It was late afternoon in the fall. I decided to head to a tiny brew pub that was just a few blocks up from the pier. I needed a quick beer, and this was an area that I used to know pretty well when I lived around here.
I had driven by the place several times, but had never gone in. Though I only had a few minutes, today seemed like a good time to check it out. When I entered, there were a few people gathered, but it wasn’t too busy. Three foursomes were seated at booths along the side wall, and two guys were at the small bar. Behind it, seated at a desk and talking on the phone, was the female bartender.
The bartender – oh my god! She was a stunning strawberry blonde in her early 30s with a beautiful face and a fantastic rack. She had flawless skin, beautiful green eyes, and a sensual mouth that featured plump, soft lips. Her eyebrows were dark, and her beautiful blonde hair was long, and curled around her shoulders and down her back. It gave her an air of mystery and intrigue.
She was wearing a pearl necklace, and matching pearl bracelets, and she accentuated her hourglass figure with a tight-fitting, thin, white blouse buttoned from the bottom up until it reached the underside of that rack. It seemed as if she had given up any hope that she could fasten the top four buttons to conceal her prodigious pair. The blouse gave way to a tight sort of lacy, outer bra top that revealed her spectacular cleavage. Over the blouse, she wore a kind of business jacket. I took a seat at the end of the bar, astounded by my good fortune, a chance encounter with an incredibly hot woman.
When she saw me sit down, she excused herself to the caller and, handing the receiver to one of the guys at the bar, “it’s for you she said.” Then, she came over to wait on me. She smiled brightly, and asked, “What can I get you, honey? I’m pouring everything on the menu, except the brown ale today.”
She slid the small menu toward me, and without looking at it, I said casually, “I’ve never much cared for brown ales anyway. What would you recommend?”
Her smile returned, and I knew I had made the right decision. Banter like this was right in her wheelhouse. “Normally, I don’t like lighter beers,” she said, “but I think the Bootlegger Blonde” is good. It’s a lager, not an ale. More like a European pilsner, if you like those.” I did, but more than that, I liked looking at her.
I figured I was in a place where it was virtually impossible to run into anyone I knew, and that afforded me an opportunity for some shameless flirting, something, quite frankly, that I had never really done a lot of before. I’m not really that kind of guy, but I thought, in this instance, I had nothing to lose, so I gave it a try. I looked right into her eyes, without hesitation or embarrassment and said, “I can’t resist a good blonde” and smiled.
She blushed deeply, a blush that spread across her face, neck, and upper chest before disappearing inside that lacy bra top. She broke eye contact with me, fearful that this flirtation would spiral out of control. There were people in the place. I got it, and backed off. “I guess I’ll have one of those,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Sounds good,” she said, walking back to the handles without looking back at me.
She poured the blonde lager into a slender pilsner glass, brought it back to me and set it on the bar on one of the pub’s customized coasters. “Do you want to settle up now, or should I keep a tab open for you?” she asked somewhat timidly. I thought I might have scared her off earlier, but now that bright smile returned.
“Yeah, keep it open,” I said with an air of brazen chutzpah. I knew I was only going to have one. I had a dinner to attend with my old boss. I had to be there in less than an hour, and I had about a 20 minute drive to get to the restaurant. It was something I couldn’t skip out on because that was a bridge I didn’t want to burn, so I don’t know why I said that. I guess I just liked saying the word “open.” I was looking right at those tits when I did so, and she definitely took notice.
She returned to the guys at the other end of the bar, and took the receiver from the older of the two and hung it up. Then, she began talking and laughing with them. She obviously knew them, but I wanted to find out if one of them had designs on her.
As I eavesdropped on their conversation, I surmised that the younger of the two was her brother; they seemed like they knew each other intimately, but showed each other no overt affection. The other guy, Donny, had on a wedding ring, but as the old saying goes, “that don’t plug no holes.”
As Donny was talking, he let slip her name – “Doreen.” From the gist of the conversation, I realized she lived nearby. She mentioned her ex, and from that and her bare ring finger, I gathered she was divorced and single. So far so good.
