The Bar Wrecker

Until she wrecked it, I used to go to this bar on outskirts of my neighborhood a couple of times each week. It's not a classy place but it doesn't quite qualify as a dive. The front is windowless, and the interior is kind of dark and non-descript. It's a long, narrow space, with the bar running along the right wall down about two-thirds of the room. The last third has some tables, a dart board, and the door to the "beer garden".

My routine there was pretty much the same. I'd come in and sit at the end of the bar near the door (and away from all the action). I'd nod and the bartender drew me my beer. I always got a twenty-four ounce "domestic lager". In that place, it was usually Miller. It came in a tall thin-walled glass. It's not that I don't appreciate different sorts of beer, but when that glass was set down before me, with the sides all frosty and just enough foam at the top, that moment of anticipation was perfect. I would sit there and sip just that one beer and watch sports on the TV.

Like a lot of bars, this one has a number of TVs. The one over the end of the bar where I always sat is usually tuned to some regional sports network or one of the higher numbered ESPNs. I'm not much of a sports fan, so I don't really care that much what it is. I wasn't maintaining a rooting interest in those days. Maybe I'd pick a team to root for that day or maybe I wouldn't. So, like if it's baseball season and the Mariners are playing the Marlins, well, I don't care. Maybe one week I'd pick Seattle and the next I'd go for the Fish. The same goes for other sports. However, this TV is rarely on whatever "The Game" of the moment is. Instead, it'll be something quirky, even downright weird. Did you know there's a professional league for tag? Go figure.

Anyway, the point is: I drink my beer and watch some kind of sport for that tiny break in my day in that one place. And it is perfect because for that short window nobody wants something from me.

If I'm coming from work, I'm coming down from being a "captain of industry" all day. I'll be dressed in a nice shirt, spiffy shoes, and wool slacks. I'll have shed the tie and coat, but they're in the car. This sets me apart from the other clientele. They are mainly captains of HVAC repair, dry wall installation, or plumbing. Which is great: I don't have to work at making conversation. Occasionally I'll come on a Saturday afternoon, if the wife is off doing something, I'm still not on the same wavelength as everyone else.

On this particular Thursday, she was sitting down at my end of the bar. It's not like there were never women in the bar: wives and girlfriends were often yucking it up down at the other end, particularly if there was a big game on. Girls watch sports too. But she was different, and she was sitting down at my end.

She was of average height. Thin, but not emaciated. Her skirt showed lots of leg, coming down only to her knees, and that night she was wearing a thick rust-colored knit sweater with one of those roll top collars. Her hair was dark colored, with a slight curl, about shoulder length. If she had boobs, they weren't large enough to test the sweater much. Anyway, no big deal, right? This place doesn't really get bar floozies and I was very married.

I nodded to the bartender for my beer. It wasn't clear what sport I'd be watching tonight--the channel was on commercial. I glance left and she's looking at me. I gave her the flashbulb-no-teeth smile that says "friendly but not sociable" and went back to looking at my beer. Don't get me wrong: she had a pretty face. But a woman alone at the bar like that? That's trouble.

"Hi, I'm Veronica," she said, "What are we watching tonight?"

I looked up at the TV. It looks like their wrapping up coverage on sailing and about to switch to the Western Regional Finals of Women's Log Rolling. I suppose those are both water sports?

"Apparently some form of forestry-related aquatics. Do you favor," I say, glancing at the graphics for some help, "Livi Pappadopoulos or Maddy 'Tipsy' Lyons?"

"I'm not sure. It's my first time log rolling."

I avoid the obvious comeback. "I must say I haven't followed the season closely--or at all. I wonder if 'tipsy' is a good thing in log rolling?"

"I suppose it's a question of whether one is the tipper or the tipee. Taking a break before you go home to the wife?"

"Something like that. It's nice to have a time when nobody wants something." She laughs. It's a cute laugh, slightly demure.

"I'd like to have that problem someday. Although, the crazy cat lady path is open, if only I had a cat. You have kids?"

"A daughter, Jessica. She's just gone off to school on the other coast."

"No! You can't be old enough for that!"

"You flatterer. But we were quite young. It wasn't a shotgun wedding, but there may have been small arms fire at the reception. Literally: Claire's beloved daddy puts the 'industrial' in Military Industrial Complex."

