♫ Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Chet Baker My Funny Valentine
 Olivia Newton-John Physical
 Cutting Crew (I Just) Died In Your Arms
 Bee Gees Staying Alive
She’s looking over here. That’s the third time I’ve caught her glancing and, unless my radar is woefully off-kilter, I could swear that she just gave me a smile. A quick glance behind me confirms that I’m the only person left at the bar, no chance I’m imagining this. Ordinarily the concept of advancing would be one not worth entertaining as I’m painfully shy and hopeless at introductions. However, I don’t need a degree in rocket science to deduce that this girl is really into me, her body language states as much. I’m hardly The Gosling but admittedly I do scrub up rather well considering I’m now on the opposing side of forty. In addition, I am dressed to impress tonight, clean-shaven and clad in my best attire for the occasion. The occasion in question is a three-hour long conference in the executive suite which wrapped up twenty minutes ago. It was a somewhat laborious exercise and left me in dire need of a stiff drink before I return to my suite to stave off death by boredom. Things just got a whole lot more interesting at the Hillcrest Hotel.
I’m only here for tonight and then first thing tomorrow I jet off to Massachusetts. It’s the ideal opportunity for a one-night stand although this isn’t a prospect I’m particularly familiar with. I’ve never partaken before and have no clue as to how these sort of affairs normally play out but I’m here, she is too, the alcohol is already flowing and I haven’t much to lose other than a smidgen of dignity which hardly comes into play considering there is nobody present to make a fool of myself in front of. Should I fail spectacularly then I will simply call it a night and slink off back to my chamber to rendezvous with my right hand. No chance of rejection there and therefore I may as well roll the dice. There’s the look again, it’s decided, I shall summon up my swagger and make my move.
Perhaps it would be a good idea just to neck this tumbler of Bourbon before commencing my short pilgrimage to her table. It helps to calm the nerves and right now I am clueless as to how I will make my approach so a little Dutch courage can only be a good thing. I’m approximately two drinks away from inebriated which isn’t ideal as I would prefer to have had a skinful before attempting to walk in my clown shoes but the bar is now closed and this opportunity will soon have passed so a quick tipple will have to do. To be fair, she’s pretty blatant, crashing and burning is looking increasingly unlikely judging by her come hither eyes. As I neck my poison, I almost choke on the ice but thankfully she hasn’t noticed my splutter and I dab my chin with a serviette before she does her next optical round.
I find it rather cruel irony that one can entirely forget how to walk in such circumstances. Placing one foot in front of the other with all the grace of a big-boned ballerina, I almost clatter into the stool to my left and suddenly the distance between us seems to have doubled. No turning back now or, at least, if I plan to retain any form of dignity. I must purge forth, despite the fact that cramp has decided it is the perfect time to set into my left leg. I would have much preferred to stroll over like a proud buck rather than hobbling forward, dragging one limb behind me like a crippled doe, but them’s the brakes. Besides, I’m almost halfway now and dry land is but a fading memory at this point. With a dash of good fortune she will be partially blind and I will just be an ambiguous blur although, should that be the case, then maybe the closer I get, the more she will recognize her error in judgement and knock me back flat. I can’t seem to win either way. Oh well, here goes nothing.
“Excuse me” I waddle over like a mallard with club foot and, to my distinct pleasure, the warmth in her gaze only intensifies “is anybody sitting here?” Not the most innovative entrance I know but I did say that I was wet behind the ears and at least now the ice has been broken. Hopefully her rebuff will be swift as I have momentum on my side now and can make it to the doorway relatively intact should the answer be yes. It’s not. “No, why don’t you pull up a chair and join me?” she replies and instantly my testicles return to room temperature. Now where should I take it from here? I guess taking her up on her kind offer would be a start as swaying like Karen Carpenter in a wind pocket can’t be the most attractive stance for a potential bed mate to assume.
“Thank you” Always remember your manners, that’s what my parents would be saying if they were here now. Actually, my father would have tied my laces together just to see the gormless look on my face and my mother would be reminding me that this isn’t the girl next door and therefore not of suitable standard for her boy. I’m not a child any more mom, I can tie my own shoe laces, wipe my own ass, and worked out what my special purpose was the first time you left me alone with it. I know that, in your mind, nobody will ever be good enough but it’s a tough world out here, far different to the holocaust. Things have changed considerably, scenarios such as these are commonplace nowadays and you know I ultimately always do what I want anyhoots. No apron strings for me, cut them a long time ago, I’m a man Goddammit and I will claim this prize regardless of any advice to the contrary from you thank you very much.