Pretty soon, two young attractive women entered the door and joined the two guys at the bar. The blonde was Donny’s bahis firmaları wife, and the brunette appeared to be Doreen’s brother’s girlfriend. Doreen came around to the other side of the bar, nodding to the brunette almost coldly, which surprised me, but greeting the blonde with a warm hug, and it gave me a chance to fully check her out. She was unbelievable.
As she poured each of them a beer, I finished mine. I knew I had to leave, but at least now I had something to go on. I stood up and drew my wallet from my pants, and pulled a bill out.
The chalkboard behind the bar clearly spelled out the prices – all of the beers, including the Bootlegger Blonde, were 6 bucks, but I realized I had walked in on Happy Hour, so my pilsner was a buck off. What a bargain! The beer wasn’t too good, but damn, she was fine.
She saw me throw a ten on the bar, and as started for the door, I thought that she would leave everything alone, and that would tell me that there was no reason to pursue this playful little flirtation.
But she surprised me, “I was hoping you’d stay for another, but thanks, I really hope you’ll come back some time,” she said with that enticing smile that offered something much, much more. It conveyed everything I needed to know, telling me, “Come back when no one else is around, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, I will,” I said. “I really enjoyed that blonde. Thanks so much.” She now fully understood and appreciated the purpose of my double entendre, if she hadn’t already done so, and she had opened the door for my return. That was a certainty.
But I didn’t get back to town for five months, and when I did, I was only around for one night. I had been thinking about her for all that time; she’d really had an effect on me, but there was no use pursuing her from a distance.
Now, I had a chance to find her, to see if she was unattached, and if she was, whether I had any chance with her. I didn’t expect I would. I’m pretty much an “Average Joe” – I’m not that handsome, nor do I have a huge dick. It seemed to me she was out of my league.
Still, I was hopeful. I parked across from the brew pub, walked across the street, and through the door. There was a small crowd inside, a mixture of people of all ages, a few good looking women, but just a young guy tending bar.
I sat at the bar, and when the young guy came over, I ordered an IPA. When he brought it back and set it in front of me, I asked. “Is Doreen working by any chance?”
He looked at me quizzically and answered, “No, it’s her night off. She’s probably at home. If you want to talk to her, I would suggest you give her a call.”
“Thanks, I’ll probably do that,” I lied.
He didn’t take it any further, and I knew there wasn’t much more I could do or say – I couldn’t ask for her number without it getting back to her, and ruining things in the future. I didn’t want to scare her off, make her think I was some kind of creepy guy. At that point, I had no idea how much longer it would take me to find her. So I decided to bide my time. I just sat there and drank my beer and looked around the place.
Then, behind the bar I spied a photograph. It was her, in some kind of glamour shot, which made its presence on the wall behind the bar of a brew pub all the more incongruous.
I couldn’t figure out why it was there. It seemed way too provocative for a business establishment, but then maybe the owner had his reasons for hiring Doreen in the first place; maybe the photograph was another enticement to people to come in, even if she wasn’t there.
I just stared at it, mesmerized, transfixed. And though the essentials were the same: the beautiful pale skin, the piercing green eyes, the dark, mysterious eyebrows, the exquisite mouth, those big, pouty, soft lips, the slender waist, and those incredible breasts, her appearance was different somehow.
She wore a turquoise party dress with straps, leaving her shoulders bare. Like most everything she wore, it was tight-fitting, with a plunging neckline that accentuated her bust, and it sported an extremely high hemline that, because she seemed to be tugging at it, barely covered her shapely ass, but emphasized her long, toned legs.
Her hair was straighter than I remembered it and platinum blonde near the ends. She wasn’t smiling, but staring into the camera with a smoldering sensuality, like she was trying to set that camera and the photographer aflame, burn them to the ground and take any viewers with them.
But the thing that caught my eye the most was the pearl necklace she wore around her delicate neck. It was the same necklace she was wearing the first time I saw her. It wasn’t so much a fashion accessory as it was a promise, a pledge to whomsoever saw it that she would honor its possibilities. She appeared to be posed in her own home, in a brightly decorated sunroom that overlooked her backyard and patio.
