In the bouncer side of my career it’s rarely a good idea to mix business with pleasure. For starters, it’s already fun. I get PAID to hang out in a bar working with friends and a random mix of other people I passionately tolerate who drift in and out of the joint. Our closing time tradition of shots and smokes on the roof is one of my favorite rituals. And every so often I get to slam a misbehaving dickhead against the wall and ban him for life.
“Don’t mix business with pleasure” translates to: “Goddammit Ed, don’t fuck the customers.”
Back when I was young, skinny, and tan I spent several summers working as a lifeguard. That was my first job that should have listed sexual mojo as a benefit. Teenage girls in bikinis threw themselves at me, and I was too young and horny not to do really stupid shit. That got me fired. And nearly arrested. The “don’t shit where you eat” principle is a wise one, but like all good lessons I have to keep learning it over and over.
Bouncers may not have Baywatch-level mojo, but we get some action. Unfortunately a lot of the gals who patronize our fine establishment are pretty well hammered halfway through the evening and don’t look my way until the third or fourth drink. Men of lower moral fiber might be less picky than yours truly, but a sloppy drunk who didn’t even look my way for 90 minutes and then suddenly thinks I’m a hot slab of man-meat after the third mojito doesn’t exactly butter my biscuits.
There’s a code in my town that bouncers who offer to drive a drunk girl home only to take advantage of her earn their punishment; they get the living shit kicked out of them before the cops are called. I have a friend whose girlfriend took a ride from my (second) job one night when she could barely keep her eyes open. She woke up (naked) to the snores of her “friend” (also naked) with zero memory of even getting in the car with him. The girl chose not to press charges—something I didn’t agree with but it’s her choice, not mine—but the offender moved out of state after healing from a bunch of mysterious injuries and learning he was barred from drinking at any joint in the county.
All that said, I’m not perfect and no one ever accused me of being overly smart. But karma just loves punishing me when I stray even slightly off the narrow path.
Let’s call her Helen, because she has the face that launches a thousand silent screams when I try to close my eyes and sleep. No, she’s no ugly—far from it. She was/is a tomboy in the best sense, a foul-mouthed whiskey-drinking rough-and-tumble kinda chick who wore jeans and jerseys, pony-tail through the baseball cap, dark brown eyes and a sly smile. Her body was thick but I always found her sexy, her loud voice and assertive attitude and “one of the boys” sense of humor made her a favorite patron.
I didn’t know her outside of work but I saw her often. Maybe five or so years my junior, she would try to shock me with dirty jokes or elbow me in the ribs when I was carrying an ice bucket for the bartender.
“Thanks, bitch!” I would say with a smile.
“You’re welcome, asshole!” she invariably answered with a grin, and her two front teeth had an adorable gap.
Helen loved fucking with me. I knew it was flirting, but it also went precisely nowhere. She was a customer and I was smarter than that.
One night she was complaining loudly about how “One of my tits is way bigger than the other. C’mere, Ed. Feel them!”
I gestured at the clock, as in I was on it, and shrugged helplessly. She was a customer, and I was smarter than that.
Another evening I felt the previously referenced tits press into my back and I was shocked-stiff (my spine, among other things) as Helen circled her arms around me. “Brandi doesn’t think I’m strong enough to pick you up.”
(She was strong enough to pick me up.) She was a customer, and I was smarter than that. Definitely.
Then there was that time she bit me, for no given reason other than, “I’ll be out of town this week, and I don’t want you forgetting about me.”
She. Was. A. Customer. And something-something-something. The purplish bruise was weirdly sexy as hell and I couldn’t stop looking at it all week long.
Some unspecified span of time later she was much quieter. Something was different. She sipped instead of slammed, kept looking out the window or staring blankly at an empty glass. I don’t know if she was sad or just distracted, but her energy was completely different.
“I’m gonna need a ride home tonight,” she said about an hour close. She was a customer.
“I need a man to kiss me.”
And I’m smar—
“I want it to be you.”
My mouth was suddenly dry. “I’ll give you a ride.”
I am an idiot.
