Cocktales

by K. S. Adkins

  Copyright © 2019 K.S. ADKINS

  Published by K.S. Adkins

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: K.S. Adkins 2019

  Edited by Brenda Wright

  Cover Designed by: Just Write. Creations

  Formatted by: Brenda Wright – Formatting Done Wright

  The Detroit After Dark Series

  Brutal

  Brawler

  Berserk

  Ballistic

  8 Mile & Rion

  Convincing Bet

  Mercy F*ck

  When Time Stood Still

  Annoying Pest

  Juggernaut

  Liquid Courage

  The Middle Man

  Hormotional

  The Divorce Diet

  Motown Throwdown (Motown Down, #1)

  Motown Showdown (Motown Down, #2)

  Motown Takedown (Motown Down, #3)

  Motown Breakdown (Motown Down, #4 & 5)

  Table of Contents

  Other Works by KS Adkins

  Cocktales Pt 1

  Cocktales Pt 2

  Cocktales Pt 3

  Cocktales Pt 4

  Cocktales Pt 5

  Cocktales Pt 6

  Cocktales Pt 7

  Cocktales Pt 8

  Cocktales The Finale

  Playlist

  About KS Adkins

  To all my girls,

  Cocktales wouldn't have been possible without your

  cough-sexcapades-cough.

  Love you, mean it,

  KS

  I couldn't stop staring at it.

  It's like my eyes were glued to it.

  And no matter which angle I titled my head or the mirror, the view never improved.

  Grabbing my phone, I snap a photo because I needed proof.

  Because this shit was not be believed.

  When did this happen?

  How did this happen?

  Oh right, shaving.

  Flinging my phone, dropping the mirror and dramatically rolling to my back, I let the inevitable tears fall. Even as my fingers begin their usual dance, I am totally out of synch.

  Why?

  Because now I had a visual.

  Why did I look? Why!

  Like I had a choice, I tell myself.

  You get a bump, you investigate. Because you can't be too careful.

  But a massive ingrown hair on my swollen pussy lip?

  One I couldn't even reach to pop myself?

  Then I looked.

  I mean, I really looked.

  Like spread myself wide open and looked.

  And all I could think was, I didn't order roast beef!

  I've traumatized my own damn self...

  “Who cries while masturbating?” I sniffle, rubbing my red rimmed eyes, not my swollen clit with a massive ingrown hair, also ignoring the snot bubble begging to burst from my nose.

  I wish that was the worst of my present issues when sadly, it was just the tip of the 'Welcome to your thirties-hope you like elastic and cotton' block party.

  Given my current state of affairs, all I could do was pathetically mumble, ”Hello bottom, meet rock,” to an empty room while ripping the cork out of my wine bottle with my teeth.

  An art really...

  Which from there I proceed to chug it wondering when I went from loving myself to not even able to tease my own bean without tears being shed.

  I mean, in this case, it actually hurt to do so.

  And for the record, until very recently, like right now, I loved pleasuring myself. This was something I did often. When all one needed was some male-on-male free porn and a strong working hand to get it done, it got done.

  Except tonight, when finding that damn ingrown hair grossed me right the fuck out.

  Plus, it had a pulse.

  A pussy pulse.

  Now I was obsessed with popping what I couldn't see nor reach without technology or a really open-minded friend and wishing I'd bought more wine.

  Tonight's meltdown isn't my norm.

  Let me assure you of that.

  It's just I was already half in the bag when I felt it and once I saw it, I sort of lost my shit for a minute.

  The only reason I ever want to wince sitting down is because I had been aggressively cuddled.

  Not because of a damn ingrown hair.

  So please don't judge me.

  I promise, I'm the epitome of off the chain.

  Ask my mom, she'll tell you that I'm all kinds of awesome.

  Outspoken, curious, and not easily offended.

  If it’s on my mind, I speak it. If it peaks my curiosity, I research it. If it offends me, odds are, I’ll come back for more of it. Oh, and if I'm attracted to it, I'll hump it. I'm a woman who appreciates her life and the direction it's headed in. Most days I have no complaints, some days I do.

  Hello, I'm human and I have a goiter on my crotch.

  But overall, I'm just happy to be here.

  However, I've always been different.

  Artistic and curious, opinionated and extremely free spirited.

  A loner by nature, a dreamer by design.

  Always lost in thought, I never took the time to make lasting girlfriends.

  Which I was okay with because around seventeen, I found out sex was better than female back stabbers and stuck with honing my craft of boning.

  But in my heart, I was an adventurer.

  A traveler.

  Only it took a nice bankroll to travel abroad and to date, the farthest I've gotten was Arizona to see my Aunt Beatrice on my father’s side. I only lasted two days before she declared Satan birthed me and sent my ass home.

