by Abbey Foxx
Short trousers and bow tie is called Martin, and he’s a photographer, which is basically hipster speak for someone that does fuck all while Mommy and Daddy top up the trust fund.
He’s not ugly either, just sort of put together without much care. If he dropped the whole fashion act and caught me off guard in the darkened corner of a sweaty club, I might even find myself interested, but here, in the artificially lit corner of a trendy bar, I’d rather be anywhere else.
I could be watching literally any sport at home, tough powerful men fighting hard to win at all costs, but no, instead I’m being a good friend, jeopardizing my future career and working hard to keep myself interested in what Martin has to say, none of which is in the least bit interesting.
At least April looks like she’s having a good time. I expect Cory will be the latest in a long line of notches before she gets bored and wants to try something else of exactly the same flavor at which point Cory will get tossed out, and I’ll be asked to fill my role again as wing girl. It kind of happens in monthly cycles when she hooks up with someone, even less when she doesn’t get lucky. Cory looks like he might be one of the getting lucky ones.
“You want another drink?” Martin shouts to me over the tinny repetitive music nodding down to the empty jam jar I’ve been jabbing at with a straw for the last five minutes.
Although delicious, twelve bucks seems like an extravagance I’m not keen to repeat just yet.
“I’m good actually, I was thinking of maybe just heading home”, I shout back.
“What?” April complains. “We’ve only just got here.”
“One more?” Martin suggests.
April gives me another set of eyes from her creative lock up. These ones are designed to make me feel guilty for even considering ducking out so soon. I call them her stabby eyes.
“I thought we could go dancing”, Cory says. “There’s a fucking cool new squat club just opened up in Flatbush we could check out.”
I’m not going across to Brooklyn, even if you got me a taxi. “Cool”, I say.
“Or, I don’t know, there’s plenty going on in the village”, Cory adds.
“Let’s have another one here and then we can decide”, I say. “But beer this time.”
“Yay, Izzy.”
Martin goes to the bar and comes back with another fucking cocktail for me. When I look at him with eyes I’ve borrowed from April that are so well formed he knows exactly what I mean without me actually having to say it, he quickly rushes to explain himself.
“I’ll get it if you’re worried about the money.”
“It’s not the money-”, I begin, but I can’t even be bothered to finish. It’s everything about this bullshit place.
Martin tells me about his work, a story that goes on for so long, that when he’s finally finished, and I still have no idea what the hell deep emotion he’s trying to capture with his latest project, April and Cory have already made out several times.
April moves fast when she’s a little buzzed, and right now, it looks like she’s ready to move on to the next stage.
“What?” she says when Cory and Martin go out to smoke and I give her a full on glance that can’t be interpreted in any other way.
“Having a good time?” I ask.
“He’s perfect.”
“That’s what you said about the last conveyer belt hipster.”
“How are you getting on with Martin?”
“I think I’m going to go home”, I say.
“Oh come on, Izzy. Stay just for a little bit longer.”
“Are you going home with him?” I ask.
“I might have to if you leave me.”
“I don’t know, it’s getting late, I don’t want to have to walk and these cocktails are way out of my budget.”
“Just get Martin to pay. I think he likes you”, she says.
That becomes all too clear when I agree to stay for one more drink if we change bar, and maybe sensing his time running out, Martin decides to put his moves on me. Moves in the form of reaching out to hold my hand. None of the textbook macho alpha-male shit that would have me swooning, but a graceful egalitarian, entirely respectful attempt to hold my hand while we are walking down the street that grosses me out and sends shivers up and down my spine. Seriously, if there is one thing I hate, it’s lovey-dovey, romantic bullshit, especially as a first pass. Give me direct, no bullshit, straight to the point, deep and dirty, back-alley-fuck any day over this soppy shit.
I snap my hand away as soon as I feel his there, perhaps a little bit too harshly and Martin immediately knows he’s overstepped the mark. Maybe this kind of approach usually work for him, but on me, it’s not going to wash at all. Cory may be getting balls-deep tonight, but Martin, I’m afraid, is going home alone.
“I’ve changed my mind”, I say.
“Iz”, April complains.
“You guys carry on, I’m not really feeling it.”
If April is still worried about getting raped, she shouldn’t be. Cory and Martin are probably just as likely a target.
I’ve done more than I needed to do, so there is no way I’m going to feel guilty about checking out early. This wasn’t even my thing anyway and it’s not like April hasn’t already done what she needed to do. If she’s already hooked up, my role as a wing girl is automatically redundant.
“Can I call you?” Martin asks and it almost makes me laugh.
He gives me the we’ve had a good connection bullshit talk, and it makes me feel unnecessarily uncomfortable. I tell him I’m not really into dating at the moment and it seems to do the job.
April gives me her sad what’s Martin going to do now he’s a spare wheel eyes, but right now it isn’t going to work. When she realizes that, she gives me a hug and then puts on her get home without getting raped if you really can’t stay eyes, and finally I’m given the all-clear to go home.
To be honest, I’m not all that sure I want to go home straight away. I can’t cope with any more insufferable bullshit from Martin, and April and Cory are too busy sucking face for me to want to stay with them, but now that I’m out and I’m not going to get any work done anyway, I figure I’ll walk towards the apartment and stop somewhere along the way if it appeals to me.