"Sounds dangerous."

And just like that, we're off and running. I'm guessing she's about thirty, so maybe ten years younger than me. When I finish my beer, she's about done with her vodka with cranberry and soda. We get up to go and she has a firm but feminine handshake ready to go. "Maybe I'll see you around, Veronica."

"I hope so," she said, "This was fun."

When I get home, Claire interrogates me about the day. I'm able to report that the Americans are still having trouble foiling their boat and that, apparently, tipsy is a bad thing in log rolling. I don't mention Veronica.

That night, I reach for her in bed and she laughs, "Oh! That beer joint of yours makes you frisky. You really should cut back. Don't forget tomorrow that we've got cocktails with the Muni council and Saturday the reception with the Smiths."

The next Thursday, Veronica isn't at the bar when I arrive and a tiny part of me feels let down. But I get my beer and settle in for some Major League Lacrosse. But she bustles in five minutes later.

"The bus was so slow! What's on?" She's shrugging out of her long gray trench-style coat. She's wearing the same style short skirt and a lacy top under a kind of frilly blouse with a plunging neckline. She has a bit of cleavage tonight. I govern my gazing. Well, try to.

Somewhere in our discussion that night, she asks, "Do you ever want more children?"

I shrug, "Clarie made it clear that one was enough. And there's this thing you have to do to get a child..."

"Bribery?"

"No, that's how you get the thing you have to do, I'm told."

"That's too bad."

"What about you?"

"If I can just find the right guy, I'm going to pop out his puppies." She pats her belly and we laugh.

Later, we're getting up to go, and I observe, "Hey, the weather's kind of cold. You need a lift?" Her eyes light up just a little.

I'm driving the Lexus tonight and she hops into the passenger seat. It's only a few blocks to her place. She rests her hand lightly on my thigh as I drive. I should say something, but I don't.

She has an upstairs apartment in one of those upstairs/downstairs duplexes. The downstairs obviously has a family, as the yard is a minefield of Big Wheels and brightly colored plastics. Her place looks small but has a balcony over the car port to compensate.

I don't turn off the car. Her hand moves up, away from neutral territory. I start to react, but she says, "You're a loyal husband. And I don't need to fool around with a married man. But sometimes it's nice to just say 'thank you'... to a friend." There's a response there and she's sizing it up. Then, seeming with reluctance, she pulls away. She gives a flirty backward glance as she mounts the stairs.

The next night we host two other couples, Claire's tennis friends. They mostly talk politics. I'm cornered down at the far end of the table with Roger, some twit of a husband. He wants to talk money, so I'm like "Did you catch the lacrosse game last night? The Barrage really clocked L.A., huh?" I so wish Veronica were there to see his gob smacked expression.

Saturday afternoon, Claire is out on some fundraising thing, so I head to the bar. Veronica is there and I feel relief from a tension I wasn't aware of.

"You've got to see this!" she starts out. "Apparently the French... I think it's the French? Chantilly (she says it the French way, too...) is in France. Anyway, they've got this sport where the object is to see whose horse can walk the fastest around the course, dragging a little cart. No running!"

It's called a sulky cart and not because the horses are sad or something. The horses look like they know they look stupid and wish the whole thing were over. The jockeys feign that they don't know how stupid they look. It's hilarious. My beer is empty before I know it and we're rolling with laughter. We look at our empties and she says, "Take me home."

I drive with her hand on my thigh. On my thigh where she can certainly tell the effect it is having on me. This time I switch the car off. She pulls her hand back and explains the situation.

"I'm going to do something in a second to thank you. Maybe some time--not today, because it's my turn--you'll want to do something to thank me. And that would be okay. Just remember: no kissing. Kissing is for when it means something. Something more. You had better be serious, if we're kissing. Okay?"

I nod my head. "Okay?" she needs to hear it. Her hand is back, though.

"We're just thanking each other. A kiss means..."

She's not quite satisfied. "A kiss is the first step in my popping out puppies." And with that, she pulls my zipper down and fishes around for my aroused tool. I look to see if anyone can see, but no one is visible. She pushed her head down around it, her mouth a little warm wet pocket I pop into. Her tongue swirls and a kaleidoscope of sensation washes over me. Her hand tugs in just the right cadence. I've never gotten off from a blow job. Ever. But I am right there. Veronica sucking me off in the leafy car port. It's been so long. And she is so good. "Oh god! Veronica," I cry, "I'm going to..."

