a housecoat and had a cigarette hanging from her lower lip. She looked older and skinnier than my grandmother -- which more than tripled my anxiety over this whole expedition. As she pushed the screen door open and invited me in, the first thought that entered my head was one of my uncle's favorite expressions when confronted with a sight like this, "Way too many years of being ridden hard and put up wet."

"Hey, come on in Sug," she said, with a country accent so thick you could cut it with an ax. "We've been expecting you."

Her accent didn't startle me as much as her cheerfulness did. But what actually scared me was the thought that she might be my intended date, and if that was the case, then Laredo was starting to look better and better. With some apprehension and a few new butterflies, I accepted her invitation and cautiously climbed the concrete steps and entered the house.

As she closed the door behind me, I realized I was in the kitchen of the old house. The vinyl floor looked to be from the depression and in spots had actually been worn to the point where you could see wooden boards showing through. But the kitchen was otherwise clean, and something was cooking on the stove that actually smelled pretty good -- so at least that was comforting and eased a little of my nervousness.

Passing through the kitchen and an old dining room, we entered what must have been the parlor. A wave of temporary relief swept over me when I realized there were at least three other women seated around the room watching an old black and white TV with foil-covered rabbit ears pointing at odd angles towards the ceiling. The first woman was probably in her mid-forties, not bad looking, but strangely enough, she looked a lot like my mother. That's certainly not to say my saintly mother looked like a whore in any way, but their hair was similar, and they were approximately the same age, so that would have been a total non-starter.

The second woman was Hispanic, maybe in her thirties, way too much make-up for my taste and though she didn't look much like Nuevo Laredo Maria, the simple ethnic connection made me a little uncomfortable. Of course, I wouldn't have had to watch her give my best friend a blow job first, but she still didn't do much for my libido.

The third female in the room was much more to my liking. She was much younger than the other two women, probably in her mid-twenties, which would have only made her four or five years older than me. She was thin with long blond hair and was sitting at the end of the couch with her legs curled up underneath her.

"Ginny Lynn, you have a guest," the older woman said with a Saccharin sweet tone in her voice.

The thin blond shot her an icy dagger look before quickly turning her eyes back towards me. As she scanned my schoolboy frame, a seductive smile slowly filled her face. That smile was a great relief to me, and I almost instantly felt a tingle below the beltline as a surge of warm blood coursed through my southern region. As she slowly uncoiled her long legs and began to stand before me -- a full picture of my guide for the evening on my erotic journey from adolescent to adulthood materialized before my eyes.

I so couldn't believe my good luck I had to bite my lower lip to hide my enthusiasm. Her blond hair fell just short of mid-back -- she was of thin frame and modest build, but with cute and perky breasts. She was wearing a red and black lace teddy and high heels that probably brought the top of her head to just under six feet from the floor. And though the light was dim, it appeared her skin was fair and her eyes a pale violet.

She gracefully strode across the parlor floor and extended her hand to shake mine. This somewhat took me by surprise, considering the circumstances, but I intuitively offered her mine. Her hand was neither cold and clammy nor hot and sweaty; it was just comfortable, which further provided me considerable comfort.

"Hi, I'm Lynn," she said.

I was pretty sure the older woman had called her Ginny Lynn, so that may have been the cause of the dagger glance. "Hi, I'm Thom," I responded with equal clarity and firmness.

"Very nice to meet you Thom," she responded with a broad smile. "Would you like to go upstairs so we can get to know each other better?"

"Sure," I quickly answered -- like what else was I going to say?

She looped her arm through mine and up the stairs we went. The top of the stairs led to a short hallway with four doors. The first door to the left was clearly a bathroom as the door was open and a night light dimly illuminated an aging rusty sink. The other three doors were all closed, and I assume they were all bedrooms. The doors were not identified by numbers or letters, but like Laredo, by animals. I never did understand the symbolism of that, but it must be some sort of bordello tradition. The second door on the right had a Panda laminated on it, which I'm sure had absolutely no meaning whatsoever, but at least it wasn't another rooster (cock), and it was her room.

