Spendy Spenderson

So I have pretty much no money. At all. Certainly not enough money to be living it up like an Enron exec on a junket. I'm not complaining (well, not much); there's a very good reason for my not having any money, and that's because (a) I still can't find a damn job that pays more than peanuts that will hire me and (b) I keep spending money like I'm a fucking Enron exec on a junket who is allergic to money.

And I'm spending it doing things I don't even necessarily want to do in the most narrow definition of the word. I'm not spending it on books, I'm not spending it on gas to drive up and visit Sveta, I'm spending it because people invite me to bars. And I don't like bars.

I do like these people though, and I'm trying to keep my face in the memory of a few people for when I need to go back with my tail between my legs and work at the theater again. And since I'd already done that once and it wound up keeping my face in people's memories in the wrong way, and this was a larger, more coeducational group, I used it as motivation to finish some writing (which I really need to get back to; you guys are keeping me from it because I'm a terrible procrastinatrix) and then when that was done, met them at this bar. Fortunately, there was no karaoke, because if there had been, I would have turned around and gone home.

And I usually can be in a bar without spending a million billion dollars on drinks. I might order one drink and nurse it. Hell, sometimes I order lemonade, if I've got to drive. That gets me some weird looks, but I tip well and I'm a cute girl, which helps. From a strictly impartial standpoint, I imagine that my presence in the bar increases business. A bar would much rather have a cute girl than a drunk guy. If I were a drunk girl, that might be better, but I don't know. But then I don't own a bar, so maybe I'm totally wrong.

At any rate, we watched a football game (I don't give a damn about football, but I'll watch it, I don't care) and talked. I think I've essentially promised that if I can't find a better job in a few weeks, I'm going to go back to the theater while I keep looking, because I do miss some of it and I miss some of them and yeah, it'll keep me from moping around the house all day. But I bought several drinks because there was drinking involved and I don't like to be the only sober one. I generally am the most sober of the group, but being sober with drunks bores the ever-living shit out of me, so I make poor decisions based on peer pressure. Yes, I'll call a spade a spade.

I wish to stress that I was not drunk, merely tipsy, which in no way excuses my lack of judgment. I'm stressing this to punish myself, not to make everyone think better of me. Think worse of me. I was tired, very tired, didn't sleep well, and I was tipsy, but I was fully in possession of my faculties.

Rick was there, the guy who I didn't sleep with before but who saw me getting busy with another guy and, yeah, read the previous post. It was a bit awkward on my part, but it turns out that he has very little recollection of the evening and feels pretty much as stupid as I did about the whole thing. Theatre people are nice that way; we do tend to do the fling thing, so when you wind up sleeping with someone, it's not anywhere near as big a deal. That's one thing I love about the crowd. There's plenty of drama many times, but it doesn't lower your estimation of someone. No one thinks I'm a slutbag for hooking up with a guy.

I got bored with football and got to talking to the bartender instead. Flirting with the bartender, I should probably say. Again, I'm shy, but get me into a one-on-one and I'm like a different person. Which is why I don't like big groups, but I do like small gatherings. Unless the big group is an orgy, in which case I'm all about that shit, but that's hardly news now, is it?

Anyway, the bartender came to the area from the West Coast a few years ago, we'll call him Duncan because that name gets a lot of bad press and I want to reverse that trend, but now everyone's thinking of cookies or donuts (or, if you're a dweeb like me, Shakespeare's Scottish play), but you know what, the hell with those associations, because it's a good name, and it's decently close to the bartender's real name and it suits him. So there. Anyway, short, powerful build but a little on the soft side, longer hair, not shoulder-length but over his ears, reddish-brown (which looked redder in the light of the bar, but was still a nice color), pale like me, and really soft-spoken for a bartender. But he wasn't shy, just kind of soft. Maybe it's a West-Coast guy thing. I don't know.

We started talking about soccer, if you can believe that. I was saying that I actually had begun to enjoy televised soccer on the Spanish language channel, and how I liked it more than football, and he was agreeing. He told me about the West Coast, laughed when I said the idea of the sun setting over the ocean freaked me out a little for no good reason, agreed that there were a lot of flaky people in LA, but that there was a difference between flaky and the West Coast vibe, which is different than other places but doesn't mean one is stupid. He's not from LA, so he has horror stories.

Anyway, eventually he told me that he got off work at 6 and did I want to hang out after that. I said I should spend some time with these people, but when he got off work, I'd be definitely okay to hang out. Really, I was enjoying having a conversation with a human being in person. I haven't had that recently. Most of my social circle was through work.

Well, I went back to my group, talked some more with people who weren't as interested in football, then people were going out to eat and things were breaking up, so I begged off eating but said I would definitely do the next gig. Which means that I guess I'm back doing what I don't want to do. But it'll keep me busy. I've got to find another job, a steady job.

