I Came Upon A Midnight Beer
Tonight, Adrianna craves a shotgun in the form of flesh rubbed against her backside and tickling her fevered temple with its red-hot static shock impulse. She bares herself for the near-death fix of a dangerous partner and vacates her empty flat to prowl the streets like an alley cat with a Deathwish. Whenever her friends see this long away look in Adrianna’s eye, they usually try to subdue her, and offer her a drink. Tell her to spend the night at home and together they consume everything in the freezer besides the ice cube tray, but Bethany and Sumera are gone with their boy toys in the Alps at the moment for the holidays. There's no one to restrain the insatiable yearning urges that tickle Adrianna’s puckering gooseflesh; guiding her into her strapless ensemble and unzipped goose feathered coat as she slams the door of her Volvo and heads out for the local watering hole on December Twenty Third the eve before Christmas Eve.
There's something ultimately arousing about the eve of Eve and Christmas. Especially at the Cold Pool Table. Known sometimes as the Pool, sometimes as the Table, and sometimes as the Inn, depending on what a person's looking for. She picks him out in a single glimpse before the saloon doors shudder. He's the one with the long Billard pole, with serpentine arm, sinewed over the table on pause. Cooly concentrating in everyone else's stare of anticipation of a call, and what will follow. Christopher, Krystopher, or is it Krys? Christ, in her mind it's going to be Criss. And she's already swaying her favorite leopard print path over, and stopping in his shadow, before the viridian lantern, to eye him in that crisp white T hugging every tensed shoulder muscle. He's got a great back. Broad shoulders and nice tight ass beneath those frayed everyday jeans. He isn't a young buck. The air of confidence is in the way he's commandeering his audience, as he sets his shot glass back and aims. Clack, clack, clack, woosh. In the pocket. Adrianna applauds with a private twang of satisfaction. She's planning a call of her own, two in one pocket. And herself in front of the eight ball to finish that evening off. Paid in full. Adrianna runs a parched tongue over her glossed lips. He's drinking something nice. Not an ordinary beer, and she reaches for the tumbler to have whiff. Mmmh...
Criss plunges like a freight train through the bedroom of her stimulated mind as his fierce alley cat orbs settle on her. Adrianna's half-closed lids purr and call back to the manliness barely snug in his dirty blue Levis. She drinks his pale bluish eyes in, imagining the same color in a lit swimming pool in a Las Vegas Hotel at midnight. His cowhand cockiness stares back at her; challenging her to respond with an act of sensuality. Her panties darken as she anticipates his bulging bull pummeling into her lasso in waves of sticky contracting ecstasy. She pulls a cigarette from the leather vest that works as a scanty Christmas wreath around his bush of curly black chest hair matted in sweat that she now imagines toying with in her Queen bed against a striking view of the Seattle skyline. Adrianna asks Criss for a light. He grabs the cigarette back and sticks the ciggie in the rightful recess of his sneering puss. A blonde twenty something bespeckled waif in a black turtle-neck slides out from the shadows of the bar behind Adrianna and wraps his lithe figure around the solid tree trunk of Criss. The blonde's hand is expertly woven around the bulge in Criss's greased pants, sealing off any hope of Adrianna finding pleasure in their sea of now obvious differences.
Fuck. Well, she's not one for men's suits but then again Marlene Dietrich and Madonna looked good, so maybe... she's starting to think ok three? ...but there's just no room here at the Inn. Obviously. She sucks off his Manhattan, with a quirky wink of her false eyelashes and he chuckles to the fondling of his backhanded partner with no remorse for her hazed outreach. Whatever. So much for a quickie. Adrianna turns her back to the light, glowing like a Tanenbaum, and oh what do we have here slouched at the table? Is this human heap the latent satyr that she's so on the hunt for tonight?
"Hi there, mind if I...?" she says swinging her plump thighs into the booth before he can study the shadow of her crotch. She can smell her own heater and figures she should cool off with an iced beverage, fast. The server is being a little bitch and ignoring her blatant panting over every pent up serving of testosterone.
"Hey, Bobbie... can a girl get a Tequila?" That's what it said on the sadly hanging name tag, of the black aproned, sexless server uniform.
"Yeah, extra worm is what we got. Hang a min, you're four tables behind." And they disappeared into the bar, neither male nor female.
How her legs have a mind of their own, just look at the left and the right go. Adrianna is already tickling her toes over her new acquaintance across the under-table and he hasn't even looked up. Her high heels perched like homeless kittens on the bar floor where she's recently wriggled free of them. Is he shit faced drunk? What luck, she'll be exercising her imagination over a near necro, and she'll be the only one waking up tomorrow. Can she even call it consensual, never mind sensual. Oh, but she can, Adrianna is determinedly horny and looking for a share time.