Once inside her room, I was surprised by the continued similarity with Maria's room. There was a metal-framed bed pushed against one wall, the only difference was that it was a full size and not a twin. There was a wooden bedside table next to the bed that had a small lamp on it and several bottles of oils and lotions. On the opposite wall was a wooden dresser with a Victorian-style brass table lamp with a red glass shade, which gave the entire room a rosy glow. There were a few more bottles of oils and lotions on the dresser as well as a covered crock-pot that was turned on low. Next to that was a hard-wooden chair, very much like the one at the Cadillac Bar.

As I was still surveying my new surroundings, Lynn laid her hand on my shoulder and turned me to face her. "So, Thom, what can I do for you?" She said with a seductive but sincere voice.

A large lump rose up in my throat, but I still managed to say, "I just want to get laid."

That didn't come out exactly the way I had planned, and I hoped it didn't sound too desperate, but apparently, she got the message. We gazed into each other's eyes for a moment or two before her smile of sultry intrigue turned to one of a more entrepreneurial pragmatism. "Well," she said now with a slightly devilish grin, "I think we can handle that this evening for sixty dollars."

Jolted back to the reality of the business nature of our meeting, I was first startled by the fact that she said precisely sixty dollars. The exact amount I had brought with me, before paying two dollars for a beer downstairs that is. Was it just through some sort of psychic phenomena that I happen to know the going rate for deflowering a horny college freshman, or did the bartender tell her that was how much I had on me? I guess I'll never know, but it does seem like a lucky coincidence. The problem was that I was now two bucks short.

"Yeah sure," I stuttered as I reached into my pocket. "Ugh, I mean, I had sixty dollars, but I just spent two bucks on a beer downstairs." I'm sure I was starting to blush, what a cheap mother fucker I turned out to be, but luckily, she laughed it off.

"Oh, I think that's fine," she said with a big smile as she took the wad of bills from my hand. "Now I'm going to step out for a minute. You can get completely comfortable and lay or sit on the bed, and I'll be right back." When she said, "completely comfortable," she framed my body between her hands starting at my shoulders and brought them down past my waist, implying that I was to get completely naked while she was out of the room. I suppose this was some sort of law enforcement test, and I understood the need for that, but I hated that she left the room, especially with my fifty-eight dollars.

I already felt pretty exposed being left alone in her room, but as instructed, I proceeded to 'make myself comfortable.' I sat on the wooden chair and removed my boots and socks. I then removed my jacket, shirt, and pants and folded them neatly on the chair before moving to the bed. Feeling extremely vulnerable at this moment, I hesitated to remove my boxers.

As I sat on the bed contemplating my next move, the squeakiness of the bed must have signaled my readiness for her return. Within a matter of seconds, the door opened and there she stood, dressed just as she'd left the room, but of course without my money clenched in her fist.

She took one look at me, still in my boxers, and made a child's pouty face. Then after closing the door, walked to the center of the room, and without saying a word, put both hands on her hips and stared at me. I got the non-to-subtle message that I was not properly 'comfortable' in order to make her feel comfortable, so I quickly stood and dropped my shorts to the floor.

A big smile quickly replaced her pouty expression, and we were back in business. I really was more comfortable with her back in the room, and I laid down on the bed with little concern for the bed's auditable pronouncements. She, in turn, kicked off her high heels, dropping her overall height by two or three inches, reached behind her back, and unsnapped something to loosen her teddy. Again, with a very sultry smile, she first peeled off one shoulder strap, then slowly the other, before using both hands to push down her lacy garment, exposing two magnificently perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small, but just like Goldilocks, cute, perky, and oh just so right.

I smiled my total approval and my dick, which had been just a little above half-staff, quickly started to rise. Acknowledging my obvious approval, she wiggled her hips several times before pushing her teddy all the way to the floor. Then to add just a little more anticipation to the moment, as if there wasn't enough already, she stood there butt naked, smiling and swishing her hips back and forth a few times before approaching the bed.

