Page 50 of Sugarplum

I just ignored every advance he made on me. I had no time to deal with Michael. I wanted someone to make love to me, not a guy to fuck me then leave me.

So why then was my mind so stuck on Dylan? He treated me like a slut… no, he treated me like a fuck slave. I willingly let him do it, too.

There was a need to do something else. Instead of sleeping and being lazy at home I decided it was time to go out, meet other guys and see if I could turn this crazy addiction around. By eight o’clock in the evening I was already all set to leave, drive out to nowhere and just walk into the most appealing bar or club I could find.

Fortunately, it didn’t take too long to find one. A simple drive through some of the streets along the outskirts of town landed me a good look at the most infamous of bars. In the end, I settled for a small establishment called The Drunken Sailor. If that wasn’t an obvious place to get wasted then I must be dreaming.

It was pretty neat inside too. I thought it was just going to be another drinking dump but no. It had these nice purple and dim yellow lights, a couple of pool tables, a dart corner and even a pretty cool band playing some music in the corner.

There were a few patrons here and there. It was a little bit of a busy bar. I spotted a jukebox but no one was playing it since there was a live band, after all. With no one familiar in sight, I just scooted up to the bar and waved for the bartender, a man about as old as Dylan but definitely not as hot. He had a large beer belly and his hair was starting to be more grey than black.

“What’ll you have?” he asked me.

“Got a Blue Hawaiian?” I wanted something strong but really, really flavorful.

The bartender nodded, “Four dollars.”

I just raised my eyebrows in approval and handed him my credit card. He came back with a large glass filled with a blue, frosty drink and he handed me my card back.

The band was playing Waterloo by Abba. I freaking love that song. Even while I was seated by the bar I couldn’t help but sway and dance a little bit, just sipping my drink a bit while watching them perform.

“You like their music?” a man suddenly asked from beside me.

I opened my eyes and found myself looking at a guy in his mid-forties, I guess, standing by the bar holding a bottle of beer. He had dark hair, a light tan and a trimmed beard and mustache. The stranger had on red and black plaid and ripped skinny jeans. He looked like a trucker or a grunge rock star.

“I do,” I answered and gave him a flirty wink of the eye. “I listen to a lot of old songs. They kind of turn me on.”

What the fuck did I just say? Shit, that sounded so damn slutty. I thought I was here to get away from that and relax?

I looked at him and worried that he might take me for a whore. He just had this really bright fire burning in his eyes. It reminded me of how Dylan looked at me the night we met in the restaurant.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he told me before he took a sip of his drink. “I feel that way from some songs too. Others get me mad and others still just make me want to dance. Music works that way.”

Whew. Okay, he saved me from myself.

“That’s sort of deep,” I tried to sound cool. “What kind of music do you really like?”

“Loud stuff you might not enjoy,” he told me. “I’m into a lot of genres, so anything from classic jazz to country is all good for me. I don’t pick a genre. However, to be specific on what gets my mood going, I do have a thing for doom metal.”

I raised an eyebrow in question, “Huh?”

“Think Black Sabbath’s style but with a more playful rhythm. It ain’t too loud and it focuses more on deep, poetic lyrics, playful rhythms and heavy sounds.”

“I’d love to give it a try, sometime,” I answered and hoped that it would let him know I was aiming for a date.

“That’d be pretty awesome,” he said and offered his hand. “I’m Nick, by the way.”

I nearly spilled my drink when I realized we had been talking and flirting without even know each other’s names. I shook his hand and said, “Oh, I’m Olivia.”

He had a really firm grasp. I wonder how it would feel to have him slap me around, yank my hair and pound his cock deep into my pussy. What the fuck was I thinking?

“Cute name,” he commented. He then scooted up closer to me and wrapped an arm around my waist. I could smell his aftershave. It was cool, minty almost, and his cologne was so alluring I almost just scooted up to him. It was tempting.

“You always here?” I asked him.

Nick nodded and drank again, “From time to time. Depends on who’s performing. Depends on whether I’m single or not.”

I laughed at that. “So are there days where you’re not single?”

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