“Are you okay there? she inquires. Damn my inner monologue, a few seconds just passed and I spent every last one of them glazed over like a rabbit in headlights. Have I just managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory? I know these kind of deals are delicately poised on a knife-edge to start with, one wrong move and masturbating with that shower head will no doubt trump a bout of sexual aerobics with a bumbling buffoon. Quick, I have to react. Each grain of sand in the hourglass just makes things harder and increases the probability of me offering a preposterous rejoinder. “Yes I’m good thanks” I practically fall into the seat she has offered, natural poise may well be something of an aphrodisiac but there’s no point crying over spilt milk. I’m here now and ready for a good old-fashioned bout of damage limitation.
“So?” That’s never a good sign, I’m fairly assured that word suggests rapidly diminishing interest. Also, it’s so open-ended, she’s not given me much to go on. Throw me a bone please, I’m dying here. On second thoughts don’t, that would mean retrieving it and making it back in one piece. I think I had better take the bull by the horns here if I’m to stand any chance whatsoever. “You look like you could do with a drink” That just came out sounding Godawful, second thinking every word which leaves your mouth really is a curse. “The bar’s closed.” Fuck it, of course. How gormless can one man be? Whatever that is, double it and multiply it by six and you’ll be halfway to my current level of stupidity. “I meant back in my room” You sly old fox, where the hell did that little nugget of suave come from? There must be a ventriloquist in the room.
“You don’t waste any time do you?” I suspect I may have just vaguely impressed her you know. That cheeky grin suggests that I may be required to stop at the men’s restroom to stock up on prophylactics. All at once I can feel my self-assurance returning from wherever it has languished since before my birth. “Time waits for no man.” There we go, back to familiar territory. Unless I’m mistaken I just delivered that like Obi-Wan and, unless she’s a Star Wars nut, I’m sure she won’t appreciate the irony. “I see. You’re ready then to put your money where your mouth is?” Is it just me or was that a quick heads up that I’ll also need to pay a visit to the nearest ATM before coitus commences? I’ve got six bucks in my trouser pocket and, in the current climate, I’m not expecting much more than a dry hump for that.
I wisely decide not to pose the question and instead continue with playing it cool, after all, it’s got me this far. “Honey blossom. I was born that way” Holy hell, where the frig did that shit come from? Even Luther would have baulked at having to recite that line and he’s two things I’m not; black and hip. I’m now frantically attempting to deduce whether laughter represents a positive in situations such as this. A good sense of humor holds weight right? I’m sure I read once that the way to a woman’s heart is via the funny bone. Right now I’m banking on that Intel as this has crash and burn written all over it. If my friends were here, then I would have already have reached legendary status on precisely the wrong end of the scale. How to turn a sure thing into a dead duck in three easy steps. Actually, they were excruciatingly awkward steps but now I’m splitting hairs.
Where does one stand when their potential suitor places a solitary finger on their lips? Maybe the bile is rising in her throat and she needs to consolidate. Dammit, who made this shit so complex anyhoots? I’m sure back in the swinging sixties, the path was not so littered with pitfalls. A rudimentary task like reading body language isn’t so simple when scribed in braille, and the last thing I can expect to get away with right now is patting her down for clues. I’m hanging from a thread most slender here, this may very well be the most mortifying experience I have shared in my entire life. Actually, that’s a bare-faced lie, when I was twelve I zipped my foreskin into my school trousers after a ill-advised bout of self-exploration under the desk in Home Economics. No beans, just Frank, but this was pre-Ben Stiller so top billing was still assured in the remaining a virgin through school stakes.
There’s the outstretched hand. Either she is demanding payment for services rendered pre-coitus or I’m in like Flynn. I think it’s the latter you know, I’ve seen the look she is giving me before. Granted it was on cable and towards the tail end of channel select but I’m sticking to positives right now as they’re all I have left. Dignity? Shot to pieces. Grace under pressure? Not something in my repertoire. Panties on my Persian in ten minutes flat? A distinct possibility. An STD come dawn? Almost a definite. To make matters worse, it’s the weekend which means carrying that shit around like raffle tickets at a fete until Monday but, from what I hear, they mostly travel incognito. At very worst, I’ll have seven years of itching like a scabby pony to look forward to. Actually there are some pretty potent cremes on the market now but it still entails a visit to the chemist. Knowing my luck I’ll be left queue-sharing with an old dear named Beryl as she lines up for bunion lotion.