Yeah, anyway, waited around until Duncan finished his shift, then we went to a sandwich place (hooray, money-spending ahoy) because I was actually starving and he was hungry after work too. Then he asked if I wanted to go back to his apartment and catch some true football (meaning soccer) on cable. Innocent enough, right? I didn't honestly think he was offering anything more than that, and I wasn't laying on the hints particularly thickly or anything. Plus, I wasn't totally sure about my ability to drive (I did drive to the bar, out of my town, so it was doubly stupid of me to drink multiple drinks). It seemed like a perfect way to finish becoming as sober as I like to be before I drive. Don't drink and drive, kids. It's bad. I'm not just saying that.

Duncan has a decent apartment, nice TV, couch, that whole bit. And he has a cable package with about a million sports channels on it, one of which shows nothing but soccer. Two English teams were playing, but I'd have to look up who they were because I know English football teams like I know hockey. We sat on the couch, watched about five minutes of soccer, and then he reached over, ran his hand through my hair, and kissed me.

Honestly, I give him full credit for confidence. It was the least awkward pass I think I've ever had made at me. It seemed perfectly natural to go from full stop to making out, no hesitation, smooth operator. You may say that I'm somewhat of a biased test subject for this particular study, and you'd be right, but still, he was totally confident. I didn't expect it from him, honestly. He didn't seem like a player. But he made the move, and it was like he didn't expect any reaction other than the one he got, which was to kiss him back and then wind up in his lap. It was actually kind of funny because he was much shorter than me. Not ridiculous, but a few inches difference, which when I was sitting on his lap did seem like more than it was.

"You want to go into the bedroom, or just say here?" Total confidence. I can get into that in a guy sometimes. It flips a switch in my brain which makes me play into that, get quite submissive. The crazy thing is that I know what I'm doing, consciously I know that I'm playing a part. I knew he wanted me to be the unconfident one, the inexperienced one, and even though I didn't make a change consciously, I knew I was doing it. It's a bit like an out-of-body experience. I get the feeling that I'm watching myself sometimes. Not just in situations like this either. Drinking helps though.

"Wherever you want." See. Submissive. Not in the fetish sense, but in the sense of being the passenger of the car. Or something.

We wound up in the bedroom (for which my rational mind was very grateful, because making out on his couch would have been uncomfortable and these days, I don't need that). I let him undress me, pulling my blouse over my head, then slipping my bra off and enjoying my tits while I lay back and felt sexy and... I don't know, submissive I guess. Then he pulled off his shirt, moved back up and kissed me, then lay back and pulled his pants and boxers off in one stroke.

His body was nothing to write home about, not ripped or anything, but under the soft layer was a hard layer, and I think he had serious muscle, just not necessarily show-off muscle. He felt powerful, anyway. His cock was only a little inflated, but he was a shower, not a grower; it got harder while I sucked it, but it didn't get much bigger, just a bit wider. Not that it was tiny. Respectable. Easy to suck, but even though it didn't exactly poke into my stomach, the girth made it more challenging to deep throat. Still, I was totally sober by this point and I had no issue with gag reflex. He liked that, even though it might have been a little out of character for an inexperienced girl, the part I was unconsciously playing.

He didn't go off in my mouth, just got stiff and then stopped me, reached over to his bedside table, pulled out a roll of condoms. He really didn't look like a player to begin with, but he had enough condoms to stock a small army. He must get laid on a regular basis. No problem. I'm not proud. He slipped on a condom with experienced fingers, kicked his pants the rest of the way off, then told me to get on my hands and knees.

Once I was there, he pushed my skirt up, then stroked my cunt through the cotton of my panties, getting them wet, then pulled them down to my knees, ran his finger up and down my slit a few times, then pressed it into me. He had stubby fingers which felt like a cock, and I was gasping after two, begging him not to do anything more, just to fuck me, please.

He got behind me and I felt his cock spread my lips and press into my pussy, spreading me nicely, making my muscles work to hold him. I've said it before, I'll say it again, I love the feeling of penetration, that first time a cock slips into me. I came, he started thrusting, and I was in some sluttier version of heaven where you're fucked all the time. Cloud 69? Whatever.

He was very complimentary, didn't do the abusive talk at all, perfectly genteel about the whole thing, which made me enjoy it in a different way than I would if he were calling me a slut. Since I'm currently at a state where I don't know if I want to be called a slut at the drop of a hat, it was great to be fucked expertly and nicely. We even talked, a little, while he was fucking me; he said he'd thought I was a girl who enjoyed sex from the look of me, but not that I was like this. I said, "I'm shy until you get to know me," which is true. He laughed and said he wished all shy girls were as sexy as I was.

I won't lie; it was a good fuck. I came three times, once at the beginning, once in the middle, and then a long, drawn-out one once we switched to missionary, which made him cum inside me as I was finishing up my climax. We kissed some more, he rolled off me (which felt nice, even though I had enjoyed him there, because he was really making my hips hurt with his weight; I think sitting on bar stools ruins my back and hips for days), chucked the condom, then laughed when I moved over and licked the cum off him. "You really aren't what you seem," he said. "Were you propositioning me and I just didn't notice?"

