The bar

Charlotte has an orgasm in a bar. And on the street. And a whole lot more on my face.

I visit the bar. It’s not the same.

Sometimes I manage to convince myself I’m being rejected, even when I’m getting what I want.

The woman next to me at the bar.

We make eye contact. Quizzical, her eyebrows rise. Who are these people?

A gorgeous, inscrutable server….

I sat at the bar. Ten seats away sat a woman with whom I had made out, one time. I hadn’t seen her in the months since that one time. Several men surrounded her, clamoring for her attention. Jealousy surged…

What am I writing? Wouldn’t you like to know….

I sat at the bar. It had been a long day. As I wrote in my notebook, the Olympics silently on the TV above my head, a beautiful woman, 25 or so, sat to my right. She seemed to know…

A beautiful, open, flirty bartender confesses to me that she’s never tasted her own – or any – pussy. I’m floored.