He's way too old for her, and he looks like the kind of guy that belongs in a sleazy bar like this, but she doesn't care. She's a college freshman and she's a little bit sloshed and she wants to get laid, and glass after glass of whiskey means he's well on his way to being the mayor of Drunktown. It should be easy.
"Hey there," she slurs at him, but he ignores her. So she puts her hands on his shoulders, giggling at her friends behind her, and starts nibbling on his ear. He makes a little satisfied noise in the back of his throat, then turns around on his stool to get a look at her: up, and down.
"You 18?" he asks with surprising clarity in his voice.
She bites her bottom lip, teasingly. "Mmmhmm."
He doesn't say anything, just grabs her arm and leads her to the dark crevasses of the back-of-the-bar. She's only half surprised when, once they're out of earshot, he quite literally throws her against the wall and starts kissing her like a drowning man breathes. She doesn't really know how to respond, so she just grabs at his belt buckle. She wants this, and she tells him so.
Soon, she's got her legs wrapped around his waist, and he's fucking her into the wall, fast, hard, silent except for the occasional groan that drops from his lips. He comes, hard (into a condom--she's not completely reckless), and practically walks away before her feet even touch the ground.
"Hey," she calls after him, still out-of-breath, "what's your name?"
He mumbles something unintelligible, and continues walking.
She gathers herself up, pushes the hair out of her eyes. "What?"
"John Paul Jones," he says, and before he can leave again, she grabs his arm.
"You're the bass player from Led Zeppelin?" She's drunk, but she's not that drunk.
"Look, it doesn't matter, okay? I don't even want to know your name." He looks like he wants to get out of there, but can't think of a good reason to leave.
"Let me buy you a drink."
So she buys him another whiskey, and he gulps it down, mutters something about his brother and Stanford and--
"I go to Stanford!" she blurts out.
And now, he has his reason, though she doesn't really understand why.
"I should go," he says. "Work to do. Dad's waiting for me." She wants to press the issue of his brother, but she doesn't. He slaps a ten-dollar bill on the bar as he stands up. "I should be buying you drinks. Sorry." He kisses her cheek, and before she can thank him, he's gone.
(When she sees him years later, that night in Sam's apartment, she tells herself she doesn't know him, because he clearly doesn't recognize her: she was probably "bimbo #47 on my tour of California" that August. But somewhere in the back of her throat, she tastes the faint sting of whiskey, and she knows.)
He's way too old for her, and he looks like the kind of guy that belongs in a sleazy bar like this, but she doesn't care. She's a college freshman and she's a little bit sloshed and she wants to get laid, and glass after glass of whiskey means he's well on his way to being the mayor of Drunktown. It should be easy.
"Hey there," she slurs at him, but he ignores her. So she puts her hands on his shoulders, giggling at her friends behind her, and starts nibbling on his ear. He makes a little satisfied noise in the back of his throat, then turns around on his stool to get a look at her: up, and down.
"You 18?" he asks with surprising clarity in his voice.
She bites her bottom lip, teasingly. "Mmmhmm."
He doesn't say anything, just grabs her arm and leads her to the dark crevasses of the back-of-the-bar. She's only half surprised when, once they're out of earshot, he quite literally throws her against the wall and starts kissing her like a drowning man breathes. She doesn't really know how to respond, so she just grabs at his belt buckle. She wants this, and she tells him so.
Soon, she's got her legs wrapped around his waist, and he's fucking her into the wall, fast, hard, silent except for the occasional groan that drops from his lips. He comes, hard (into a condom--she's not completely reckless), and practically walks away before her feet even touch the ground.
"Hey," she calls after him, still out-of-breath, "what's your name?"
He mumbles something unintelligible, and continues walking.
She gathers herself up, pushes the hair out of her eyes. "What?"
"John Paul Jones," he says, and before he can leave again, she grabs his arm.
"You're the bass player from Led Zeppelin?" She's drunk, but she's not that drunk.
"Look, it doesn't matter, okay? I don't even want to know your name." He looks like he wants to get out of there, but can't think of a good reason to leave.
"Let me buy you a drink."
So she buys him another whiskey, and he gulps it down, mutters something about his brother and Stanford and--
"I go to Stanford!" she blurts out.
And now, he has his reason, though she doesn't really understand why.
"I should go," he says. "Work to do. Dad's waiting for me." She wants to press the issue of his brother, but she doesn't. He slaps a ten-dollar bill on the bar as he stands up. "I should be buying you drinks. Sorry." He kisses her cheek, and before she can thank him, he's gone.
(When she sees him years later, that night in Sam's apartment, she tells herself she doesn't know him, because he clearly doesn't recognize her: she was probably "bimbo #47 on my tour of California" that August. But somewhere in the back of her throat, she tastes the faint sting of whiskey, and she knows.)
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