A Bargirl's Power

He restrained himself every night. He went down to Cowboy often but he took a wide birth around one bar. He knew if he entered and he saw her all his restraint would disappear.

No matter how much he told himself he’d just go in and say hello and brush up against her and savor her beauty, scent and perfect femininity and buy her just one drink for the privilege, he knew it wouldn’t stop there. Just buy one drink to pay for the bliss of having her cuddle up next to him before she had to dance again, and buy another beer while he waited for her to finish and come back and make him feel like her man. She’d never ask for another drink but he knew when she sauntered back to him never taking her eyes off his as she lowered herself from the stage and walked straight to him that she wouldn’t need to anyway.

He had only two words on his lips: ‘bar’ and ‘fine’.

It was better if he pushed on past and went to another bar. He did it more nights than not. No one else on the strip had the power. When he entered her bar he was lost. It was a foregone conclusion but his mind battled against it, pitifully. It was worse when it was late and he was drunk and went in and she wasn’t there, no doubt in the arms of some boozed up thug or dirty old man that she would despise. He knew she would despise them all. He felt it. But not him. He only ever paid for short-time but she always stayed the night and all the next day, her eyes pleading him at six o’clock to tell her to stay. But the power she held in the bar dissipated over the next eighteen hours and he was always relieved to see her go so he could take a deep breath and try to recover in blessed male isolation. So much feminine energy. He had to get out of the glare. By then he needed space and he knew that two nights would turn to three and then he would be fucked. He knew better than to get involved.

He already had a girlfriend who’d cut off his nuts, boil them in pork broth and serve them to him with noodles if she found out. She was his secret Cowboy gik, and her risk made him feel alive. He’d swear to himself every time that he’d knock it on the head for the sake of his sanity. Better to not even go there. But a few hours later he’d be back down the Cowboy making a wide berth once again. Just a few beers with a few mates at a distance. But always with an eye on the bar he could not and would not enter until the next time.

Such weakness.

Such power.

John Daysh can be contacted at: johndaysh@hotmail.com

© John Daysh. All rights reserved by the author.

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