Oh, the hilarity.

It was a bright autumn night. I could feel the future frost in my veins, bright dots of silver running down my sides. The air was crisp, but not too cold. My dark denim jacket kept out any little chills. I was wearing my gear; plaid skirt, square-toed boots, tight t-shirt. DC was all red and gold, and I was its accessory.

The bar was only half-full, Wednesday nights are slow after 11. I ordered a Kamikaze, lit a cigarette, and waited.

Soon enough you played your hand. I could hear the pitch of your voice slowly rise, floating out of the cluster of your friends at the table in the corner. Oh yeah, you'd seen me. You were peacocking a bit now, moving so you were in my line of sight, hoping for a glance. You were tall-ish, just breaking 6 feet, with a rangy little frame. You had your gear on too, black leather car coat, your Yankees cap.

After watching your antics for a while, I gave you what you'd been wanting; just a quick low glance. Like a shot, you were striding over almost before I'd looked away. You invited me over; I politely declined. You rattled off a string of witticisms, encouraged by my slight smile. I had to struggle to prevent it from becoming a smirk. Your kind is always persistent.

You helped yourself to a seat, and I didn't object. The onslaught of subtle complements and innuendos began. I'd chosen well; you were typical in almost every way. I was gently encouraging, with a smattering of disapproval. Just a bit for spice. Your friends watched and chuckled as I carefully humiliated you - sending you back to the bar with drinks you'd paid for because they didn't satisfy me, casually scoping out other men.

Finally your courage swelled and you asked me if, "I wanted to get outta here." Obviously a momentous gamble on your part. I delighted at the stupid triumph in your eyes when I said yes.

The rest is so much pointless detail; the drive to your apartment, the sports posters in your living room, an eternity of fumbling on your couch. I wouldn't let you find your rhythm, giving you an inch with a quiet moan, taking it back with a frustrated sigh. My message was getting through; you knew you weren't reaching me. At last on my hands and knees I could grin at your grunting stupidity.

Finally, the end came. With a crescendo of huffing, the hands around my waist tightened. With a final gasp, you fell away from me, your pretty mouth wide with air. I reached for my panties.

Your timing was perfect, now with the soft underbelly of your ego exposed. "I'll call you," you said. I finished pulling on my shirt, zipped up my boots, and looked at you.

Your blue eyes were wide and without understanding, your hair was unflatteringly mussed. I looked over at your desk, where I'd earlier scrawled my "phone number". (301) 382-5633. I doubted you'd get it. When I looked back at you, the expression of mixed confusion and apprehension on your face was too much - perhaps you suspected I wanted a "commitment"?

My self-control shattered like a wine glass. I laughed. Peals and peals of laughter spilled out of me. Your half heard questions only fanned the flames of my mirth. It was too much for me, I had to drive it home for you. I raised my finger and pointed to your naked form. "You! You!" my finger said, while my echoing laughter illuminated your idiocy.

As the emotion in your eyes gelled, I shrugged into my jacket and strode out your door. You should have known better than to think you could touch me.

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