You women are dangerous.
Sitting here at my new recent watering hole-the one populated by the hipsters of Minneapolis. It’s also, conveniently, the closest late night bar to my lonely, basement, studio apartment in Uptown.
I happen to enjoy these dive bars, a lot.
This city is filled with people that feel the same way apparently. We’re all fairly close in ages, at least physically, most of us in our mid 20’s to late 30’s.
You know, this place isn’t your average dive bar, just based off the quality of women that hang here alone. The low burning neon lights and cheap whiskey drinks usually encourage conversation while masking the attractive attributes your bar-stool mate is lacking.
Sometimes, I wish they’d turn the lights up in this place so I could see each one of your beautiful faces. Though, I’d never truly wish that. If they turned the lights up, the evidence of what those cheap whiskey drinks really lead to would becum far more apparent.
I’m guilty of leaving a mark or two with a lady or two here.
Often this is the last, or first and only, stop when out with a gal on the town. It’s so close to home, to a warm bed, to a private place for us to mix weed with that whiskey, and it sits only blocks away.
Sometimes those drinks have driven us so near the edge of desire at a booth, that there’s no sense in waiting.
We’ll go for a smoke and savagely swap spit on the end of the ramp attached to the patio
Pull at each other lustfully walking past the pool table back to the booth.
She’ll grab me closer, right there at this booth, and shove my hand down her pants, all the while strangers continue to carelessly sip suds in the booth next to us.
Eventually she’ll drag me to the bathroom stall where we’ll fuck and undoubtedly someone will walk in and make eye contact with her as she’s propped up on the toilet seat, drunk and unable to hold back her moans.
Not sure which piece of the pie drives the math, but the equation is nearly perfect, every time.
I’m not great with numbers, but we’ll always reach the sum.