By Liz Tracy
By Liz Tracy
By Matt Preira
By Victor Gonzalez
By Falyn Freyman
By C. Townsend Rizzo
By Tana Velen
By Liz Tracy
After a small celebration of poxless sisterhood, we got onto discussing bigger things.
"This is a really great place," she told me. "Good music, good people." At that moment, a Madonna song came on, and Dennis danced over to me, writhed a little between my knees — while I did an impressive (or maybe not; I was drunk) arms-only dance.
"I'm only here for two more days and then back to Dallas," he said midwriggle.
"I'm from Dallas!" I squeaked.
"I knew there was something I liked about you," he said.
Boobs: After bidding a sweet adieu to gorgeous Leah and her handsome friends, I meandered back over to my barstool beside Blondie, and it was only about a minute before two guys walking by recognized her, and hugs and cheek kisses ensued. They cooed over my "doll" face, which they were distracted from only by Blondie's fantastic and apparently infamous knockers. One of the guys squeezed them with both hands and then proceeded to lean down and kiss right on her exposed cleavage. (Note: Had these guys been straight, they would have been kicked into next week.)
"I love breasts," he said frankly. "And in fact, anything you ladies want, put on my tab." He motioned to the bartender, who nodded in response. With that, the pair walked away.
"Holy shit," I said. "Your tits just bought us more drinks."
"Hell yes!" she said. I'd always suspected breasts were good for something.
Outside: While we enjoyed free drinks, dance diva Dennis presented me with a red rose he'd purchased from the flower peddler who'd infiltrated the bar.
"For being from Texas," he said. "And for being awesome."
While I was distracted by my own awesomeness, Mike, a tattooed guy in a wife beater and wearing rosary beads, slogged over to us, a white Russian in hand. He told us he makes $20,000 a week and offered to tattoo me for free. Behind Mike, the bartender nodded toward the door and mouthed what I think was the word run. We did.
Outside, we found Biceps, who was engaged in a passionate arm-wrestling competition with Joe, an older man in a red shirt. After a little bit of straining, puffing, and a heroic struggle from Joe, Biceps crushed the poor dude's hand down to the surface of the table.
"He beat you, eh?" I asked a few minutes later.
"Yeah, but that was left-handed," Joe said. "He's a lefty. I beat him right-handed earlier."
"And you're a bit older than he is," I observed.
"Twice his age plus some," Joe said.
"A valiant effort."
"He did give me a little wink during," Joe said, smiling at Biceps' handsome mug. "And I'd do anything for that face."
I could relate to that feeling of willing surrender — it's the way I now felt toward grape martinis.
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