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Whether we like it or not, we’re labeled. Sure, we all have our individual names, personalities, and peeves, but we all fit into those little groups that society uses to define us.
MILF, Douche, Prissy, Ghetto, Nerd, That guy/girl. Like the skin of a snake, we eventually grow out of our former identities, some into different persona, others into the same one, intensified. This is the story of two identities that would never cross paths on a normal day. Their names aren’t important because in the end, those will be forgotten anyway.
DOM pushed his way past the group blocking the entrance, squeezing past the cigarette machine, towards the bar, signaling the bartender with two fingers. Ordering a shot and beer back, he turned to the crowd. It was college night, even though the closest campus was almost fifty miles away. The music pumped the groups of party people into a dancing frenzy, elbows and hair flying all over the place. Getting his drinks, he tipped his thanks with a large bill and slugged the 1850 down in a hurry. Letting the burn grasp his throat for awhile before cooling it off with a Corona, he surveyed the territory for suitable prey.
There were women in here old enough to be his niece, if he had them. Whoever said 40 is the new 20 was probably just like him, desperate that he’s missing out on the new era of free love. His competitors had him beat in most areas. He was four cans short of a six pack, a few strands short of comb over, and his style and culture was left in the eighties, before most of these girls sprouted their first set of buds or earned enough money to buy them. He took another swallow from his bottle and tried to look confident, but it was clear that he was out of sorts.
To him, Ed Hardy was the guy in his Civics class he use to pick on, he wore his pants up over his ass, and still had more briefs than boxers in his dresser drawer.
These were not females he grew up with. They were bold, fast, and had more balls than most of the men. There were some in the herd that still held onto moral anchors, but the rest were anything goes types. This was a new breed: trisexuals. They would try anything once, twice, or thrice without any thought or consequence. Even dyed in the wool lesbians weren’t above taking a dick in the mix if the mood were right. This was the pro leagues and DOM, unbeknown to him, got moved down to single A ball. He did a double take at a black-haired pixie, her arms slathered with a tattooed amalgam of color. If not mistaken, he masturbated to her antics the other night, as she straddled a monstrous dildo on web cam.
He became the DOM, when the eyes of the coeds twinkled in amusement at his failing pickup lines and out of sync topics. He was a heterosexual version of Herbert the Pervert, chasing the young tail. Even though he didn’t wear the raincoat in a dark theater or drive a white van, looking for hitchers, he was a Dirty Old Man. He was more worried about his stocks in this economic downturn than the red carpet antics of Kim Kardashian. Every once in a while he would strike hook-up gold, taking home a supple piece for the night. He would tire of them after the first nut, the fake dirty talk and over the top orgasms, thankful when they made up an excuse to depart in the morning after the buzz wore off. He had enough cash flow as a single man, no alimony or child support to weight him down but he stayed far from Sugar Daddy mode, not picking up more than a bar tab or drunken fourth meal.
** It took awhile, but the Thudercat finally got in. She stood in line and tried not to scream her disapproval as she was continually passed over for younger, prettier versions of herself for entrance to the packed bar. She heard the whispers and silly catcalls as she stood in line. At one time she was the one doing the whispering and giggling, now she was the butt of the jokes. Her once held titles of Jail Bait and Gold Digger, segued into an unofficial MILF. She was once like the pretty aunt that sexually implosive boys fantasized about with semen stiffened socks, stuffed between bed frames. That mantle quickly came to pass and she was retired into Thundercat status. Unlike Cougars, she was single, living paycheck to paycheck, and desperate for weekly companionship. She should be at home with a husband, children with homework to check up on, but all the partying, drinking, errant fucking, and experimentation left her out in the cold. No one brought the party girl that sucked them off in the parking lot of the Waffle House, home to meet the family. Single, educated, but not enough job experience to move up the career ladder, and worn over left her a desperate woman still looking for a golden ticket to save a ho land.
