It was just another Wednesday … well that was the feeling anyway; another Wednesday evening wasting away in the suds of “Wicked Wednesday” at the upstairs lounge at Reds. Perhaps the taps were flowing a little too heavy a little too early as I settled into the leather sofas that I’ve come to know as my home away from home. Nothing like the lapping lathers of the suds as they pass over the taste buds on their recycling journey, a perfect escape from the cutthroat corporate world.
This particular midweek “hump-day” would be brought to life by the mysterious eye-candy settled in over at the corner table. A buck-some brunette with legs that never seemed to end … extending downward into her Jimmy Choos … nice 3 inch pegs … and simple little strap to really call your attention to a perfect set of ankles … ones that you hope to have flailing high towards the stars as the night moves on. Oddly she’s sitting solo … so am I … so right away we have enough in common to break the ice, plus her come hither look slightly over the rims of her tight rimmed glasses was more than any mortal man could evade.
“… well hello there” I manage to stutter out of my mouth as I approach her and hope to join her in the personal space of her table … “may I join you?” … meanwhile, my dysfunctional wandering mind is everywhere but the conversation at hand.
“of course, you can … I’d love the company to converse and conspire with” she responds … now that I’m closer I can really see the magnificence before me … snug little cashmere sweater riding slightly above the diamond-encrusted navel … short skirt … long jacket … the whole package.
As I sit I introduce myself … “I’m Victor … and the pleasure is all mine” … in retort she proclaims “thank you … Roxanne … but my friends call me Roxy” … [queue 80’s flashback sequence in my brain] … as we sit and have the high-level get to know you banter I can’t help notice her skirt slowly crawling up her leg to reveal silky red velvet panties … suddenly the circuitry of my brain is having a thermo-nuclear meltdown … fucking red velvet panties … oh my god this could be a really wicked Wednesday … what man doesn’t get worked up over red velvet panties.
Time passes … as if in a vacuum … we enjoy a handful more drinks … I chivalrously get her a few more cosmos … as we flirtatiously banter time away. Shortly it’s time to break the seal and go recycle some of the excessive booze I’ve consumed … I excuse myself to go empty the third leg.
As I relieve the pressure on my bladder … examining the posh facilities … and my mind racing with possibilities of what I’ve landed back at the table … I zip up as I hear the next alcohol recycler enter … and as turn … in a Vegas moment, Roxy has me thrown against the stall wall … pinned … as she starts exploring the healthiness of my tonsils with her tongue. Now the blood is rushing to my head … in more ways than one … holy fucking shit … this never happens on Wicked Wednesday … actually to be fair never happens on Thirsty Thursday or Freaky Friday either.
Millions of neurotic transmissions rush through my body and brain … thought processes reach overload stage … maybe the red velvet panties descending down over her Choos would be the last dream sequence my brain would be able to process … as she hiked her skirt and thrust her hot smooth naked body against mine.
Not sure how or when my levis managed to find their way to the floor … but really didn’t care … as she whispered in my ear “I want you … to take me … right here … right now” … I’m thinking wow right here in the lavatory facilities of my favorite watering hole … then I right justify by convincing myself … well it is my home away from home … so I guess why the fuck not … what kind of host doesn’t accommodate to make his guests feel welcome.
As she gyrates on my manhood … and I give her my best deep dickin’ … she leans way back as the limbering lust antics reach a horizontal stretch across the cold tile floor … I am so lost in the moment … I don’t see her reach back into her Versace handbag … in one sling forward thrust there is a silver revolver to my temple as I am almost tickling her tonsils from the backside she whispers in my ear again “one of us is going to shoot our load … it better be you” …
… Up until this moment I was giving her my best … as if to fuck her for all of mankind like I’m the last man-try before she goes over to the other team of girl scout eating brownies, damn carpet munchers!
This sudden urgency of the thrill ride … while uniquely captivating … has all cylinders of both halves of my brain pumping like pistons in an alcohol-burning-funny car at the Raceway Park drag strip. Hoping not to throw a rod … or crash and burn with possible dismemberment or death … all engines forward at full speed … take this quarter-mile ride like it could be my last.
As I race fast and hard … while still maintaining as much control as possible under the extreme conditions … the finish line in site … hand on the parachute release lever … the whole thing starts to rumble …shake … and rev out of control … I think she’s going to explode … all of a sudden at redline … she reaches to the sky and fires the silver revolver into the wall as I’m unloading my man spunk into her junk … then some more all over her trunk … “Yippie-Ka-Ye Mother Fucker!” I shout … holy fucking shit … what a ride.
… as Roxy disembarks the “free-fall / drop-zone” ride she excuses herself to the adjoining ladies lavatory to freshen up … which allows me to try and regain some composure … and grasp the last 10 minutes of my life … replaying through my mind in flashback slow-motion like the Zapruder Film over and over … reviewing my grassy knoll surroundings I find the hole created in the wall by the timely magic bullet.
… a couple of minutes pass … and I exit the men’s room depository … seeking the casualty of my man-shot … hey it was shoot or be shot … I return to the dim-lit corner lounge couch … not sure what’s next. No Roxy … she must be still in the powder room … re-primping. … time passes … seems to stand still as I await her return … about 10 minutes later … still no Roxy. The bar maiden approaches with a fresh beer … as she places it on the table it is accompanied by a handwritten note on a napkin … simply stated it reads … “Thanks … sorry … thanks again … Jenny… 867-5309 … this rounds on me … lol …XOXO…”
Wicked Wednesday will never be the same again … but every hump day I return to Red Lounge … dreaming of the lady in red velvet panties with the silver revolver.