nobody asked…

CAUTION: This blog contains material that may not be suitable for young readers, old virgins, or CGHill. Parental, spousal, or therapist guidance is recommended.

She had the most beautiful smile. Large, perfectly formed pearly whites that spoke to me of laminates, flashed constantly from behind full pouty Angelina Jolie lips. This enchanting orifice was set into a somewhat attractive face, but one given a slightly hard edge from too many generations of marrying cousins in whatever mountain valley she called home.

It had started and would end like many other nights when Roomie is out to a writers’ critique group meeting and I, not craving last night’s leftovers, opt for attending services at one of several local sports bars I frequent. Sipping my Kendall Jackson, casually scanning my newspaper, and randomly glancing at one of the 6 TV screens placed strategically around the bar area, I kept hoping she would show again so that I could continue my studies in obsessive compulsive disorders. But that must have been a one-night stand, never to be repeated.

Somewhere between the Caesar salad and the chicken tenders, I became aware of the intense revelry from her booth, which was about twelve feet from my vantage point atop a bar stool at a tall bar table. The merrymaking grew louder with each trip of the wait-person to deliver another round of drinks. Until now, I had paid no attention to them, but had only noticed her, since she was … noticeable. It took a couple of milliseconds for me to decide that the scene in that booth deserved my attention more than reading ad nauseam the latest speculation about Barry Bonds using steroids and human growth hormones.

As my attention shifted, she was up on her knees in the booth, leaning over — way over — her guy and planting a long wet kiss that must have tickled his tonsils. Most of the bar patrons were now taking in the show. As she slowly straightened up and turned her upper body to face the other couple in the booth, the barometric pressure in the bar dropped as every male in the place suddenly inhaled. Her hip-hugger jeans — you know the kind, the ones with the 2″ fly — stopped far south of the tight little top, exposing a long stretch of perfectly shaped and deeply tanned midriff skin. The top had a plunging scoop that perfectly showcased two of nature’s most magnificent works. They could certainly serve as marketing material for modern medical enhancement products.

The object of her attention was a poster-child for bikers anonymous — shaved head, unshaved face, black muscle tee with some type of skull design, topped by an open front black leather vest. I mused about what significant attributes he brought to the party that interested her so. As another round of drinks arrived, I was flummoxed by his imbibing choice. Into what appeared to be a half-glass of bock beer, he dropped a jigger — glass and all — of some type of liquor, then chug-a-lugged the entire thing. Perhaps this is the new rage for a new age. Maybe it is the present Tennessee version of the old Pittsburgh shot and a beer. But whatever it was, it looked to me like a sure prescription for throwing up until dawn.

They continued the show for a while. Though my memory is sketchy, I think I was finally able to finish eating and pay my tab. As I was standing to leave, Bambi (I had decided somewhere in the middle of the third act that her name just had to be Bambi) sprang from her booth, followed by her entourage. I could have easily made a fool of myself when she was fully vertical — all 6′-4 or 5″ of her. About a foot away from me, I was eyeball to eyeball nipple with her magnificent silicone trophies. Right there — ripe for the picking or biting or nuzzling. My head was suddenly light, but fortunately I did not have all the jiggers of whatever in glasses of whatfor, so I somehow managed to maintain my cool detachment, drooled on myself only minimally, and remained conscious in spite of the rarity of the air and the breathtaking scenery.

The foursome preceded me out to the parking lot. This was the first time I had actually seen the couple from the other side of the booth. They appeared to be almost average, at least compared with Bambi and her biker. Opening my car door, I turned to have one more look. To my surprise and horror and glee, Bambi and the other woman left together, while the biker look-alike and his buddy headed off in a different direction. Things are not always what they appear to be…

But the night was still young…