Were it out of pity or the sudden halkalı escort departure of the squealing bachelorette party, the bouncer finally waved her inside. With a wink, shake of her hips and a folded ten spot pressed into his sweaty palm, she sauntered into the social orgy. She needed a drink to wash away the stench of loneliness.
DOM was working on his third beer and fifth rejection. He didn’t push the issue with the last one. The tramp stamp emblazoned on the small of her back was an enticing lure, but her communication stank like left out tuna. He lost interest when he mentioned a 401k and she thought it was a Benz series. He was ready to call it a night, his mojo has already beaten him home, and he didn’t know what was more pathetic, him or the brainless flesh sacks he tried to ply with liquor and quick talk.
He drained the last of his Corona and made a move to leave when his stomach was pressed against the hardwood of the bar top by another faceless body.
“Who do I have to blow to get a fucking shot?” bellowed a voice behind him accompanied by the scent of White Diamonds. That was a grown woman scent, expensive, far mature than the stable he’s been inspecting.
He craned his head to locate the source of the voice. A redhead; tall, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her thickly painted lips looking over his shoulder with a futile attempt to wave down the barkeep. She was much older than his usual picks, the cigarette caked vocals and slathered makeup doing little to help her once youthful features. Her pink halter strained to hold her naturally enhanced breasts, one nipple escaped her bra and made a pointed appearance. His began to play connect the dots with the exposed freckles. Her meaty thighs were wrapped in a simple black denim skirt, skin a tad pale from lack of tanning sessions. Subconsciously, he shook his head in approval as he sized her up. He turned back to the bar and signaled the bartender, now his best friend after the heavy tipping session.
“Two tequilas, a Corona, and a Cosmo.” he shouted over the din of the music. Within a minute, he had his order placed in front of him. He turned around with one of the shots in his hand and offered it to her.
“You don’t have to blow me,” he grinned as she took it from him. “A little conversation will do.”
He took a step back, giving her some room next to him at the bar. She sidled in and held the shot in front of his face.
“Well, I’d never thought I’d meet a gentleman in this place.”
The Thundercat began to fire up her mental play book, digging into her arsenal to least get drunk on this old dude’s dime if she couldn’t find a young stud to take home. She burned out her rabbit last week and needed a penetration fix, but the pickings were slim tonight.
“And, I thought I wouldn’t find a decent gal in this dive either.”
Also bullshit. The DOM began to tap his skull in preparation to getting to hold up her end of the bargain. Two predators, seeing each other as prey.
They toasted and then tossed back the tequila with professional quickness, no need for salt, lime or body parts. DOM pushed the Cosmo towards her, picking up the beer for himself. He figured the older women were into the the Sex and the City thing, with the fruity Manhattan drinks and Manolo by the dozen.
Thundercat sipped the the glass, leaving lipstick marks on the rim. She grinned at the DOM, giving him her “sexy eyes”. It was a signature move; she perfected it in her college days, when her monthly stipend from the parents ran out and she wanted a free ride.
He returned her signature move with one of his own, the “Veneer”. It cost him a pretty penny, due to his shitty dental plan, but teeth were the business card of the social scene..
The deejay spun an old Depeche Mode tune and they were the only two that could mouth the words. A knowing smile and a clink of the glasses as they sung along. They made the obligatory small talk: names, hometowns, pets, and hobbies, sipping and smiling, oblivious to the atmosphere. The talk carried them to an empty booth in the corner with a fresh round of cocktails.
The Thundercat’s game plan went to shit when she paid for the next round. She was actually enjoying herself. The DOM’s strategy detoured when he began to take more interest in her words and not as much on her bulging bosom. When the small talk ran out, he dove in with both feet.
“So, how many drinks is it gonna take till we start being real with each other,” he asked.
“What do you want to know?” answered Thundercat as she crossed her legs.
“Why are we here,” with a wave of his hand taksim escort to the rest of the club. “With these children.” He scoffed at the last word.
The drinks took their toll and broke down the walls.
“I wanted some action.” said the Thundercat, taking a look around the room. “People my…” she gathered her thoughts, “our age are already married, stuck in their careers, or reading bedtime stories to crumb snatchers.”