The girl who usually swore like a sailor and belched in my face was suddenly soft and feminine. She flashed me shy smiles and sent me sideways glances like we were in Mrs. Emerson’s second period World History class. I was off balance and excited. Helen had nursed just a few drinks the entire evening, so I wasn’t going to Bouncer Hell for taking advantage of a drunk. She was a grown-ass woman, dammit, who wanted a ride home and a kiss and I was the man for the fucking job.
Apologies were offered for the dog-hair all over the passenger seat of my Jeep, but she didn’t care. A few times her hand rested on mine as I worked the gear shift. We circled around her apartment building and found a place to park, and I opened her door and assisted her out of the vehicle in as gallant and gentlemanly a manner as a man escorting a woman home from a dive-bar is capable.
We held hands as we walked through the parking lot. Moths danced in halos of light around the street lamps that kept the asphalt safely illuminated. It felt so sweet, like I was a teenager with a new driver’s license walking my girlfriend to the door.
It was time for the kiss. She had requested it, and I am not one to duck out on a verbal contract.
I cradled her face with one of my hands and leaned in slowly, bending down as Helen was quite a bit shorter than me. My lips met hers, and they were soft and moist. It was slow and delicious, our tongues barely touching as we got to know each other in that amazing dance that is the first kiss. My heart pounded in my chest.
I jolted in unexpected pain as she bit my lip. I instinctively tried to pull away in surprise, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me back in and planted it firmly on her ass.
“I want you,” Helen said. “To fuck me.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Shots!” she declared when we locked ourselves in the sanctity of her apartment. It was kind of filthy, so “sanctity” must be in the eye of the beholder. And the beholder was about to get laid. As a long-time bachelor I shouldn’t be one to judge, but Jesus Christ. Even in the dim lighting I could see bikini-cut panties with skid marks casually rumpled in a corner. Curdled milk from last Tuesday’s Cheerios sat in a bowl on a countertop.
This kind of thing doesn’t much bother me, because if you caught my pad on the wrong day it wouldn’t exactly pass the white-glove test, but I didn’t want it distracting me. Shots were a great idea.
I have no idea what brand of paint thinner she poured into tumblers that probably hadn’t been washed since President’s Day. But it tasted like no germs could survive that shit so bombs away. Helen poured and drank and made it clear it was my manly duty to keep up. I did, but I didn’t like it.
I excused myself to the bathroom.
I knew Helen was a hockey fan, and she would often come to the bar wearing her Red Wings jersey. #40 (Zetterberg) hung where a shower curtain should be, and the fact also explained why I had a hard time seeing my reflection in the mirror. Written over toothpaste dots and mysterious smudges was the entire Red Wings season schedule, including the final scores of games come and gone.
She was a displaced Yankee, born and raised in South Detroit. Does that explain why she’s a crass slob? (Answer: No.) I pissed in a toilet that needed CLR and 30 minutes of scrubbing, rinsed my hands off and rubbed them dry on my jeans because there was neither soap nor any breed of towel in the room. “Whatever,” I muttered at the reflection I couldn’t really see.
She was naked from the waist up when I returned, large-nippled breasts that impressively defied gravity for their size. Helen smiled like the cat who was just about to taste canary, and I can only imagine the appreciation for the view was written all over my big, dumb face.
She handed me another glass of industrial solvent and we crossed arms like newlyweds before slurping them down. My wet glass was yanked from my hand and then my shirt was yanked most of the way off, catching on my neck so that my inside-out shirt was dangling off my head in the manner of a limp wind-sock.
“FUCKING OWWW!” someone screamed. It was me, because Helen bit my nipple so damn hard I’m lucky I didn’t heal up looking like one of those centaurs in Fantasia. She giggled at my pain as I fumbled the shirt off my head.
Then she tackled me.
I’d like to think the goal was to get us both on the bed for some rowdy foreplay like in all the movies with passionate couples not afraid to get a little rough. But the bleach we’d consumed probably jacked up her aim, so instead only my shoulders hit the bed and I folded in half, a deck chair with a half naked woman on top of him.