I get one wicked glance from her eyes and the tiniest tinge of smile as she drives me to the finish. I can't help it. I put my hand on the back of her head and, with a howl, I cum.

She sucks on me hard, and, when I'm done, she sits back up, patting my pants back into place. She opens her mouth and darts her tongue slightly, to show me a trace of milky spend, then she swallows it down.

"Thank you," she says. "Too bad there's no kissing yet. You taste sweet."

And then she's gone and I'm smiling ruefully.

I'm driving home when Jess calls me from her college dorm. I put her on speaker. The conversation begins with "Mommy says...", which is code for either Claire wants to spend a boatload of cash and thinks Jessica can broach the topic better or Claire wants to say 'no' but wants me to give the news.

I tell her I'm going into a tunnel and will call her back. Claire isn't pleased with me later: she wants to take Jess to the Italian Riviera during summer break. I point out that this will use up the two tickets worth of points we'd saved for ourselves. This doesn't help. "You're always so selfish," she says. It's a long way to Thursday.

On Thursday, Veronica doesn't show and I'm irascible and cranky all the next day. I know I can't expect her to always be at the bar. Maybe Claire is on to something: I'm feeling selfish. Friday, she greets me when I arrive with "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I couldn't come yesterday: work was crazy."

We trade phone numbers, just in case. It feels kind of dirty, like I'm cheating on Claire. She's made clear she's just a friend, right? But it feels oddly satisfying too.

Today we're watching NHRA drag racing from sunny Pomona. We riff on what makes a "funny car" humorous, and then half a hundred other things. I learn about her failed experiment with preparing eggplant. She learns about my curious aversion to coconut.

When it's time to go, she slips into the passenger side of my car. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. Her hand is not timid. It rests on my firmity all through the drive. "Are you okay with this?" she asks when we arrive at her place.

"Yes... no. No, because I want to touch you." She smiles her dark elfin smile, leans back slightly, and parts her legs a bit.

"What's stopping you?" I lean over, mindful of the "no kissing" rule, and whisper "I'm not sure" in her ear. She undoes her safety belt and it slithers back into its holder. My hand is on her thigh and she parts her legs even more fully for me. Her skirt is always so short that it's no barrier to my exploration. My fingers touch her panties.

I feel the softness of the material, the little hollow between her legs. She closes her eyes and wiggles her upper torso as I brush up against her again. My thumb and middle finger establish a pleasant rhythm that bring a flush to her face. Her nipples poke out her blouse. I pull the panties aside and let my finger brush her vaginal opening. She's wet and sticky. I probe the entry, the ring of flesh pushing back. I'm checking her acceptance, gauging her reaction. She doesn't resist. I work my middle finger slowly inside her. Her breathing builds slowly but inexorably. I let it build, slowly. Her breath is ragged, punctuated by "Ah!.... Ah!..." and, finally, "Oh fuck!". She quivers like a violin string.

"Mmph! What a ride," she sighs. My fingers are glistening with her juices. I suck them clean, reveling in the sweet taste.

That night Claire and I go to dinner with some foundation head and his wife. Claire and this bozo talk shop, while the wife sits there and just nods. Even though I've washed my hands, every time I raise my glass to drink I can smell Veronica's pheromones on my fingers.

Saturday dawns fine and warm. Claire is up and gone before I get out of bed. I check my phone and, aside from some work messages, there's one new text. It's from Veronica, asking if I plan to go to the bar today. The bar is opening their beer garden for the season. Perhaps the party would make a good excuse? We agree on a time.

The bar's is the least-aptly named "beer garden" you'll ever meet: the only vegetation are bits of grass growing between the concrete grid pavers. The sides are eight-foot-high cement with peeling paint in varying layers of color and there's a tacky wood gazebo to provide shade at one end. The effect is "exercise yard at the penitentiary". All they need is razor wire and searchlights.

I feel tension building inside me. In all our years of marriage, even when it has been unfulfilling, I've never been tempted to cheat on Claire. Sure, I'm not blind. I've looked at some women, maybe even flirted a few times. But never gone further. The faint scent still on my fingers say I've already gone further with this woman.

