Free Johnnie Blue by Denyse Cohen

Another fucking wedding. Haven’t women learned their lesson already? Men are dead meat on a stick, half of them will screw you and the other half don’t know how to screw you.
    “I need a drink,” I murmured to myself walking toward the bar. On my way, I grabbed a glimpse of the bride holding the bouquet and the other hopeful women gathering around her. “At least she had the decency to have an open bar.”
    The view of the bartender was obstructed by the powerful back of a man sitting on a stool and leaning against the bar. I could only see the top of his tousled dirty-blonde hair as he bent his head toward his glass, totally ignoring the herd of single women sitting a few stools down and glaring at him like he was a deity. If what I was viewing from behind was any indication of what was at the front, he might as well have been. With his feet propped on the railing around the bar, his tighs stretched his suit pants and his back tapered to a narrow waist on top of a round ass.
    Yummy .
    “Whiskey, neat,” I asked the bartender, placing myself between the man and the herd of women staring at him like bitches in heat. From the corner of my eyes, I saw him turning his head toward me, checking me out from feet up. It was nice to know that at 35 I still got it. Luckily, I actually enjoyed exercising and my Italian bloodline granted me all the curves in the right places. Fuck the professional bob cut, my brown wavy hair falls almost to my waist. I was wearing high heel sandals with fresh pedicured red toenails, a silky brown dress sitting at mid-thigh: simple and loose but it showed my toned body as I moved, especially my ass which I was told many times was my best asset. Thank you, Italia! His eyes unashamedly traveled up as if he was measuring my body inch by inch. Asshole, I thought. No class at all. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the burn of his hungry eyes over me.
    “A woman with a real drink…interesting,” He said when the bartender placed my drink in front of me. Oh, shit. My pussy tingled at his voice: deep and coarse and so sexy. Instinctively, the first place I looked was his cock and I bit my lower lip when I saw the massive bulge on his pants.
    I lifted my eyes quickly and found his grey eyes fixed on mine, “Oh, please! Men are scared shitless of women that can handle their alcohol.” I turned my face toward the women beside me, they all held flutes of orange colored drinks. Mimosas? Fucking shit twigs.
    “Not me. I think a woman with a real drink is sexy as hell.”
    “Good for you,” I said dismissively.
    When I reached for the glass he said, “Nice rock.”
    I looked down at my wedding ring: a princess cut diamond the size of a black-eyed pea, then took a big gulp of whiskey and shrugged. “My husband thinks he can buy me.”
    “And where’s the lucky man?”
    I looked into those eyes the color of cold-rain, his unshaven square jaw, and perfectly contoured lips and thought this man was a real danger. “Probably after one of the bridesmaids trying to get laid.”
    He shook his head and knocked back his drink. “Why do you put out for an idiot?”
    “It’s none of your business,” I said finishing my drink in another big gulp, banging the glass on the bar, and wincing at the burn. The man continued staring at me, still waiting for an answer. “He has a big dick.”
    “Ha!” He snorted. “Haven’t you heard? Size is not everything.”
    “When you have a pussy you can talk to me about size.”
    He laughed hard and his laughter was like velvety dark chocolate: smooth and rich. Despite myself, I stared at his face, his lips, noticing little dimples forming in his cheeks. I could almost feel the taste of his skin in my tongue and it made me swallow dry.
    “Let me buy you a drink.”
    I cocked my head and lifted an eyebrow. “It’s an open bar.”
    “Not for the good stuff.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a money clip, then removed a fifty dollar bill.