The Fun of a Good Flirt....Part 1

...I sit at the local waterin hole, perched on a bar stool, lazily stirring my whiskey sour. Barely lifting my head from admiring the way the dark brown whiskey blends perfectly with the mellow yellow of the sour mixer, my eyes scan the room. The ususals are here...the dead heads as we call the old cronies who inhabit this spot. Always complaining that the music is too loud or the drinks are too strong, they set a tone that if not raged against would kill any fun at all. My hopeful eyes make a full 360 of the room with nothing to appreciate for it. I return to my drink hoping for some excitement before the time to return home arrives.

As I near the bottom of my glass and contemplate whether or not to order another the distinct sound of the upstairs door opening visits my ears. I hear voices I don't recognize and I anxiously turn to see who will bound down the stairs. To my delight it is a group of men and women who look as if they are in desperate need of post work refreshment. The bartender barks a demand for ID's as I discreetly observe the group. They're not in couples. There are two girls and four guys. Hands around the waist and soft kisses tell me who is with whom and who is left to play with.

I appears I have two options. The first looks to be in his mid twenties. His soft blue eyes are already staring intently at the tattoo on my lower back that peaks out when I lean over to take a pull off of my drink. I turn my head slightly. He bashfully smiles and runs his fingers through his short blonde hair. I turn back to my drink. I'm not big on blondes.

The newbies seat themselves in the corner closest to the bar, much to the dismay of the dead heads, and begin to boisterously recount their workday. I did not get a good look at my second choice yet so I wave the bartender over and request $5 in ones for the jukebox. As I walk over I glance over at the table. The second option is much more to my taste. Late thirties, dark hair, nice build. I can’t see his face fully yet so I walk over to the jukebox returning a smile from one of the young ladies with the group. This is odd behavior to me. Usually the girls are givin me the stink eye. I cozy up to the jukebox, an old friend of mine, and begin my selections. Some Hinder, Aerosmith, Carrie Underwood and Rob Zombie should do the trick.

As I turn to head back to my seat I bump squarely into option number two, who has decided that he wants to make some selections. I raise my eyes from his chest to his face, admiring his deep brown eyes and smile slightly, placing a hand softly against his chest as I move past.

“Excuse me”, I mutter as I move away and return to my seat. He is very handsome and none of the “Aw shucks” bullshit that the younger one has. I glance back once in route to my barstool and he smiles directly into my eyes. He is confident. That is a major turn on. I smile back, sit down and order another drink.

The bar begins to fill up slowly. My usual group of friends arrives and we begin our slow descent into licentiousness. The drinks flow freely and are consumed just as quickly. We have moved from the bar to a table conveniently located directly across from option number two’s line of sight.

The coyness of sobriety is wearing off as the drinks are settling in and my actions are filled with a little more bravado. I bravely examine the occupants of the newbie’s table hoping to catch the eye of option number two. My friends have noticed the object of my attention and the men in our group start with their jibes about the fate of this poor guy. Our uproarious laughter draws the attention of the newbie table and I am allowed a brief moment of enticing eye contact with option number two. In that brief tick where our eyes meet my coquettish facade is replaced by a more brazen, are you man enough demeanor.

He reacts exactly as I predict he will. A challenge has been set before him and like any man he cannot resist a battle he is sure he will win. Little does he know that the female he is now viewing as prey has taken down men wiser, stronger and more confident than he. Like a sassy little kitty cat I walk by him on the way to the pool table, swishing my back end to get the Tomcat’s attention.

Keeping my awareness strictly on the game at hand I avoid any further glances in his direction for the time being. He however cannot take his eyes off of my form that is now fully bent over the pool table in an attempt to make a very long shot. Nine ball, corner pocket! I walk over to my table to light a smoke and slam down some Jack before I plan my next move both in the pool game and in the game between Tomcat and I.

I step up to the bar to order another drink. I feel his presence before I see him, standing behind me, calculating his next move. The bartender’s eyes confirm my gut feeling as she glances over my head and then into my eyes with that “You got him” smile.

“Ya gonna buy me a drink or what”, I say without turning. The bartender, Sheri, receives her nod of approval from him but I spin abruptly, leaning against the bar on my elbows. “No I think I changed my mind. This one is on me Sheri,” I tell her. “Whatch ya drinkin Tomcat?”

He smiles and shakes his head in resignation. “I’ll have a Bud, but I’d like to buy these.”

“I can appreciate that fact Tomcat but I don’t like feelin like I owe anybody, especially someone I don’t know. So this ones on me”, I nod to Sheri “and you can perhaps get the next one”. I hand him his Bud, grab my drink, smile and walk back to the pool tables.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him walk back to the newbie table where his friends instantly lean in to get the news of his adventure into my territory. Pleasantly I notice that he is not full of the usual swagger and boasting that most guys would be. He shrugs, shows the beer and they all look in my direction. I smile as he holds up his beer in toast to me and I silently raise my own drink.

Several more strategically planned shots into my game Sheri the bartender comes over with drinks for me and my friends. I smile knowingly and Sheri corrects my incorrect assumption. “They’re from the blonde guy.”

To be continued....