When I arrive, I see that our TV is tuned to Australian Rules Football, which is a vaguely like rugby, only somehow different. The referees wear something like a white lab coat and pork pie hats and signal a score with a finger and thumb held like five-year olds playing cowboys. Pew! Pew! It's hilarious. The tension is there, but we're both laughing, casual. The conversation is easy. Pretty soon, my beer is empty. I look in her eye and she's looking at me appraisingly. "Let's go," she says.

When I get to her place, I turn off the car. She hasn't touched me on the drive. I'm taut, ready for anything to happen. I haven't been this nervous since my first date in high school.

"I want you to come inside today. If you want. Two friends don't have to sit in the car, you know," she starts. Her assurance is just a veneer. We're both vulnerable here.

"I want to come in. I... uh... I don't know if I can... uh..." I stutter. She swivels in her seat a bit and takes my hands in hers.

"I'm not going to make you do anything. I shouldn't, probably, have started us on this path. I like being friends and I don't think taking up with a married man is... Anyway, I'm very attracted to you and I want you to make love to me. That's very selfish, and I shouldn't put that on you. Whether or not we do this, if at any point you can't stand it, you can't ghost me. You need to tell me and I'll accept it. But..."

"I'll warn you that I don't think I share very well. If we do this, I'll be greedy and want this all the time. And, well, if you kiss me..." she smiles and quirks her eyebrow, "look out. Now, I'm going to go in the house. And you sit here until you decide what you want." She slipped her hands out of mine, picked up her handbag, and slipped out. She only looked back once, walking to the stairs. I could start the car and go. I should go.

Instead, I open the car door and follow her. She smiles as I come up behind her. She fiddling with the lock. I put my hands on her waist as the door unlatches and falls open. I kiss her shoulder and she leads me into the dimly lit space.

The apartment is clean and uncluttered. Everything is put neatly away. There are a few pieces of art hanging up, but mostly the walls are taken up with bookshelves crammed with books. She has gauzy cloth hanging over the venetian blinds, which are drawn tight. She turns about and we hug. Her smile is radiant.

She takes me by the hand and we go into the bedroom. I am mesmerized by this woman. I reach out to unbutton her blouse, but she wriggles away and starts shedding her clothes. I shed mine. Her sheets are robin's egg blue and her panties are pink. She keeps them on as she bounces into the bed. I grab her foot and kiss the inside of her ankle. I put a kiss on each inch, working up her thigh, then skip over the panties. I kiss her belly button, her tummy. My hands have been aching to hold her breasts, and here they are. They aren't huge, but they seem perfectly proportioned. They sag ever so slightly in her reclined position: sitting up they'd make nice round hand-filling droplets. There is one brown mole on the left teat. Her nipples point slightly askew from one-another. I pay each my respects. Her clavicles get kissed. Her throat is bared to me, so I kiss it too.

Now I'm between her thighs, her hand down there feeling my hard cock. She rubs it up and down her panty covered slit.

We smile at each other. I can see she wants me to kiss her. Hell, I want to kiss her. But I know that's more commitment than I should make today. She draws her panties aside and help feed my tip into her exposed wetness.

"Do you want protection?" she asks. "I'm clean and presume you've only been with your wife." I assume she means she's safe.

"I want to feel you."

"Good. I want to feel you too," but I am already "feeling her". There is no friction, we just fit together. We move together. I kiss her cheeks, her ears. Her hands dart here and there, holding and pushing. I'm holding my full weight off of her, reveling in how our bodies meet just so at that one point.

After a bit, she rolls me to one side, pushes me on my back and mounts me. I look up at her, feeling the wonder on my face. We're joined down in the hips. I put one thumb in the middle of a nipple and one hand on her waist. She ripples her whole body and our cadence increases. We're animals mating. She expresses the pleasure at feeling me inside her with a guttural "oh" on every stroke. She seems shocked to find herself losing it, hitting a climax fast and freely. I let it wash over her. Then she bites her lip in determination. I get close. And then closer. I get close: she can feel it.

"Do it. Do it. Put it all in me." And I lose it, crying out "Aaahhhh..." loud and long as my spasms jolt and shudder inside her.

Later she's lying next to me with I draw circles on her skin with my finger. She pulls out her phone and snaps a selfie of us, naked there in bed together. "This is a perfect moment. I hope never to forget it."