"I'm really not like that most of the time; I don't pick up bartenders," I said, lying back. Which is true; I don't think I've ever slept with a bartender (at least, not one I knew was a bartender) let alone picked one up in a bar.

"Well, you're a really good lay," he said. I am not tooting my own horn, merely reporting the facts (okay, maybe I'm doing a bit of ego stroking, just because it makes me feel nice for once). "Really good. I would swear you were nearly a virgin, except you're too good for that. The bj, eating cum, the way your pussy feels..."

"Stop it," I said, blushing.

"Most girls I pick up at the bar are either total skanks or what I thought you were."

"Do you pick up a lot of girls at the bar?"

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that..."

I laughed now. "I don't care. You're good at picking people up. I never had a moment's hesitation."

He grinned. "I'm unlucky if I can't get at least one girl to come home with me a week. Sometimes the owner gets pissed because I give out too many free drinks to hot chicks."

"I could have been getting free drinks? Why didn't someone tell me?" He laughed at that. "Only one a week?"

"Well, that's a bad week."

"My hat's off to you." This guy really was fun to hang out with, I just want to say that again. I would have considered it a good night if we had just gone back to his place, watched soccer, and then I'd left.

He got up and went to use the bathroom. I pulled off my skirt, which I was still wearing, and gathered my clothes into a pile so I could find them later and not wind up losing my panties. When he came back, he found me lying on his bed naked, stroking my pussy. Yes, now I was inviting further action. Once I'm in, I lose shyness completely. Sex is my comfort zone. I'm not shy about it.

He lay next to me, we kissed, I moved my kisses down his body to his cock and sucked him again, tasting a bit of urine which didn't hurt things at all. I even got into it and sucked his balls a little, although that's not something I do often, not with a guy with as much body hair as Duncan had. Honestly, I don't know why, but I wasn't feeling guilty about it. It wasn't sordid. Really, in hindsight, the only thing I feel guilty about was spending money I don't have and not joining the group for food, because they're good people and once out of the bar and away from the TV, the conversation would have been much more interesting. I like shop talk. But I don't feel that guilty about that. The money, I feel bad about.

Duncan was even complimenting me on giving head while I was doing it. I asked if he wanted to return the favor, and we did a bit of Planet 69, which is definitely not something I do every day. He was middle-of-the-pack in his oral: not good enough that I think he does it with every girl he picks up (probably his MO is more fingering, or maybe they're just drunker than I was) but good enough to get my motor running to the point where I actually had a very small O that I exaggerated slightly because I liked him and wanted him to feel as good about things as I did.

Then, bad hips and all, I got another condom on him and then rode his cock until I really couldn't take any more bouncing, at which point we spooned for a bit because I was really incapable of having thrusting pressing my legs apart or being on my knees. I came, a long, slow orgasm which he might not have even noticed, not after the beginning. I don't know how to describe it; it's not a multiple, it might not be, strictly speaking, an orgasm, but I feel these waves of pleasure which ride up my backbone, no muscle tension, just like my clit is being held under a slow vibration. Something like that. It's fun for me, maybe not for him, but he liked fucking me, so whatever.

Finally he was getting anxious and not getting enough, so we rolled until he was on top of me from behind, and he started fucking me in that position which is another one I don't get often. It wasn't as enjoyable for me because I didn't feel much depth, but still, it was nice. He pulled out and rolled me over without asking, stripped the condom off, and stroked himself a few times before splattering my tongue with jizz. Much better not to waste it, so while I love a creampie, it doesn't count in a condom.

I was tempted to stay the night, and I think he was slightly tempted to ask me, but in the end I was really tired all of a sudden and I just wanted to go home. But I said I would definitely see him again if he wanted, and we traded numbers. Who knows? I'm not going to date him, but I'd hang out with him again, and I'm definitely open to adding him to my options for fuckbuddies. Hell, when Sveta's back in town, since Perry is being so weird, maybe we'll go with Duncan instead. I'm not adding him to my speed dial or anything, but it was a nice experience.

I told Sveta about it and I have the best girlfriend ever, because her response was, "I wish I had been there; we could have shared him." Have I mentioned that I love that girl? I told her that if she wanted, she should come down and I'd make a date for all three of us. She giggled. He'd like her; she does innocent really well. The combination of the two of us must be like fucking two schoolgirls. Okay, enough ego, back, back to the pit from whence you came.

Anyway, it was a good, but expensive, experience. Except my hips and neck are still killing me from those stupid bar stools. I had a hard time with Dad this morning. It was distracting me from the pleasure, and now it's hard to sit in this stupid chair. Damn bars. Hooray for bartenders, but damn bars.

But this weekend, the parents and I are going up to visit Sveta in college! Yay! More bulletins as events warrant.