I’m now thirty-eight years old. I haven’t changed a bit. Direction in life is something every individual needs because without it one ends up being me. Once down in Ocean Beach I was able to find work as a bartender. The place was a total shit hole. One of those shady neighborhood bars where no one with any kind of decency would go for a drink, but if you’re in the market for that 45 to 62 year old bracket of people who have been completely beaten by life – this is your place. Zeroes was the name and you could buy a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer for a buck. Every beer here came in a can so this job could be performed by any asshole. I sometimes fantasized about a beautiful woman one day walking through the front door and falling head over coochie in love with me. I’d slip her a cold can of Pabst and say some smooth shit like, “It’s on the house.” I wasn’t yet fat so that was good. With a shower and good shave I could easily pass for thirty-four. My clothes were casual, but nice and my car nonexistent at this point. I was able to live by the beach because my younger roommate was a professional surfer who traveled six months out of the year and allowed me to stay in his condo and take care of things. It was a sweet little set up. His sponsors sent him boxes of free clothes which I of course wore as my own. Sunglasses, jeans, jackets and shirts, I looked pretty damn good. He even had a shoe sponsor, too. I’ve known this dude since he was twelve so it wasn’t like he was going to be pissed off about it. As long as he was getting good results in contests he didn’t give a damn what I was doing at home, which wasn’t much really.
I worked seven days a week at the bar and spent most of my free time watching girls play volleyball on the beach in their tiny bikinis. I’d pick myself up a forty ounce of malt liquor, two cigars and find a good bench to sit on. I don’t even like cigars, but I feel like they help make me appear as if I don’t give a fuck. A lot of sketchy ass people live in Ocean Beach and the less who talk to me the better. I had my forty ounce of malt liquor, two hours to kill and the local high school girls were just showing up for their volleyball practice. Everything was going great until I showed up for work.
Once at the bar I figured I should probably jack it before getting started. The teeny boppers were exceptionally slammin’ that day. Bikinis nowadays are so tiny you can fit four or five in a cigarette pack. I went to the bathroom and rubbed one out before all the losers started to gather. When I came back out a woman was standing at the bar waiting to be helped. This bitch was bangin’, dressed up like a business executive - she looked like she was going to court or some shit. Or maybe she was there to close the place down? Either way, I was happy. I couldn’t remember the last time an attractive woman step foot in this bar because this was the first time this ever happened.
When I got closer she looked slightly familiar. This woman had on a black skirt at a respectable length, high heels, a white stylish blouse and black matching tailored made jacket. She was professional dressed and didn’t fit in at all here. I had just flicked on the Christmas tree lights lining the walls. The closer I got to her, the more tongue bath worthy her tight figure became. Her hair was silky, expensive and dark.
Holy fuck, it was Rachel!
She finally spoke, “are you open?” Christ, it really was her! She recognized me almost instantly. The butchy dyke from prison had transformed herself into a hot working class piece of ass. Dammit, I hoped she wouldn’t ask to smell my fingers or she’d know for sure I was jacking off in the bathroom. I played it cool and picked up a handful of ice to nonchalantly wash my hands with.
“Rachel, is that you?” I asked.
She was just as shocked to see me. We got to talking like old friends and I soon learned she went back to school and got a degree, not to mention her new slammin’ body. Rachel was now living in San Diego working as a lawyer’s assistant. She’d come up to Ocean Beach on assignment and stopped by the bar looking for a quiet place to sit and look over some paperwork. I handed her a cold can of Pabst and whispered “it’s on the house.”
She was pleasantly surprised to see me and never once asked what the hell I was doing bartending a shit hole like this. Maybe she thought I owned the place? Not that she cared, Rachel had become very successful working for a huge law firm in downtown San Diego. She drove an S Class Mercedes Benz and I didn’t even own a car anymore. I made immediate plans to latch onto her and never let go. I demanded she let me take her out for dinner to which she agreed. She still had some slither of interest in me. I instructed her to be back at 8pm and I would shut down the bar. Of course I owned the place and could shut it down whenever I wanted. This being a lie of course, but she doesn’t know that. Wait until she sees the swanky beach condo I’m living in!