  PS: Beatrice was a bitch

  Yes, I have big hopes, bigger dreams and also a shitload of debt.

  But I was no quitter.

  Things were going to happen for me, I could feel it.

  So I do what I can on a budget, living life to the fullest state side.

  At least, for now.

  I still dreamt of a future free of office hours and deadlines. I refused to settle for anything less.

  This was a dream I would never let die.

  Because if I did, I would lose the very essence of what made me-me.

  Speaking of me, I wasn't a fan of public opinion.

  Listen, I wasn't cut or lean. Far from it.

  I ate, I drank, I had a belly that jiggled and thighs with cellulite. I was allergic to most exercise and didn't drink nearly enough water. I did have great tits and a fairly large ass and couldn't give a single shit about #fitlife videos on Instagram.

  I loved food, booze, and me and it showed.

  It also got me laid.

  Quite often, actually.

  Most men I've met loved a confident woman and didn't find themselves hung-up on the insecurities I wanted to obsess over. Well into my twenties, I embraced my feminine wiles and have been sowing my oats, giving z
ero fucks about opinions ever since.

  Though recently I have realized that I had become a smidge jaded.

  There was a slight chance it was because life was/is imitating art. Okay no, there wasn't a slight chance. That's exactly what was happening and I had to snap out of it.

  I wasn’t the woman who swooned or played incompetent for the sake of a man's ego. I was the woman who didn’t return phone calls, stayed the night, or faked my orgasm. Nor was I looking for a boyfriend.

  I kept it one-hundred with any man I met.

  Always.

  Basically, I avoided commitment and everything it stood for.

  Let me be real clear about that.

  And...this is where being jaded came into play.

  Let's take it back to college where my obsession with the O Face began.

  While most students attended school with the intent to graduate, I stayed in school to master my own orgasm. Believe me, looking back, college probably wasn't the place to do the searching for that beautiful, sometimes, unattainable thing. Or as I call it, the Holy Wail. But it was and I did.

  Money well spent too.

  Anyway, during those formidable years I learned a lot.

  About men, about sex, about myself.

  The moral of that story is I fell in lust with orgasms.

  His, mine, ours.

  Exactly two years ago, I published an article on my blog, it went viral and I accidentally made myself a career out of writing about it.

  Discussing orgasm was a niche I capitalized on and let's face it, what an amazing topic to explore, am I right?

  See, I wasn't just a would-be adventurer, I was also a writer and my blog prior to my O Face success is called, Dating Diva.

  Before all things O gained attention, I sold blog pieces to the Detroit Weekly to make ends meet. The editor had read my work, was a fan and offered me a position on staff, as a columnist.

  FYI: being disgustingly honest about the singles’ scene and sex faces made you money. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a man basher. Far from it. In fact, I was an equal opportunity sexhole. I called everyone out, especially myself. I also gave detailed accounts of my conquests on my personal column adorably called, you guessed it The O Face.

  The public, they loved it.

  In my column, I covered everything sexual, leaving nothing off the table. But the O face was a subject that never lost steam, simply because people liked getting off.

  As both gained momentum, so did the frequency in which I needed to create new material. Listen, I love sex but no one copulates that much without consequences.

  Not even me.

  Therefore, the constant need for supply and demand has burnt me out.

  Rather quickly, too.

  My followers don’t know I was tired of O'ing for relevance. In their eyes, I probably have a dream gig. I may consider myself the world’s best blowfessional but hey, even my jaw got sore. So the pressure to keep my bosses happy, the readers happy and myself a semi-functioning adult has become...challenging.

  Because the purpose of my writing was to let them know they weren't alone.

  That being single had its tough moments but that it also could be amazing.

  That it was lonely at times as a single. That parties you attended with no +1, holidays a constant reminder that you had no 'other' to buy a gift for. But then, you also had these a-ha moments that because you're single, not focused on someone else, that when you found out another truth about yourself, it's life changing. And you're grateful for it. So fucking grateful that it allows you to feel whole and normal for a while.

  For me, being single was a choice.

  The ultimate sheedom.

  Not that I'm suggesting being in a relationship is a trap, only that I haven't been in one long enough to form a solid opinion. Honestly, I've yet to meet anyone I want to spend a weekend with, let alone a lifetime.

  Therefore, I don't know what it's like to check in with someone, share responsibility, and just be...committed. All in. Cards on the table.

  But that didn't mean I wasn't on a first name basis with loneliness at times.

  When the bitch came crashing through the door, often I fought the battle and won.

  Just as many times as I had lost.

  But I wasn't giving up the fight.