The truth is, and April’s right about this, I haven’t been laid for an embarrassingly long time, and ever since I got the call for the interview with the Rangers I’ve barely been out of the house for studying.
One beer isn’t going to hurt. You never know, I might even meet someone that wears the right sized jeans for once.
Rory
Three bars already and nothing. What is it with women here? You tell them they’re beautiful and they think you’re either crazy or some kind of dirty pervert. The kind of stuff I want to do to some of them is obviously filthy, but I’m a man, and that just runs in our blood. I’m hot-headed, red-blooded and masculine to the core, but I’m never disrespectful. I’d never treat a girl badly, and I wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want or agree to first. I just want to have a bit of fun, that’s all, but everyone here seems way too serious. To be honest, right now I’d even settle for a little bit of conversation with the right girl.
I’ve spent this whole week on my own, bar the odd few words exchanged here and there with people serving me drinks, or girls refusing my advances, and I’d kind of like just a bit of old fashioned banter before I have to fly back home, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere after.
There’s nothing wrong with a bit of flirting, but I think as soon as it’s clear I’m doing that people start to get offended and worried I’m going to grab them while they’re not looking. It’s crazy because I’m the kind of guys that always asks first.
This bar’s alright, but there isn’t much in the way of options. I came in because it looked smart enough from the outside but not too wanky to make me feel well out of my comfort zone. I earn a decent whack, but that doesn’t mean I want to piss it all away over forty dollar cocktails. Give me
a good pint of Guinness any day of the week.
Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. Maybe all the loose woman are draped all over the posh bars waiting for rich men to come in and spoil them, while all the real men are here, and none of the girls want to put out.
I’m about to give up entirely and head on home when I see what could be the final possibility of the night stride confidently into the bar.
I almost don’t go over at all. I wait to see if there is anyone about to join her, and then I wait to see what she orders and then I almost pussy out because I’m sick of getting rejected, and anyway, she looks like she wants to be on her own.
In fact, when she’s halfway through her pint and someone else from the bar goes over tries it on and fails spectacularly, I figure she’s probably going to be a harder nut to crack than anyone else I’ve already tried this week.
The problem, however, is two-fold. I haven’t seen anyone as beautiful all week, and if there is anyone who likes a challenge, it’s me.
I can’t let this one go. She’s so fucking sexy, I’d be kicking myself for the rest of my life. We don’t get girls like this in Ireland. We get echoes of girls like this, but nothing that comes anywhere near. I’m not convinced that American women, in general, are all that attractive, but this one, she’s like a fallen fucking angel. I can picture us both going at in now, and the image is making me salivate.
She’s not looked over this way once either. Didn’t clock me when she walked in, so has no idea what she might be missing out on.
I can’t be responsible for that. If she turns me down, fine, but if she hasn’t seen me, that’s just not fair.
I wait until she’s almost finished her pint and then I head over. If we’re going to make a quick exit, I want to make sure she’s ready, if she needs a bit of convincing first, better that I get a full pints worth of time with her.
At the bar, I sit alongside her without saying anything at all first. I want her to get a good look at my dimensions, at my size, the muscles on my arms, my tattoos, just to get an idea of what’s she’s working with. If she doesn’t leave I know she won’t mind me talking to her, if she does, I’ll know I won’t even have to bother chasing.
Even sat down I can tell she’s small. Small girls are fun when you can throw them around.
Without even turning to her I say.
“Are you a modern girl who doesn’t like fucking, or are you a real girl who likes real men?”
There is a moment of silence while she gives me the once over. It lasts long enough for me to think she’s about to leave. It’s not the approach I always take, but for what I want to do, it’ll cut through the bullshit and get straight to the point. If she’s keen I’ll soon know it. If she’s one of these girls that gets easily offended, I’ll get a drink thrown into my face.
I’m aware I can be a little intimidating, but I’m not the kind of guy to push it if I get any kind of sign she’s not on the same wavelength.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her finish her pint and then spin the bar stool around so she’s facing the exit.
I feel like I’m about to watch her march away when she turns to me, claps beautiful brown eyes on mine and says challengingly, without a single falter in her voice, “Show me a real man and I’ll tell you.”
Izzy
This is not the kind of thing I do, not because I’ve never wanted to, but because these are the kinds of things that don’t happen in real life. What I was talking about earlier, that idea of a macho man showing me exactly what he wants to do to me, that kind of thing belongs between the pages of a book, the seedy screens of a late night cinema, the corners of filthy minds and yet, here I am, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway off a busy street in the lower east side, a dumpster the only thing blocking our bodies from view.
I’m not looking for a casual hookup, but when something so irresistible presents itself, what else am I meant to do, but welcome it with open legs and arms?
Finally a real man. More than that, a fucking sports star. Tattoos, muscles, a mouth as filthy as his mind, and a dick as big as a baby’s arm. No pleasantries now either, no beating around the fucking hipster bush. No hiding what we want from each other and no stopping it once it’s started.