I’m not imagining this. She is leading me somewhere. What a turn-up for the books this is, she must be taking pity on me. How awfully kind of her, rescuing the stray before the dog catcher casts his net. You just saved me from the lethal goddamn injection lady. It matters not where this leads, wherever it is has to be better than where it was headed. Maybe the hotel have their own on-site stocks, being pelted with rotten vegetables is no less than I deserve after my pitiful performance. It appears not, we are on direct course with the elevator. That in itself gives further cause for panic considering I’ve never shared a comfortable silence within these conditions before, especially with a smoking hot twenty-something who is clearly from another division entirely. Somehow I seem to have made the play-offs, albeit with two torn hamstrings. It’s on floor seven, fucking fantastic! I just know there’s some mucus-filled cretin pressing every single button just to complete the row of nails hammered into my coffin.
Finally we have ding and not before time either. Apparently every muscle in your lower torso slackens when nerves kick in to this extent. As I muddle in, it is with buttocks firmly clenched, as flatulence now would surely be a game changer at any stage in proceedings. I’m just thankful I’m carnivorous as roughage would spell unmitigated disaster. Fate certainly appears to be on my side, not so much as a faint rasp, thank you sphincter. Now I know why they call you the bronze medal. In my eyes you’ll always be golden buddy. Mind you, it still doesn’t solve my next conundrum, she just pressed twelve and I get a sense that this is the only mouse-operated elevator left in existence. In my estimations, that is at least 160 seconds and that’s if we get a clear run. What would Michael Douglas do? Fuck a truck of plucked ducks, now I can’t get that poor defenseless bunny out of my head. Actually, it also rules out sex in the bath tub too. Heavens above, it’s a jungle out here.
Should I attempt a kiss? A misplaced lunge could end in tears, especially seeing as I have inherited Bambi’s ankles. It’ll likely end in a headbutt. Once again my knight in shining Prada has saved me from impending cataclysm. She leans in and I pucker up to gratefully claim my lip service. This is something I simply can’t mess up, years of rehearsing on my pillow case and not once did it complain over my strategy. As she touches down my primary consideration is whether or not to introduce the tongue but she takes control, sliding hers in to get the ball rolling. I reciprocate and desperately attempt not to lick her teeth like a mutt. There’s precious little time to find any kind of rhythm so I take her lead and gyrate anti-clockwise. To my unexpected credit, I believe I am doing rather a bang-up job here, she hasn’t pulled back yet and has my buttocks cupped in both hands so I must be doing something right.
There’s never a good time for acid reflux to put in an appearance but, despite the burn in my esophagus, I’m managing to keep it down just long enough to complete the cycle. Time flies when you’re locked in embrace and, before I know it, we have reached our destination. I’m still in the game, coitus could very well still be on the cards if I play my remaining hand right, and once we make it back to her suite I’m home free. It will probably be like making love with driftwood and I’m so geared up that my sailors will probably set sail before she’s slid down my zipper but, if worst comes to the worst, there’s always cunnilingus. I’ll just replicate a starved kitten and lap up her milk for dear life, that should buy me some time while I restock my wares. She has turned a blind eye to my multiple foibles thus far so what’s a dash more disappointment in the grand scheme of things?
Room 1219. That’s our destination. The Gods are smiling on me now as it is only a short walk from the escalator and she’s doing an admirable job of holding me up. As we reach the door, she rests me delicately against the frame and uses her access card to grant us entrance. This is far more plush than my quarters, almost of penthouse suite standards. I wonder what her premium is, her flat screen is at least ten inches larger than mine, and there’s an oyster-clam jacuzzi to boot. On the plus side, should we partake in a dip, then I can fart incognito. I’ve been holding that shit in for a full five minutes now and the obligatory gut-ache is excruciating. It would be a lot easier if she slid a couple out herself to break the tension but I don’t see that happening any time soon as she is the embodiment of cool. I’m sure they’d end up smelling of roses anyhoots, it would doubtless only supply more shame to my game as I can feel tepid heat in my rectum and that’s never a good sign.