I stared at that photo for 15 minutes. The image kaçak iddaa seared itself into my mind. I memorized it.
When I returned home, I kept thinking about that photograph – imagining her naked, picturing those tits, jacking myself off every time the image of her voluptuous body and sensual face came to my mind. Pretending I was fucking her breasts, sliding my length between them while I stared into her green eyes. And envisioning those lips wrapped around my erect cock, sucking me, urging me to cum, to explode on her face, her neck, and those unbelievable tits, which were so large they wouldn’t allow a drop to hit the ground.
The next time I was there was another seven months later in the fall, and I had the whole weekend free. Late Friday afternoon, I searched the street for the brew pub, but it was nowhere to be found! I remembered that it was up the street on the road that ran directly into the town’s famous pier. I thought I found the building that used to house it, but it was empty.
“Damn,” I thought to myself. I actually have some time, and now I can’t find the place, much less her. I walked back down the street, where I saw a cop tucking a parking ticket for an expired meter under the windshield wiper of a BMW 700 Series sedan. “Good,” I thought to myself, and I called to him. “Excuse me, officer. There used to be a brew pub somewhere around here, I think. Do you by any chance know where it is?”
He looked up at me, his face painted with confusion, and for a moment, he seemed to be trying to process what I had just said. “Oh, yeah, it moved. I think now it’s down on Walnut Street, just a block south of this street.” He pointed, back toward the ocean. “But,” he warned, “I don’t know if it’s open yet. They just moved a few months ago.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check it out,” and I headed down the hill toward the pier.
When I got to Walnut, I turned left, walking south. I found the place. A sign was affixed to the front of the building announcing the brewery, but when I looked in the window, the place was empty.
I could see the bar and some booths, with boxes of glassware and other bar equipment stacked next to them. Chairs and stools were stacked on the tables. A sign on the front door’s window read “Grand Re-opening, Friday, October 28.”
“Shit,” I thought to myself. I’d missed her by a week.
I spent the rest of the weekend trying to figure out what her last name was. I went to the brewery’s website, tried to Google her first name and the towns where she might have lived. I entered that first name in Facebook, LinkedIn, and practically any social networking site I could think of.
I even read the entire phone book to see if I could find someone with that same first name. It wasn’t like she was a “Mary,” or “Kate,” or “Jane.” But I came up with nothing.
All I had was that picture of her in my head – those tits, that body, her face. I beat myself raw thinking about her – first in my hotel suite, then at home, at work, even when I was in some store somewhere and saw some girl who looked even a little bit like her, and in two minutes, I was in the bathroom of that place, beating myself silly in a toilet stall. After that weekend, I simply could not stop thinking about her; I was addicted.
It was another six months before I got back to town. I headed straight for the brew pub late on a Friday night. I had been working all day, but now I was open for the entire rest of the weekend and thought I might catch her just before she closed up the place.
I figured if she was interested in me she might still live nearby, and if she didn’t, my hotel suite was just up the highway a couple miles. It was a posh beachside resort, and though I only stayed in places that nice because my company put me up there, I was really hoping it might help me hitch up with her. I figured the place would impress her for sure.
I opened the door to find the pub nearly empty. My heart sank. It was still pretty early in the tourist season, and the big crowds wouldn’t start showing up until right around Memorial Day and afterward. That was a full month away. To my immense disappointment, a man around fifty was behind the bar, and there wasn’t a woman in the place.
I sat at one end of the bar, and ordered a Double IPA. I wanted to get drunk. I was really frustrated. While I nursed my beer, he talked to three other guys at the other end of the bar.
I finished the strong ale, looked at that same chalkboard that I had seen hanging in the other place a year and a half ago. The board listed the ABV for each of the beers. To the right of the words Longboard Double IPA, it read, “9.8%.” I ordered another, and later one more.
It was after 11 now, and I didn’t want to return to that resort with my dick in my hand. The guys at the bar finished up the last of their final round and headed for the door. I had half my beer left, so the bartender, the only other person in the place now, who I had kaçak bahis come to learn was the owner, asked me, “Can I get you another one, buddy?”
He clearly wanted to close up, and seemed relieved when I said, “no, I think I’ll just finish this one and be on my way.”