“Truth be told, I could do better with a Fleshlight and hi-speed Internet.” He glanced at the drunken stumble of a young girl, hand clasped over her mouth to stop the flow of vomit erupting from her tiny mouth. She was a prime candidate for the new CEO of BP, from the looks of her progress.
“Fucking, is what rabbits do, I want some good sex.”
“Speaking of rabbits.” Thudercat nodded in the direction of a tanned and sculpted guy a few feet from them. He was the last one to grace her threshold. “Don’t let the looks fool you, he’s a Ferrari with a Yugo engine.” She leaned forward to light a fresh cigarette with the tea candle on the tiny table. “These guys take me to a drag race and I’m looking for the Tour DE France.”
The DOM snorted, almost doing a spit take, casually wiped the excess from his lip
He put his beer down and slid closer to her. “You read my mind.” He slid his hand over her free one. “Do you believe that I told this girl about my 401k and she thought…”
“Let me guess, it was a car.” They both cracked up at the joke, leaning into each other.
Without another thought, DOM wrapped a hand around the Thundercat’s neck and pulled her in for a kiss. She didn’t fight it, pressing lips against his. It was drunken, sloppy, very consensual. He felt a rise that he hadn’t felt in ages, she began to purr down below. Only the arrival of another round, compliments of the barkeep, broke them from their soaked embrace.
“Whew,” said Thundercat as she came up for air. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Life is short and we’re not getting any younger.”
There was awkward silence as they let the statement settle in. After a minute, DOM got up and excused himself.
“The beer gauge is full, I gotta drain the tank.” He weaved through the dense crowd to the bathroom, leaving the Thundercat a window for escape.
The men’s room was empty, but built for one. Instead of regular lighting, a single black light put the room in an eerie glow. The walls were decorated with the usual bathroom graffiti; dirty lyrics, phone numbers for oral and anal hookups. The DOM concentrated on a crudely drawn picture of a vagina, or ass, depending on one’s point of view when the door opened. He forgot to lock it in a rush to quell his enlarged prostate and was partially exposed to who ever was standing there.
“I’ll be out in a second.” He called over his shoulder. The door quickly closed and before he knew it, a hand, not his own, was wrapped around his semi-hard dick.
He jumped in shock, trying to turn around and face his assailant when over the smell of stale beer and fresh urine, he smelled White Diamonds.
“Relax,” cooed the Thundercat. “before I change my mind.”
She held a firm grip on him, steering the flow of urine into the bowl. Little strokes turned into tugs as he finished, the last drops hitting the porcelain.
“At least shake it off for me.” This was a first for him.
She locked the door behind her with free hand, still handling him.
“You have a nice cock, I can tell.”
She moved around to the front of him as he flushed the toilet. She put the seat down and sat, still tugging on him.
“I figure,” she licked her painted lips, ” I could hold up my end of the bargain.”
DOM looked at her in the black light. Veins stood out on her heaving chest, a congested freeway of blood heading to Nipple City, as she kept stroking him and he traced a finger over them, digging his hand into her top in search of the traffic epicenter. She gave an approving look at his erection before taking it into her mouth. He groaned satisfaction as she slowly enveloped him, working both of his hands down the front of her top. Her nipples were ready, firm and thick. She stopped what she was doing long enough to push her top down, giving him better access.
A rattle of the knob and knock on the door went unanswered as she sucked him. She was good at it, using enough tongue and no teeth, hands magically working the shaft and balls. She could get a man off in seconds or minutes; when his cock was in her mouth, his life might as well been in her hands. As much as he tried to hold on, she was giving him the best head he ever had. He was ready to pop when she coaxed him back from eruption with şişli escort a few adepts squeezes in the right places.
She grinned up at him, licking the excess saliva from the corners of her mouth. He was winded and they haven’t even gotten started. He gathered himself as she stood from her perch.