"What are you having?" she says running her red fingernails over the dark coarse hairs of his arm, with a definite electric charge. She's on fire, with lightning. He lifts his chin. Eyes shot blank. His whole body starts a spasmodic shaking she's never seen before. Instead of turning off, she's turned on totally, now, uncontrollably. She slides over to his side and up and over his crotch to lap up that dry hump, skirt and shirt hitched up. Maybe it's epileptic but she's hitched a ride, and suddenly she can't get enough, she's so excited, and her mouth is gliding over his, and his tongue is finding hers like instant relief in a slot machine coming up all cherries. His previously limp hands, she's placed on her butt cheeks, are now grabbing her hips with the intensity she was begging for and she's soaked and ready for more of his untamed episode.
"What do I call you, Mr?"
" My name's Cr...Cr...Crachett. Wh..who...who the hell are you lady? "
"I'm your wet nurse, and you're my candy cane, Mr. Shake 'n' Bake. Crachett, gawd that's so Christmassy. How bout's you and I shake a tail feather out of this saphole and get more comfortable?"
He shook and within seconds they are tumbling out into the parking lot arm and arm and slip sliding through the snow trying to track down Adrianna's ride. Slipping out of her arm like a fish, Cratchett slams down onto his back into a pile of dirty snow and before Adrianna can think snow angels he starts spazzing out again threatening to bite off his tongue. A long-coated figure from under a streetlight darts out to assist Crachett as Adrianna stares down in a tilted headed trance.
The new hero doesn't seem all that promising, paying her netted garters and cleavage no mind. Only one way to tell what's lurking in the big cover, her imagination is wildly overactive. Soon enough she's lifting the tail of the overcoat and fondling a burgeoning wallet projecting from his backside. He's practically doing mouth to mouth on Crachett meanwhile.
"Well now Sugar daddy, shouldn't we call an ambulance?" leaning up against him full body, her blood pulsing like an abandoned dial tone.
"He's gone into shock. I pressed my emergency transmitter. I'm EMT. The vehicle will be here in 43 seconds." He stands, full height, oversized gloves now firmly holding her waist.
"WOW." Adrianna bites her lovely pout exquisitely. "Maybe I should go down, Doctor?" Her hands are already smoothing the lapels on his jacket and testing the temperature around his neck, toying with a button. She can't see his face in the dark parking lot. She doesn't see it coming.
He lands her one, square in the jaw hinge, and she's down for the count. Out, but nothing broken. He shakes out his fisted fingers, then swings her over his shoulder, caveman style. Even passed out her puss poses for the cameras, radiant like for a Crest commercial or for Lancome L'eau de Toilette. The streetlamp gives her complexion a greenish cast and a mischievous twinkle in the outlined kitty eyes.
The ambulance scoops Crachett like a street sweep eats yesterday's refuse, and the EMT opens his pickup truck passenger side door to lay Adrianna down across the bench seat.
*
She don't know it yet, but she's had a day turned to evening to work off her drunk. Adrianna's woken in a modest apartment in Bellevue. She's guessing it's EMT boy who she can only vaguely remember except for his boyish good looks and freckle-faced charm. She smells coffee and bacon sizzle in the kitchen as she arises from her spot on the green plaid couch that was obviously surfed from a lonely roadside. She notices her pants are gone and she's wearing someone else's white panties that seem a bit snug and an oversized light red tee-shirt that reminds her of Santa Claus. Her nipples are poking out like panic buttons as she flounces into the kitchen with a bit of a hot-head; the tee-shirt only half covering her panties where one of her loose lips has slipped out as she searches for her abductor. He turns and stares back at her innocently with his 'Kiss the Cook' apron on; the Christmas lights decorating the baby tree in the middle of the kitchen bar island from where he's making cookies to go with her eggs, bacon and coffee waiting on a green glass plate.
"What happened to my pants and panties? If I've been bopped I at least want to remember it."
"You pissed yourself straight through the black thongs you were wearing. My Mom used to live with me... she sort of looks like your size. So, I took the liberty to put something on you. Don't worry, I didn't peek. At least not for too long."
Adrianna smiles and this time it's not forced. It's a beautiful compliment to her grey and green eyes that look like sea foam and kelp and stones that line the ocean floor. EMT guy is looking her over now for the first time. His handle is apparently 'Jason', according to the name on his slumped over work jacket that's hanging bunched on a chair at the edge of the kitchen bar. He takes her awed look at the food on the table as the right chance, walks over to her in a half trot. She's standing there under the archway with the mistletoe hanging down, and he plants a soft peck on her pretty lips instantly turning her cheeks red with the flush of desire. He notices a red flourish sprouting up her neck as well from the confines of the tee rising up as her protruding nips look rock hard as ever, showcasing the threadbare see through design of the tee. She can see in Jason's eyes that he contemplates fondling one of them but then thinks the better of it.
"Want any breakfast? I know it's nighttime, but I only really know how to make cereal, breakfast and cookies. The cookies are for Santa."
"Santa?..."
"Yes it's Christmas Eve! I was hoping you'd celebrate with me because you look very merry like a Christmas Elf; especially now that you're not out in the dirt and the snow trying to hump some poor Rudolph."
12/23/23
Mavia and
Bunny Villaire