I’m exploring writing styles and genres; please enjoy (or don’t) this third person, present tense, 🍆💦 flash fiction.
I’m not an alcoholic, she thinks, and drinks, alone at the bar with the music playing and the bartender serving she drinks again, and thinks again, I only drink when I’m lonely, and says out loud to no one in particular and yet to everyone at the bar with her: I’m not an alcoholic.
But they don’t hear her or they don’t care because, quintessentially, she is drinking alone at the bar where the bartender is serving and she is thinking, I might be a social alcoholic.
So she drinks again and orders another beer to replace her now empty glass with her second (it’s only two, I can stop whenever I want) pint of Coors topped off with a little lemonade – it’s a shandy – and saunters away from the bar, to a table near the saxophonist, and watches ardently as she with the blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony closes her eyes and blows – blows really hard by the looks of it – and her fingers press the buttons (are they keys?) to make the music play out.
Jazz clubs have never been her thing. And despite getting stood up this evening, she decided to stay, and give it a shot (or two), because she really was feeling quite lonely as of late and, well, she doesn’t drink when she’s at home and she’s wearing her bodysuit – the lace one with the boob straps that makes them look oh so appetising plus her dark emerald green trousers and the high heels to crush several pairs of balls with and he didn’t even bother to show up. Or send a text. A “sorry I’m not feeling it any more” would have been good. Fine. A deflation of her chest but an acknowledgement and morsel of respect for not leaving her alone, in the jazz club with the saxophonist and two pints of Coors (shandies) and a foot that’s actually tap tap tapping away at the rhythm.
She wishes she had a notepad. And a pen. So she could sketch. Sketch the lovely blonde saxophonist with the long pointed nails in gold and red – like her eyeshadow, like her shoes – like the case and lining she can see tucked away behind the sound system.
Instead, she pulls out her phone and texts her sister. Guess who didn’t show.
You’re fucking kidding
Followed by
What a twat. Did he say why? Have you asked?
No, I don’t want to hear his excuses
Where are you now??
Still at the club. Why waste my pretty face and all that jazz
Love that for you. Enjoy x
She tucks her phone away in her bag, takes another sip of her drink, stares at the lovely blonde standing centre stage of the club with her eyes closed and her fingers moving- in her peripheral, the chair beside hers is dragged out, someone – man – sits down.
She side eyes him. Says nothing. Returns her attention to the lovely blonde.
Ahem.
She turns to him, only slightly, a head movement and not a body movement, because she doesn’t know this man. He isn’t the one she is (was) waiting for.
What’s a girl like you doing alone looking like that?
What makes you think I’m alone?
I don’t see a date.
Hmm. She turns her attention back to the lovely blonde.
So. He tries again, are you enjoying the music?
She’s really quite nice. And she isn’t talking about just the music. The lovely blonde looks over, at that moment, as if sensing the compliments directed her away – but she looks away, won’t meet her gaze, turns fully towards the man she knows is trying to get into her pants.
Are you going to buy me a drink?
He is shocked, momentarily, caught off guard by the abruptness but recovers quick, swift as a falcon on the hunt, and asks, another pint?
Vodka martini.
Okay then.
He returns with the drinks – whiskey on the rocks for himself – and she listens as one melody morphs into another. She learns his name is Mike. Kate. Born and bred in Gloucester. Moved to Bristol five years ago for university and never left.
What do you do for work? She swirls a finger around the rim of her martini glass.
I’m an architect. Yourself?
I work in digital design.
He nods in approval. As if my job is important to him.
Do you live nearby?
I do, she tells him. But not as close as the bathroom, here. She stands, necks the rest of her drink, and walks pointedly towards the bathroom.
He joins her not two minutes later, sliding closed the lock on the bathroom stall behind him. He tastes of whiskey and ginger. She wonders what he ate before coming here, to the jazz club, sitting at her table and buying her a drink and following her oh so easily to the bathroom.
She’s grateful for the bodysuit, because when he spins her around, pushes her up against the cubicle door, he can’t get into her underwear. Not that I’m wearing any. His fingers skim against the nylon, and she pulls him closer, her arms tightening somewhat around his neck, playing with the hair at his nape.
He pushes firm, against the material covering her labia, her clitoris. The feeling is both warm and cold, at first, as he begins to stroke round and round, circle, move up and down.
It’s not long until she wants more. She moans against his lips before pulling away, for air, for what comes next. She pushes him back some, removes his hand from her trousers.
What’s wro- he starts to ask, but stops, as Kate gets on her knees before him.
The tiled floor is rough and cold, even with the cushioning of her trousers, but she doesn’t let the slight burn and gristle of whatever is crumbed on this floor slow her down. And then she’s taking it out of his boxers, and he’s grabbing and bunching up her hair as she kisses the length of his cock, trails along the underside with her tongue. She licks at the precum gathered by his tip, swallows it with her own saliva. She feels him twitch as her mouth closes around him, and hears the moan escape his mouth.
His grip tightens in her hair, finger tips flexing against her skull. Her eyes water as she gags around him. Again. And again. She pulls back, lets herself breathe.
Had enough? He smirks down at her.
Never, she smiles, and opens wide.
When she feels him stiffen, his leg unwittingly jerk, she knows he’s close. He’s going to cum in my mouth, she thinks, and she’s right; it shoots to the back of her throat, and she wants to gag, her throat wants to close and repel and expel – she forces herself to swallow. It’s not a taste she likes. It never has been.
They exchange pleasantries, but they don’t exchange numbers, and he leaves her alone in the stall. Kate probably won’t see him again, is quite confident that they run in different circles. She swills her mouth with tap water, touches up her lipstick. Tousels and fingers her hair, to give it that mussed-but-deliberate look.
I think you can heavily tell my writing has been influenced by recent reading of Beautiful World, Where Are You by Sally Rooney. I umm’ed and ahh’ed about posting this because, inherently, this is not a style or even genre I regularly write, but 2024 is all about pushing my boundaries, so I made myself hit that ‘publish’ button even if I feel slightly cringed out.
I did originally ask an AI generator to create the vision of the saxophone player from my mind, but then I felt guilty about using AI for a creative illustration, so I chose a photo from Pexels (Cottonbro studio) in the end as the lead for this post. But I’ll put the AI image below, as I do think it nailed the prompt.