As she sat down at the end of the bed, she pushed my legs apart and bent her body over me, supporting herself with her hands flat on the mattress, one on each side of my hips. As if swaying to the rhythm of a silent love song, she began dragging her golden locks back and forth across my now fully erect manhood, slowly lowering her head with each pass. At first, she would exhale warm and sultry breath over and across my now throbbing member with each pass of her head. And just when I thought I couldn't get any more aroused, she switched to inhaling deep breaths each time her lips passed within a fraction of an inch of my now purple pecker. This suction caused cool air to swirl around Little Thom and gave a completely opposite, yet equally stimulating sensation. It also gave me a tantalizing preview of the next treat I was soon to experience.

As her mouth drew closer and closer with each pass of my raging boner, I soon sensed her lips lightly making contact and leaving small wet spots that quickly cooled as she inhaled deeply a fraction of an inch above the skin. These wet spots were soon followed by soft licks, and then slurpy wet kisses. The side to side horizontal movement of her head gave way to a slow and steady up and down vertical motion, and before I knew it, she was giving me a blow job. Her sweet lips sealed around Little Thom's head, and with each gentle bob of her head, she was sucking in more and more of his length and girth into her warm moist mouth.

This was so different from what I had witnessed in Laredo. Where Maria was actually working hard to get Brian off as quickly as possible, Lynn was skillfully and lovingly giving me an oral massage that would forever be the standard by which all others would be judged. She wasn't trying to deny me my ultimate release. She was just obviously in no hurry to get there -- as for the old Chinese proverb says, "It's not the destination, but the journey that is important."

And did she ever appear to be relishing the journey. Unfortunately for me, and possibly her too, this was my first sexual experience with another human, and despite how much she wished to extend the experience, my ultimate pleasure could not be denied for long. For within less than three minutes, she and I both knew the conclusion to this ultimate of all indulgences was imminent. My body tightened, my breath quickened, and I tried to hold her head in order to slow her even further, but to no avail.

On one of her slow and sensuous upstrokes, my ability to hold back gave way to that ultimate of all-male releases. I cried out in ecstasy and thrust my hips violently, but like the eminent professional she must have been, she did not give an inch. She lowered her lips all the way to my nut sack and took every ounce I could give her. She didn't choke or gag, nor did she even come up for air. Instead, she milked me for every drop by smoothly massaging my balls and the base of my dick between her thumb and forefinger. And when she finally did come up for air, she gazed lovingly at my softening pecker and continued milking me for any remaining drops of precious bodily fluids, which she would then succulently remove with the tip of her tongue.

As I lay there gasping for breath, I wondered if this was it for the night. I had only been in her room for maybe ten minutes, so I was hoping there would be more. But on the other hand, the experience had been so unbelievably satisfying. If this was it, I certainly wouldn't have had anything to complain about.

Once my convulsions subsided, she slid off the end of the bed and walked across the room to the dresser. Watching her bare ass cheeks slide up and down in the rosy dim light as she walked across the room only added to my satisfaction. Standing at the old dresser, she opened the crockpot and removed a hot hand towel, tightly rolled like they give first-class airline passengers to wipe their hands before being served dinner. As she walked back across the room towards me, she unrolled the towel and tossed it back and forth in her hands, trying to cool it before applying it to my still highly aroused genitals.

The alternating sensations of her dragging her cool hair across my jewels, then to the warmth and wetness of her mouth, then back to cool air, and finally to the warmth of the wet and steamy towel was almost more than my adolescent brain could handle. But I did not want the experience to end, and luckily, it didn't. For once my privates were nicely cleaned; she tossed the rapidly cooling towel back across the room where it landed squarely in a basket next to the dresser, which I assume must have been a laundry hamper for that very purpose. She then lay down next to me and cuddled up like we were kittens in a basket.

The room was cool, but her warm body snuggled tightly to my side, made for perfect bliss. I thought this evening could not get any better, but to my sweet surprise, there was still plenty more to come. Which I realized after a few minutes of snuggling as she began running her fingertips up and down my chest and stomach, stopping first at my belly button, but then adventuring lower and lower with each sultry pass of her hand.