“I’m going to take a quick shower. Make yourself at home and I will be right with you”. This is welcome news to my ears as it buys me valuable breathing space. By the time she returns I shall be stripped to my jockeys, stroking my hair suggestively and, most critically, horizontal. I will, of course, be required to find my A-game in the interim but I haven’t given up hope of fooling her into believing that I am in fact a stud just yet. Every dog has its day according to reports, the fact that I haven’t yet been kicked to the curb thus far only serves to suggest that this may well be mine. “Sure thing sugar tits” I stand corrected said the man in orthopedic shoes. How many epic fails can one person produce before being shown the door? I’m beginning to ponder whether this is some kind of dare on her part. Either that or her ears need syringing.
Off she trots to her en-suite, working her hips like a pro. My first action is to gently slide my cheeks apart and omit some of these crippling gases before they consume me. The relief is palpable, I can finally relax some or, at least, I can when this fart cloud resides. The shower is running now but, to my monumental delight, the bathroom door is ajar and I have a clear line of sight to her derobing. Her figure-hugging red dress is controlled by a zipper at the back which she is currently manipulating sensually. I know that I shouldn’t be gawking but get the feeling that is exactly what she is facilitating, This little strumpet is happy for me to receive an eyeful and who am I to shatter the poor girl’s dreams? Ogle I shall, it would be positively uncivil not to.
I would like to find the architect that put this woman together and shake him by the hand. As her garment slackens around her shoulders and slides to her feet I am greeted by a sight which I never thought I’d see without first subscribing. Her supple curves are exquisitely proportioned and her back rack resembles a couple of freshly ejected alien oviums, packed tight enough to crack coconuts with ease. A cursory southward glance reveals a diamond in the rough, dazzling from her haunch, and her long slender pins look good enough to knit a quilt with. We have pay dirt, my entire upper torso is devoid of blood which has all settled in one locale. I’m thankful for my photographic memory in times like these as this image of grandeur will likely display on perpetual screen saver in my head for many years to come, regardless of what transpires from hereon in.
I hurriedly drop my slacks, fumbling free from my trouser leg, and make myself comfortable on the divan in preparation. Socks! Fuck it, I can’t wear those. Must kick those suckers off before commencement as they are emblazoned with The Muppets and way past the point of being considered intact. Done, Private Clusterfuck reporting for active duty. Let’s see how my opposite number is faring with her rub down shall we? She hasn’t moved a muscle and appears to be admiring herself in the full-length mirror. I can’t really blame her considering what’s on the platter. I’m storing the slides like a sexual squirrel, gathering mind bullets which I fully intend on ricocheting from her inner pelvis in a matter of minutes. Just when I think it can’t get any more ‘on’, she reaches between her legs tantalizingly and my erection reaches full mast.
Suddenly, things take a turn for the more macabre as she continues to strip, despite the fact that she is already fully nude. Her epidermis may be flawless and fit her like silk, but would be far more desirable connected to any subcutaneous tissue and not discarded on the bathroom floor. My once dignified member is first to receive the intelligence and shrivels up faster than old feet in a foot spa, and my genitalia now resembles a timid gastropod. Blood vessels and sweat glands just ain’t sexy, period! From feeling downright libidinous I am now involuntarily testing my gag reflex. Why couldn’t she just have left a little something to the imagination? I wouldn’t consider myself prudish but draw the line at the shedding of skin. It’s decision time folks, having already watched Species I’m fully aware of how it ended up for Alfred Molina. Absorption was never part of the deal or, if it was, then it was decidedly small print.
Bitter irony. I finally snag myself a woman forgiving enough to forsake my multiple idiosyncrasies and accept me for who I am and the bitch turns out to be not of this Earth. I’m desperate to find some shred of consolation and the only crumb available is the fact that she remains oblivious as I grab my linen and bolt to the exit, dropping a singular sock akin to Cinderella as I bundle through the doorway and hastily retreat. Blow holes, wouldn’t you know the darned elevator is down in the lobby. There’s no time, I must take the stairwell as time is at a premium before she discovers something is amiss and goes all Ian Holm on my sorry ass. I don’t relish twelve flights right now with my current precarious posturing but needs must. I’ve had what is traditionally referred to as a fortunate escape and I’m thankful now that the bar had closed as a couple more judgement-impairing shorts may well have sealed my demise. Next time I shall be having any night caps in my boudoir. Speaking of which, there’s the door. That’s strange, I don’t remember calling room service.
Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014