He's staring at me now. I've been aware of his eyes on me since I walked into this dreary bar. It's raining outside. We're the only two people in this desolate place. The bartender has long since retired for the night, leaving us to whatever he thought we would do. My girlfriends have left, also. Brandy had a few too many brandies, and she left long ago, giggling in the arms of some new stranger. The 1920's… what a wonderful time to live in. He lights a cigarette.
He doesn't care that I know now. He knows I know that he's been watching me. I know something he doesn't know, apparently. He'll figure it out by the end of the night. I refuse to look into his eyes. I know what I will see there- lust, guilt for a pregnant wife at home, watching the other children sleep peacefully. She knows he's a cheater. She's always known.
Society, I sigh. Society and all its cast-iron cages wage war in my mind everyday. I see no point in taboo- if it feels natural, it is. Men cheating on their wives- it's been happening since the beginning of time. Sex, it just feels so…nice. I understand the desperate need men feel, but I cannot appreciate it. Deep down, they know the physique of the female mind. We know what they do. We always have.
He shifts in his seat. He's getting antsy now. I lift my whisky to my lips. I swallow deeply, allowing the strong liquor to burn my throat deliciously. I ease the burn with a puff of my cigar. Men are not allowed to have deep, sensual feelings. They are good for fucking, and nothing more. They know this. That is why they cheat. They must be practical. Cheating on his wife is what the first married man did, so they all followed suit. The women… yes, the women… they were always far more careful.
He removes himself from the seat at the bar. He slides into a chair across from the couch I'm lying on. I can tell he's drinking my appearance like a man dying of thirst. I am, after all, a very lovely woman. My soft breasts are exposed to the room's drab air. My bare hips shift slightly as I try to find comfort. My skin is soft, and pleasing to touch, pleasing to look at. I raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to speak.
He swallows deeply. Say something, you bastard. You know you want to. He opens his mouth, but I make a tut-tut noise at him gently. I wag my manicured finger at him. He smiles, as if he thinks I'm teasing him. Damn right I am. Suffer, you poor diseased fool. Suffer. Want me, want all of me. You deserve to die of thirst.
"My kind sir- surely you know it is not polite to stare?" He smiles at me wolfishly. Dear, God. He's going to try to play it intelligent. All the men in this time do. If they speak properly, they are viewed as proper people. What a mockery. "How can I help myself when such a divine beauty rests before my eyes?" I close my eyes and shake my head a few times, slowly. "And why resist the liquor when the speak-easies go through so much trouble to get it?" He quirks a brow at me. "Indeed."
I push back my shorn, curly hair from my forehead. The whiskey has blurred my vision, and I need not a veil of curls further obstructing my view. He eyes my breast as my arm rises to brush the hair from my eyes. I can practically see his mouth watering. He's wallowing in some sick fantasy right now. Want me. Want to touch me, want to taste me. Want me, you bastard.
Several moments go by, and I still refuse to look into his eyes. I do not need his regret on me, but I am terribly bored. The storm outside has not eased one bit, and the liquor is putting me to sleep. "So, my kind sir- What brings you here tonight?" He seems caught off guard by my question at first, so he shrugs. He looks at the ceiling for a moment. He's going to lie. Oh, how I read people so easily.
"I felt like going out tonight. It's been a rough day at the office. A white-collar career is much more difficult than most realize." I laugh, and it is a wonderful sound. It's deep, throaty- almost like a purr. The purr of a lioness. I look into his eyes and see the lies swimming there. I take another sip of my whisky, never straying from those dark pools of forest green. Lovely eyes. Almost feminine. "You are lying, mister."
He quirks a brow at me. Oh, stop doing that. It makes you look less sophisticated that you think. "Excuse me?" He inquires with a sense of incredulousness in his voice. I am not one of you whores, little boy. Do not play games with me. "You are lying." I state again, simply. I take another drag from my cigar. I let the smoke pour from my lips. I lick them softly. I shiver as I taste the rich tobacco. I don't have to look at him to know he's thinking. Thinking of what I could possibly know.
"Would you care to explain your statement, miss?" Oh, he's getting defensive. Men have far too much testosterone. I sigh before beginning. "You have had an argument with your wife, for she knows you are a cheater. Your children began to cry, and she hurried to hush them. You, however, hurried to a bar to lose yourself once more in your guiltiest pleasures. Alcohol and sex. Don't we all yearn for that? Something to ease our consciousness of guilt? And what better way to ease it- drunkenness, to lubricate the process of an amazing orgasm in which we can think of nothing but pleasuring ourselves. Am I correct in my assumptions?"
He stares at me, mouth agape. I am grinning inside. I know him already. I've known them all. He leans back into his chair. "Madam, what upbringing allowed you such a foul tongue?" I stretch lazily. "The kind in which I had no parents to guide me and all of myself to learn of. Now tell me… was I correct?" He's going to deny it again. "Don't answer. Just know that I have realized your predicament. You need not say anything, my kind sir." He looks as though he will argue, but his body is telling him otherwise. He wants to fuck me, and you don't yell at a woman you are attempting to fuck.
"Do you care to know my name?" I laugh again at his question. "Why would I care to know your name? Names are what we remember on the streets to please strangers. And after tonight, mister, I will never think of you again- Never again will I recognize you." He grins. He does think I am a common whore. All evidence points his male brain to what he thinks is fact- I am naked, drunk, and teasing him. Oh, little man... my world does not work in the way yours does. "So you are a woman who cuts to the chase. I like that in women."
I chuckle. "You like that in your whores. You wouldn't want that in a housewife, now would you? For, if it were so, you would be the one raising the children at home! Laundry, dishes, dirty diapers- Oh, can you imagine!" He looks confused now. I reach for my bag and remove my dress from it's prison. He grabs my wrist. I laugh no more, and look him in his guilty eye. "Are you serious?" I say nothing, but I stare at him. I put the dress back into my bag. He grins, reaches for my body. Fool.
I snatch the knife from it's sheathe and I am on him, pounced on his body, scattering the empty bottles everywhere. My flesh is pressed against his clothes, and he freezes momentarily, not knowing if he should take pleasure in knowing my soft, feminine body is pressed into his, or take fear in knowing his life is now in my hands. I press the knife nearer to his throat. He removes his hands from my body, holding them up as if to say he is defenseless. I know he is. All men are defenseless. Dicks don't make very good weapons when a woman holds her steel.
I ease my body from his, and grab my dress once again. I slip into it quietly, and drape my jacket over my shoulders. I shoot back the last of my whisky. "Speakeasies know they can be jailed for the pleasure they bring their customers. It's a dangerous business. Yet, it is what they love best, so they continue. They live in the danger. They live in the taboo. They live for themselves." I can practically hear his heart pounding. He's terrified. "I must be going sir. The wife is at home waiting." He replies, shakily, "My wife never waits up for me." I stride to the door and twist the knob. I flash him a lazy smile. "Maybe not… but my wife always waits for me."