  Knowing I couldn't bang every single man in the metropolitan area without serious damage to my love oven, I decided to change things up a bit. So six months ago, I started a monthly poll.

  I’d list four ideas and the idea with the most votes cast by readers promised a written, detailed account of my experience. This month’s piece was pole dancing. Not my thing per se, but my fans wanted my spin on it (insert pun) and I would not deny them this.

  Plus, the idea of sex right now left me dry.

  While I didn't offer dating advice because hello, single. I did spend my time and energy entertaining and giving hope to others through honesty and humor.

  I guess this explains why I'm four tissues deep with a killer wine buzz, a major pimple and no O.

  Alas, I am Dating Diva, welcome to the shit show.

  Now, excuse me while I pass out.

  A month ago, I found out that a woman bought the vacant house next door. As a single guy, naturally I was curious, but she was either a vampire or an investor because I never saw her. No lights left on, no car, no noise, nothing. Maybe she was a workaholic?

  As for me, I worked three twenty-four hour shifts and alternated weekends off. Although, in my line of work, I was also always on call which made dating difficult. Women as I found, don’t much care for you running out mid meal or in the middle of the night. They, of course assumed it was because I lost interest. Sometimes yes, I used work as a reason to bolt but there were times it was a real emergency. Firefighting in Detroit was a full-time job. I loved it, I was good at it, and I saved lives. But I wanted a wife, kids, the whole shot. And I wasn't getting any younger.

  The problem was you had women out there that made it impossible for guys like me get our foot in the door. Okay fine, one woman. But she had enough influence to be the god damn Chelsea Handler of the Metro Detroit singles scene.

  I'm not even kidding because around here?

  She was a local celebrity and women listened.

  Avidly.

  She is Detroit's own blogger, aptly called Dating Diva and she writes a column called, wait for it... The O Face.

  A buddy at work mentioned it to me about a year ago and I made the mistake of subscribing to it.

  At first I found it entertaining until it inevitably started pissing me off. Out of nowhere she managed to gain serious attention from the female population and my love life tanked.

  I've had it out for this anonymous woman ever since.

  Yet, as much as I despised what she wrote, I hated to admit that I was strangely fascinated with her too.

  There was no photo and her name wasn’t mentioned but she nailed many of the facets of life as a single. Unfortunately, she took her sexcapades too far, and while I agreed with some of it, the rest was bullshit designed for maximum click bait.

  Because of her, the last four dates I’ve been on were with women who tried to be her. They talked about her and idolized her. Hell, they even quoted her work.

  With every post she gained more fans, more fame and more hate from me.

  The power of social media made me sick.

  Sheep. All of them sheep.

  Then there was the monthly poll.

  The woman took it to the next level by having her fans choose what she would do next.

  She's already been painted naked, thrown a party at a strip club to celebrate herself, crashed a frat party, and camped nude.

  Seriously, the theme of this woman's life was nudity!

  I disgusted myself further by eagerly scrolling down the page to see what the next feat would be.

  And shocker...it was, pole dancing.

  At least for this she'd be partially dressed...

&
nbsp; So of course, I started looking into which studios were in my area. Pole dancing lost some of its luster a few years back so there couldn't be that many places that offered it.

  Plus, I knew she was local, a Detroit native, in fact. Everything she did was here, while she did disclose businesses (which of course had ads on her damn page) she did not use real names for anyone who had participated in her 'work'.

  When she went out on dates she blogged about them, in detail. Sometimes I laughed, others I cringed, but mostly, I saw her blog and column as the ultimate cockblock. No, it wasn’t her fault directly that I couldn’t get laid. But she wasn’t making it any easier on me either.

  However, this female gave other females ideas.

  Look, I was chivalrous. I opened doors, paid for meals and always wore a rubber.

  But since she came on the scene, women's already high standards sky rocketed.

  And average guys like me hit the proverbial wall.

  So imagine my surprise when my co-worker, Graham, found out from his girlfriend where her class was rumored to be.

  Across the street from the fire station.

  My fire station.

  Clicking on their website, I see they offer everything from Zumba, pounding (sounds kinky and right up her alley), to aerial acrobatics and you guessed it, pole dancing.

  Bingo!

  The studio opened two years ago and all this time I had no idea what went on inside.

  So yeah, I told the guys about the holy grail across the street and in an instant, morale improved. Women entering and exiting any building made a guy happy about going to work.

  Women entering and exiting that building to swing on a pole?

  Or maybe because fireman had something in common with the pole thing or maybe because a woman wrapped around anything is hot. But probably because I wanted a woman on my pole and I was willing to do just about anything (short of paying for it) to make it happen.