I waste no time in pulling those properly fitted jeans down to slide it out, into my hands momentarily just to gauge the not insubstantial heft and weight of it, and then towards me purposefully, my panties already torn away, my pussy so wet I can feel my juices seeping down my leg.
I’ve never done anything like this before and it’s making me super fucking horny. I’m not the only one. He’s so hard and so eager to get up inside me, I wonder who’s going to last longest before they come.
I want his cock so deep I can taste him. I want to feel his weight slam me against the wall and his balls make bruises on my pussy lips I’ll be able to feel for weeks. More than that, I want this to be over in seconds and the sensation to last for an eternity. A quick, dirty fuck neither one of us will ever forget.
Rory the Irish sports star and Izzy the homegrown slut filled to the brim with his hot dirty cum.
My clit is so swollen it looks like the tip of a thumb. I don’t even need to pull the skin back around to expose it because his cock is so big and so potent that every time he slams it inside me, I get stretched to my full extent.
I’m already on the edge and moaning hard, my legs tight around his back to lock my body in place, a receptacle for him to fuck.
Rory is every bit as virile as he promises, every bit as dirty. I grab his arms, his chest, put my hands around his neck, and beg him to do the same to me. I force myself onto him and scream as he works his way up inside me, pushing buttons I never even knew existed.
I feel lightning bolts explode out across my skin, I feel a heat rise from deep within my pussy and burn my insides all the way to where he has his hand around my neck and I feel pleasure descend on me I’ve never before experienced.
I spend two hours with Martin and I want to go home, I spend ten seconds with Rory and I’m enjoying the best fuck of my life in an east side back alley surrounded by filth.
He doesn’t know anything about me but my name and he’s making me feel like nobody else on this earth ever has, or perhaps has the ability to. My pussy aches and tingles and my clit throbs at the edge of an almighty orgasm and still Rory pumps away like an animal in heat, so hard I feel like I’m going to explode.
I’m coming before I can stop it. If I wasn’t holding on to him with everything I’ve got, I’d go weak at the knees and tumble to the ground. As it is, I can’t help but scream loudly, fold myself into him and hold on for the ride. I’ve got goose pimples all over my arms and legs as I come hard, my teeth gritted, my pussy spasming uncontrollably around his cock and my clit pulsing like a ship's beacon.
Still unable to catch my breath, my skin sweaty and my heart racing, I feel Rory’s balls tighten up against me, his cock head swell even bigger and bury itself as deep as it can physically go inside me.
I’m flat against the wall, my pussy stretched wide around his huge cock, a band of frothy cum marking the base enough to make me want nothing more than for him to fill me full of the rest of his seed at whatever cost.
I want him to debase me like an animal. I want him to make me his. I want him to show me how much he can’t resist me and fill me right to the brim.
Rory grunts, and snarls, and grits his teeth. His breathing lilts and falls again, and all the muscles in his body tense.
And then finally, when he’s held on enough and can’t hold back any longer, he lets out a deep guttural moan of desire and emphatically lets himself go.
With one thick arm underneath me and the other to the side, with a look that tells me he owns me, unequivocally, for now, and forever, he bucks, writhes, and orgasms hard, his hot sticky cum exploding deep down inside me.
I come again, hard, unable to hold back, my pussy exploding in spasms of pleasure.
I come so hard t
hat I never want him to leave me, and when he slides his still erect cock out of me, sticky with a mixture of both of our juices and eases me back to the ground, I almost beg him to put himself back up inside me.
I don’t. Instead, I pull my skirt back down over my pussy, remove my dirty panties from where they fell to the floor, ball them up and throw them in the dumpster, and reluctantly accept that the moment is over.
I feel hot and dirty, and while I stand there awkwardly waiting to work out what I’m going to do next, I can feel Rory’s cum ooze out of my pussy hole and weep delightfully down my leg.
“Real girl”, Rory says. “I like that.”
I shrug, already a little embarrassed at what I’ve done, maybe even regretting it.
Rory tucks his barely softened dick away and begins to readjust his belt.
“If I’d found you last week we could have done that way more often”, he says.
I’d already guessed he might be, but I suppose this actually confirms it. “Going somewhere so soon?” I ask.
“Holiday romance”, he says with a hint of disappointment.
“Then I’m glad to be of service”, I say.
“Albeit temporarily.”
I get one last look at those incredible eyes, one last touch of those rock hard biceps. No point in exchanging numbers no matter how perfect he is. The Atlantic ocean is way too much of a commute, even for perfection like that, and come Monday, if I nail this interview, I’ll have my pick of the Rangers front row. As good as that sex was, as fucking incredible, I know there will be more. I know there will be others even better than Rory.
“Don’t I get a goodbye kiss?” he calls after me when I’m halfway back to the main street, his pants not even done up yet, his belt not even cinched across, his beast barely back asleep.
“I’ll give it to you when I see you next. You look like the kind of person who’s more than happy to wait.”
I don’t even turn around to look at his expression, which I know from the short time we’ve spent together will be one of subtle appreciation. As far as I’m concerned that was a one-off. An unbelievable one but a one off nonetheless. I walk home smiling, my belly warm, my pussy hot, his seed sticky inside me.