“I’m on the pill, but I don’t wanna…”
The DOM fumbled with his wallet and pulled out a condom. It’s been there for a minute, forming a conspicuous oval against the leather. Dropping the billfold on the floor, he tore at the packaging with his teeth. In his haste, the wrapper stayed tougher than a Gordian knot. Thundercat took it from his mouth and deftly ripped it open. Taking out the rubber, she began to work it over his erection. When it was rolled on enough, she hiked up her dress, turned away from him and held on to the bathroom sink. He steered it into her, fumbling for a few seconds until he found the entrance, and pushed himself in. No underwear for her, not even a thong to slow his approach.
“Gawd Damn, that’s the ticket.” she grunted, pushing back against him.
DOM gripped her waist with both hands as he pushed in towards the hilt. Once he found his rhythm, his hands took a roaming tour. He started at the thatch of pubic hair, traveled north over the thick plush of belly until he stopped, a firm grip on her swinging breasts. They were soft, natural, more than a handful. These young girls nowadays were pumped full of silicone, drained of fat, and artificial as they come. They were bald as newborns, a pedophiles daydream. This was a real woman he was inside of.
Every thrust brought out a bigger moan and he could hear the increasing wetness as she became more aroused. The squishy slap of penetration, juicy notes playing across a band of flesh The condom took on a translucent blue color, streaks of her excitement coating the latex in a different tie dye pattern each time he pulled out of her for that brief second. Some stained his khakis, but he didn’t stop for such trivial things as removing them.
“I should have told you,” she mouthed in between pants. “I leak, a lot.”
The Thundercat purred with each stroke, quietly coming within a minute. She felt a bigger one on the horizon. Her past lovers were finished by now, looking for their Joe Boxers and Affliction tee shirts. Her purple rabbit usually had to finish the job. But, the cock inside her now was experienced, still warming up. She didn’t have to do any extra; play with her clit, suck her own nipples, he was taking the helm, a true sexual general, leading his troops up orgasm mountain.
The knocking on the door increased, but neither paid it any mind. He pulled out, turning her to face him and lifting her up onto the sink. She cocked a leg up against the towel dispenser and pulled him close. He got inside her again, craning his neck to suckle at her awaiting breast that she presented to him. She tasted of vanilla and cinnamon and he enjoyed it like a starving man at a buffet. He felt her pelvis tighten as she came, biting him on the shoulder to stifle the cries of passion. He thought about pitching a perfect game, capping the well in the Gulf, anything but unloading his nut.
“Are you okay, Buddy?” The strained voice accompanied the pounding on the door.
“Give me a fucking minute.” yelled the DOM as he let the engorged nipple fall from between his perfect teeth. He had no idea how long they’d been in their, but the noise outside determined longer than expected. He stared into her eyes, which were slitted in bliss and figured now was good as anytime. He furiously pumped, driving her into a another leg shaking orgasm. The crush of her vaginal walls against his cock was the signal he needed. He stopped thinking about the pelicans in Louisiana and let nature do it’s things.
He let out a primal grunt as he filled up the condom with pent up seed, his legs shook as she squeezed her vaginal walls against him. Time was of the essence and they tried to collect themselves, the pounding on the door became incessant. DOM tugged off the rubber, dropping it in the bowl and putting his cock away while Thundercat smoothed her skirt and tucked her tits back into her bra.
He unlocked the door to a line of crotch grabbing youngsters, dancing in place.
“About fucking time,” shouted the first one as he pushed his way past them to piss.
“I’ll say,” he replied, wrapping an arm around the Thundercat and guiding her down the hallway past the line.
A sudden guffaw broke out as soon as the group realized what the hold up was about. With free hands, some of them gave a fist bump or high five, forgetting their urgent need for bladder relief.
Thundercat checked her lipstick in a compact, most of it wiped away from her earlier carnal activities, straightening the smudges with a finger.
“Usually, I’d make up an excuse to part ways,” whispered the DOM into her ear. “But, I’d remember somebody liked more Armstrong than Andretti.”
She looked into his gray eyes and nodded agreement. The bar scene was played out long ago.
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