Diary of sitting at the bar…

       She was young, I’m going to guess 23.  She looked like she tasted like warm red wine infused with honey, simply intoxicating, and I watched her through narrowed eyes, feeling every inch of the predatory cougar that I have been called and, well, I suppose that I am.  I asked the young lady her name.  Lauren.  She was only 20 years old.  Why did she have to be so pretty and so young?  Her hair hung down her back in soft ringlets; it was several different colors and was oh so beautiful.  I longed to put my hands into it and breathe her in.  I had a bet with myself that her hair would smell of vanilla.

       The second drink had lowered my inhibitions and raised my level of testosterone or, at least, given me a wee bit more courage.  I felt twenty years younger.  My prey, er, waitress came back with another drink, the unasked-for answer to an unspoken prayer.  I sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth circling in my stomach, and the fuzziness swirling through my thoughts.

       Her earrings were Indian and garage-sale found, upon my inquiry.  She seemed pleased that I had noticed.  She told me her strawberry margarita was virgin; I had the good sense not to ask if she was.  I almost asked for a taste but was uncertain if my face would give away what I was really asking. 

      I watched her delivering food, always with a smile, her eyes often wandering up to meet my eyes.  I would smile broadly when caught looking, and she would blush; it was completely charming.

      I contented myself with small talk with one of the other waitresses, Lindsey, who was married.  Her husband was a huge college football fan and we had a lot in common.  She was very friendly and I enjoyed her easy smile and flirtatious ways.  She understood that I was simply flirting merely for the sake of the art.  Lauren,  however, had no clue.  I smiled and thought to myself that she would indeed be putty in my hands. 


       Chelsea, 25, and what a honey, was my waitress again today.  She usually scratches my lottery tickets for me, leaning across the bar in front of me, her curves directly in my line of sight, almost close enough to bury my nose in between her breasts.  Whether she’s aware or unaware, it doesn’t matter to me; I’m still looking and I’m still tipping her well.  Long, curly auburn hair, she has a dazzling smile and a beautiful body.  I could see myself waking up next to her, kissing the back of her neck as I spoon up against her. 

      One of the other waitresses looks just like Angelina Jolie, and was very pleased when I told her so.  Stephanie.  Maybe 22.  Of course, they all look 22 to me.  I think that young flesh tastes so sweet; it’s so smooth under your tongue, so soft under your fingertips, and so firm under your body.  You just have to appreciate the firmness and ripeness of a fresh Georgia peach.  I know I do. 

      I love that they are as curious about me, as I am about them…they linger near me, flirting, asking questions and, of course, I have lots of answers for them and lots of questions about them, making each of them feel special as, on repeat visits, I remember their names, and ask how their classes are going.  Everyone loves to have attention bestowed on them, and I am only too willing to give it, and receive it. 

      Sex for me is like part of an elaborate dance, one with intricate moves; oh, you’re right, it doesn’t have to be but merely gyrating isn’t nearly as satisfying a dance as when one has a certain technique, a skill, shall we say…this touch evokes that response, for instance, and I do love to try out a new technique and then reap the benefits of smiles, and oohs and aahs.  To listen to a beautiful young woman orgasm, with your name in her mouth, well, really now, is there a more beautiful sound imaginable? 


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