As I sipped from my glass, I was beginning to feel that ale working its magic. I turned to the guy, as he was wiping up the other end of the bar, and said out of the blue, “Heh, do you by any chance know a woman by the name of Doreen that used to bartend back at the other location?”
“Doreen? Yeah, sure I know her,” he said.
“Does she still work here?” I asked.
“Nah, she left about six months or so ago when I was waiting to get the money together to move into this new place. She needed a job, and I didn’t have anything for her for a couple of months, so she quit. You a friend?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I did business with a friend of hers, Donny,” I lied. “But the number on the card he gave me is out of service, and he’s not at the address on the card. I don’t have any other contact info, and his name isn’t in the book. I remembered that she was friends with him and figured she’d know how to contact him.”
“Oh, Donny, yeah, he, and some other guy he was always with, used to hang around at the other place a lot when she worked there, now he goes to her new place. I haven’t seen him much lately.”
“Where’s her new place?” I asked, nonchalantly. It was a long shot, but what did I have to lose? “I’m only in town for a couple of days, and I really wanted to get in touch with Donny,” I lied again. “I’m hoping he still has his old car for sale.”
“She’s bartending over at Scotty’s by the highway on Bryce Street. You might even catch her there tonight. She’d know how to get in touch with Donny,” he said confidently. He must have bought the whole thing. “Nice looking lady, Doreen,” he said almost in passing, “I can see why you’d remember her.” Maybe he did know my real intentions.
“Yeah,” I said, “I seem to remember that.” Boy, that was an understatement – I’d been thinking about that woman for a year and a half now. I drained the rest of my glass, left the money on the bar and headed for the door. “Thanks, a lot,” I said. I meant it too.
“Have a good night,” he said as I was going out the door.
“Oh, I’m going to try,” I thought to myself.
I walked a half a block to my car, and turned it back around to head up the hill to the highway. I didn’t know exactly where Scotty’s was, but I knew Bryce Street, and I figured it wouldn’t be hard to find it. I was right.
When I pulled into the parking lot, there were only two cars in front of the place. I walked in the front door, and it was dark inside. You know, one of those places where it’s a completely different scene during the day, when the place is bright and light is streaming through the windows. While at night, it turns into a meat market, where you try hooking up with anyone you can find in the darkness.
Before I spotted her in the dim light, I somehow knew she was there. It was like I could smell her, smell her sex, calling me, drawing me to her.
Sure enough, there she was behind the bar. I could not believe it; what were the odds? She looked even better than I remembered. She was wearing a strapless satin top that exposed even more of her cleavage than the last time I saw her, and she wore a cashmere sweater over her shoulders.
Her strawberry blonde hair was even longer than in the photo, and streaked with platinum accents, but still dark at the roots and around her temples, and she was wearing it in a kind of up-do. Her slender waist was stuffed somehow impossibly into the tightest, shortest skirt I’d ever seen, and those slim, toned legs didn’t look like they’d ever end.
Oh, and she was wearing that pearl necklace again!
The only other people in the bar were two 50-something blonde women, who looked like sisters, drinking Cosmopolitans at a table on the north side of the room. They were drunk, and their glasses were almost empty. I sauntered up to the bar and took a seat as far away from the women as I could.
She came over to me just exuding sex. Maybe it was me. I had built up this moment for so long that it seemed like her sensuality had increased exponentially now that I had found her. Still, there was no denying, her every move was sexual – her walk was more of a shimmy, and she slid her hands over her hips as she approached me with that flirtatious smile.
I spoke before she could say anything. “I’ve been looking for you,” I said cryptically.
“Oh yeah, why’s that?” she asked still smiling. She pretended not to remember me, but I could tell she did, even if all she recalled was that we had flirted with each other at some time. “Do I know you?”
“You turned me on to a really fine blonde, a couple of years ago over at the brew pub,” I said, continuing our playful banter from eighteen months back. “A pilsner, if I recall correctly.”
“Really? I’m not sure that I remember, but then, I’ve been serving a lot of beers for a long time. We don’t have any pilsners here,” she said, trying to play coy.