The wind was howling. The rain was sideways. Everyone was inside except for me. I was in my car waiting for Ariel. We were both costumed up. I dressed as a biker: leather jacket, gloves, black boots, the works. She came out of her front door as a Spanish madien. Decked in red, a hat with those tassles cocked on an angle. For a 34 year old wall victim, she looked good. Niagara Falls only has so much to offer a poor white boy.
The plan was to visit a bar neither of us had been to before. I chose Longshots OTB. A horse race betting bar in my neighborhood. As the rain killed visibility, we hydroplaned our way to the gravel driveway. She was nervous. She’s always nervous. We talked for a bit. I was getting IOIs left and right. More than the first time we met, minus the slut shield. Tonight would be a interesting night.
The second we walked through the door I was.transported into a sitcom. The room was intimidatingly tiny and yet 20 fat old dudes fit in it, several of them playing pool. The moment seemed to pass like hours. Every eye was on us, espically Ariel. The only chick in the room. I was freaking out in my head.
“Hello!” she said in her bad Spanish accent. The room returned the greeting.
I noticed there was another door and began to inch ourselves to it. In full character, she acted the part of a snob Spainard visiting “the natives”, as she called the group. They ate up every word.
The larger back area was deserted. Most tracks were closed due to Sandy’s wrath, but the old folks kept on hoping their pensions would double on a lucky number. We grabbed drinks and tried to find a spot that wasn’t being watched by a disapproving eye.
The next 10 minutes was quiet conversation about how creepy the entire place was. The whistles of angry wind in the backround added to the atmosphere. There was simply no way to redeem our chosen bar. If we stayed any longer we’d probably run out screaming.
Back into the fray, in our way to the (Carrion) Croft, she slid her hand over mine. After our shared experience her comfort level skyrocketed. I remained loose and calm through the storm.
The Croft was dead. We ordered drinks and she fit neatly onto my lap. Getting drunker, we talked. The more we told histories, the closer she got. Soon, my hand was between her legs, her voice inviting me home.
I left her place near 1am with a freshly blown dick and a large light of pride inside. Within a week, I had number 8. Today, she begs for my attention. Her hands tear at me. The hamster runs like a beast, but with all my practice I have this self-delusional hippy professing control one minute only to submit under me the next. And, most importantly, I’m having a lot of fun.
It won’t last. Her insecure hamster will eventually drive me off, as most do, but in the meantime I can declare that I’ve leveled up. No longer slump busting or barrel scraping, after a year and half of hard work, I’m picking and choosing. A place all men should aim for.