Given the grief of fathers death, I naturally sought refuge from gushy relatives and his too emotive cronies. Pavlovian as ever, I drifted into my favorite bar.
What had I hoped finding there? Other than reprieve from mourning, I mean?
Frankly, I hoped as raw and as strong as my feelings bubbled, Stella, my favorite bartender, would finally submit. Better, that the years of moony looks weve draped across each other might actually prompt a pity fuck.
No such luck.
That night I left lower than when I arrived.
Apparently someone had slipped her a downer. She was docile Saturday night before last. Fat lap cat docile. Normally shes powder keg ready to explode without any fuse.
A favela girl, feisty, Stella has an oval face framing an impish smile. Yes, her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Shes darkened her short hair. Her behind is still high. Stella is slender enough not to require a bra, yet vain enough to wear belly shirts. When she does, I make it my business to inspect her belly piercing.
Often shes color coordinated.
Sticky as Saturday was, Stella wore some soccer club t-shirt. And no she didnt crop it.
Several rounds passed before I realized she moved through fog. My usual beer cooling in front of me, seeing who filled the stools and tables, diverted focus from her.
Her boyfriend Giancarlo was there. Dont be misled by the name. Hes second generation American. His Italian runs the gamut between his favorite meals.
Should Giancarlo ever visit his grandparents Sicily, the natives might mistake him for Milanese. That is if his mouth didnt betray him first.
Unresponsive, Stella became so loopy she made Giancarlo relieve her. Or he insisted. See, his folks own the bar. It wasnt his night to work. He was just around. Hes been around a lot lately.
Too much for my liking.
Before, I never cared that Giancarlo was screwing Stella. Pretty as she is, Ive only recently been lured.
Giancarlo has a habit of banging the female bartenders. Now theres a perk! His prior fuck buddy actually openly pined after him once he dumped her for Stella.
Talk about longing looks. I almost sympathized. But when her hurt turned into petulance then pestering, I thought enough already! Besides, I understood why Giancarlo had kicked her to the curb. She was losing her shape and meth began ruining her teeth.
Since becoming interested in Stella, I consider envy questions. What she sees in him, I think, is a super-sized image of what an American man should be.
Giancarlo is not smart. Hes loud, pushy and large. Bright clothing, which he favors, exaggerates those three characteristics. Bluto minus chin stubble. Except Giancarlo is handsome. Which women somehow mistake for charming.
As it is were friends. If he werent nailing Stella, wed be stone buddies. For better or worse, Giancarlo is a mans man. He exudes the confidence and sureness other confident and sure men gravitate toward.
A week ago Saturday Stella was zonked out. Barely earthbound. Last Saturday she returned to form. 51:49 sweetheart to bitch, with only the suckers pushing it.
She wore one of her black leather minis. That and a tight-fitting red tee served as second skins. The only thing open to imagination was what wed do if presented the bed and hours.
My face mustve betrayed the exertions we should go through some late afternoon into early morning. Stella read the large print and grinned knowingly.
Plenty of times Ive given her that look. An intense plaintive gaze. She gets it a lot. When Giancarlo isnt around keeping dibs on his franchise, suddenly bold becoming patrons dust off their most effective come-on mojos.
I dont think its a challenge for her any more. Swatting guys down while they pile up tabs.
The clever ones shell play out just enough string to keep us dreaming. Too cocksure guys she dismisses abruptly. Swarthy men, though, cause Stella to extend herself. Black hair, olive complexions, that days shave skipped, Stella will lend them expectations.
Having seen it far too often for my liking, she drives them, herself, anybody else being nosy, right to the edge. And just before the leap pulls one of those 90 degree cartoon character turns, letting her pursuer and those living vicariously through him plummet a la the Coyote.
Maybe those guys reminded her of her ex-husband or other men before America. Now Giancarlo owns Stella. Possesses her. Do her wrong as he does, she will not, she cannot untangle herself. She is his.
Stella thought shed become the second Mrs. Giancarlo. The first, nowhere near as accepting as Stella, announced their split via a baseball bat to his knees when he returned home after screwing a woman neither his wife nor Stella.
We all wondered for the longest time how he got that limp.
If Stella believed she was next down the aisle, she found out instead she needed to take a number. Giancarlos dick got him in trouble. Again.
Much like his first marriage, his second resulted from an inadvertent pregnancy. Stella didnt seethe. Stella didnt grieve. She waited. Not for long. Giancarlo was back between her legs before I could plead, Baby, let me come over.
The second Mrs. Giancarlo was not a baseball fan. His knees were grateful. However, she quickly followed her predecessor out the door.
Each unnecessary wedding ring has garnished 17% of his every paycheck. Third time better be a charm. My dick has gotten me into tight spots too but at least mine regards latex as a necessary ounce of prevention. Listen to Giancarlo and he swears sheaths deaden his rascal. At 17% per kid maybe he should become less sensitive.
Giancarlo doesnt have to marry Stella. Regardless of where his dick leads him, shell stay right beside him. Or if it gets too tight in that position, behind him.
In a painful to watch way Stella embodies faithfulness. She picks up his considerable slack in that department.
I cant imagine how many instances of social intercourse that bar has provided him. Sometimes I like to stay when hes tending bar and closing because often there are after-hours. Most patrons cant linger far into them so only the sturdy and hearty manage.
Once during the Wonder Bra craze, a pair of stragglers sporting mondo cleavage hung back. Chesty as they were, they remained two hard-looking sisters. Think Princess Stephanie only more so.
Not merely settling for acknowledgement, the two wanted their tits appreciated. Already uninhibited, drunk and encouraged okay, egged on by us, they cobbled together a clumsy striptease.
Except for their bras they got butt-naked.
(Here I must digress. When caught skinny-dipping, why do women make the greatest effort to cover their breasts rather than their slits? Dont be bashful. Send those answers.)
They made spectacles of removing their bras. By the time the new and modern came off, Im sure we saw the old and tired as afterthoughts.
Recently a muchacha newly-arrived from Barranquilla wandered in seeking aguardiente. Its Colombian booze. She was already borracha.
She immediately lusted after Giancarlo, who probably has yet to turn down any free sex. The senorita hung until after closing.
Bad breast augmentation made her special. On a rail thin body a doctor had stuck two oversized fun bags on her chest. All I thought was two balloons on a stick.
Compounding her imbalance was one bad-fit bra. The garment cut so she couldve been mistaken for having four boobs. I got to see this because Giancarlo kept plying her with Cuba libres.
By closing time she loved him. And he is a guy who always seeks sexin. Giancarlo didnt have to work hard at all. A natural showman, it took zero coaxing from us hardcore boozehounds there for him to ramp up the moment.
She acquiesced faster than Giancarlo suggested. The Colombian peeled off her Wolfords, hoisted herself on the bar, hiked skirt up to her waist, and said, eat in Spanish. Giancarlo doesnt speak Spanish but he does know what to do when dinner is called.
His oral technique reminded me of a mastiff attacking a bowl of Ken-L-Ration. I couldve done a more thorough, enjoyable, quieter job. But then all the guys peering over his shoulder possibly shared that sentiment. Thinking back, we mustve resembled some perverse Thomas Eakins tableau.
In short he is the wagon to which Stella has hitched her star. Aware of his mania for fresh flesh, Stella sticks by him. She must believe hes worthy of such loyalty. That must be it because there cant be any other reason for such second-place abasement.
Perhaps I could offer Stella better. But seeing them together, his tenderness and affection toward her more than stunning, I know that contrary to everything else seen or heard, Stella will never show Giancarlo the gate.
He can fuck up to his hearts content and still expect her in his corner.
Man, I dont even love myself that much.