This was not going well. But goddammit if I’m not tenacious. I stood, a little wobbly, and unbuttoned my Levi 501s, kicked off my boots, and peeled off my socks. Helen squealed with approval, and heaved onto her back and began wriggling out of her jeans. I went ahead and ditched the boxers, leaving me as naked as the day I was born—a very large and hairy baby attempting to enter a vagina instead of escape.
Helen was having trouble with her pants.
Chivalry wasn’t dead that evening, and I bent over and pulled on the ankle cuffs and relieved her of the denim burden. The crazy hockey fan just laughed, kicking her feet that had the most 1970s socks I’d ever seen, green stripes near her calfs, sweat stains below the ankle, and one big toe sticking through a strategic hole.
I helped her to her feet, and stepped back toward the bed, anticipating a second tackle attempt. This time it went more or less as expected, ending with me on my back and a cackling woman wearing nothing but a pair of granny panties and old socks straddling me. Her wavy hair was wild in the light of the street lamps spilling in from the huge street-level windows.
Jesus Christ, she didn’t have curtains or blinds or even a hint of common decency. If some poor bastard were to walk by on sidewalk, he’d be treated to the most hilarious porn ever offered for free.
I desperately tried to forget about the window as Helen’s mouth was on mine once again, plump breasts smashed against my chest and pantied pelvis grinding against mine. Kissing her was good, those slightly uneven tits were great, and this was an insane woman who wanted to fuck me and isn’t the kind of thing that letters to Penthouse‘s forum was just made for?
She grabbed my shoulders and pivoted, making it clear she wanted to roll us over. My arm groped for purchase to keep us from tumbling into that tiny space between the bed and the wall. Success! I kept my hand braced as Helen’s arms snaked around my neck and she attempted to slap my tonsils with her tongue.
The kiss was getting increasingly less sexy and my arm and shoulder were feeling the burn as I held half our weight aloft. “Hang on,” I grunted. I shimmied and shifted us away from the edge of the bed, and as it was not “made” in any traditional sense of the word a combination of dirty top-sheet and filthy comforter scrunched up around her body.
I felt a small hand grab my manhood, not gently.
“What the fuck?” Helen said. Disappointment and possibly disgust dripped in her voice like venom, my lack of firmness displeasing her. Defiantly, she shifted underneath me and pulled her panties off, and a quick glance revealed an untamed jungle. Her socks weren’t the only relic of the 1970s.
She kissed me with more tongue and less finesse than a junkyard dog while yanking on my dick. “C’mon…” she muttered. It sounded like someone late for work talking to an old car that wouldn’t start.
I decided to take some initiative, and started kissing her neck right under her earlobe. She wasn’t having any of it.
“Do you have a cock?” Helen asked, her voice not sexy but rather matter-of-fact.
“Mmmhmm” I murmured, my voice as sexy as I could manage. (Not very, probably.)
She yanked at the flaccid, uncooperative piece of skin. “Do you have a cock?!”
“You’ve got your hand on it!” I stared at her tits, because her face was a mask of disapproval.
Yank, yank. “DO YOU HAVE A COCK?!?” Her voice sounded less like a woman wanting to fuck, and more like Sergeant Slaughter.
I stammered something so stupid that I choose not to remember. She screamed at me, and I suddenly knew the humiliation of a cadet in basic training who pissed himself in front his squad.
Fuck this. I leapt to my feet, away from the bed, my limp dick flapping for anyone who might be watching through the giant window. I wanted to flee the room instantly, but being bare-ass naked meant an additional few minutes of humiliation as I reassembled with boxers, socks, jeans, t-shirt, flannel, keys, etc.—all while a hairy-bushed lunatic sneered at me from the bed.
“See you around,” I said and fled.
She laughed at my cowardly, impotent back. I wondered if it would be petty or prudent to add her to the ban-list at the bar. (No, I didn’t do it, and yes—I’ve seen her many times since. I just try not to make eye contact. Fuck.)
My face was still a blazing crimson when I saw it in the mirror of my Jeep, waiting for the exit gate to open from the apartment complex. If a bomb were about to destroy the building I’d be less eager to get the hell away.
Karma may be a bitch, but I bet she at least keeps that shit trimmed.