Rachel arrived back at Zeroes mildly excited to have dinner with me. She was obviously still a bit bent over the fact I ran out on her six years ago, that plus the note I had written, but tonight was a new moon and I was determined to get my dick in her one way or another. This was my last shot at success. I told my only two customers to get lost and locked the front door to the bar. I even put up the sign reading “Gone Fishin’.”
In all honestly, that was basically what I was doing. I was trying to reel in my sugar momma! I took the fancy cooze by “my” condo on the beach with excuses of needing to change my clothes before dinner. We would take her car of course because my imaginary car was in the shop. Once she stepped foot in this condo it would be clear I wasn’t a loser. The place was a wreck, but it didn’t matter because she could hear the waves crashing from the couch. I grabbed the six pack of Pabst I’d stolen from work and asked if she’d like to have a beer on the beach before dinner. I didn’t even have money for dinner and if she didn’t take the bait I was screwed. Luckily she did and one six pack later, two pints of Jack Daniels and four Jagermeister shots, I woke up naked next to her in my bed.
Yes!
The room was a mess. Our clothes were scattered out everywhere. I looked around to see my two day old dirty underwears on the floor, Rachel’s fresh silky panties hanging over the headboard and not an empty condom wrapper in sight. I made a quick wish to god I had gotten her pregnant. The motion of the sheets must have woken Rachel because she turned around and asked if I was looking at her ass.
“You have the most alluring doo doo slicer I’ve ever seen.” I told her.
“Doo doo slicer?” she asked.
“Yes, I want to live in that thing. Find myself a job and rent out an apartment.”
“Are you calling my ass fat?” she asked.
“No, I’m calling it home.”
She went on to say from the looks of things we must have had sex. Rachel claimed to not remember because of the fact she never drinks that much liquor. I found it hard to believe a woman once addicted to pruno, a.k.a. “prison wine” couldn’t handle her liquor. For those that don’t know, pruno is made from rotting fruit in a toilet. Inmates commonly brew their own pruno wine in the toilet for days at a time before drinking it. The end result has been described as a vomit flavored wine cooler.
Anyhoo, we both agreed we had most definitely hit it last night. She then asked if we used a condom and I of course lied by saying yes. She must have had her suspicions because she wanted to find the used prophylactic before my cat ate it. I again reminded her I didn’t have a cat, but she insisted we find this used rubber. She needed to see it with her own eyes. Rachel was a successful career woman now and couldn’t afford to take off the time needed to push out a piggy. She wanted to see this damn rubber and know there’s no need to worry. After twenty minutes of searching I came clean.
“Rachel, pumpkin, here’s the thing. I lied about wrapping it up, but I mean hell, you should know by now I never use condoms. Look at me.”
She was livid, she totally freaked. I was instantly called a dirty bitch and just when it looked like she was about to charge me, I grabbed her cell phone and threatened to call the police. This bitch was on probation for life and one call to the sheriff could send her ass back to jail.
She calmed down and apologized for calling me a dirty bitch. I explained how judging from the period spots on my sheets there’s no way she could be pregnant. At least that was my medical opinion which of course was destroyed when she explained the period stains weren’t her own.
Whoops.
Those stains must have come from the illegal alien I met on the beach last Thursday. She was lost and trying to find her way to the bus stop. I told her I had some weed and Tequila back at my place and a car I could use to drive her anywhere she wanted to go. It was a good night. In the morning I pushed her out the front door and locked up. I must have forgotten to wash the sheets.
Rachel was too busy flipping out over the possibility of being knocked up to ask questions about the strange period stains she just got fucked in. I even surprise myself sometimes of how filthy I am. Then from nowhere she picks up her cell phone and hurls the shit at my face. It broke, too, and left a huge gash over my right eye. She was having some kind of roid rage so I widen my stance and prepared for battle. My bedroom was on the second floor and if she came charging at me I was going to pull that maneuver where I bend down and then use my back to flip her ass out the window. The kind of shit you see in the movies. Luckily for her, she only screamed a few obscenities and then stormed down the stairs. Her Mercedes soon roared to life and peeled off down the street.
Fuck!
My plan didn’t work. My sugar momma was gone.
I wouldn’t hear from Rachel again for three weeks.
