at table near the pool table, the dark hair, exotic chick is texting on her flamboyant phone.
it strikes me as odd that she is alone. attractive ladies don't usually travel alone; especially, not in dungeon dive bars like gooski's. customarily, they travel with other ladies with nice butts and bone structures like themselves.
an eye-candy blonde babe struts into the smoggy bar and hugs little miss exotic (as a i suspected, fetching females don't travel alone.)
a little bit of saliva drips from nate-dawg's quivering lower lip with the addition of the blonde peach buddy. perhaps, there is twitch in his trousers, as well.
nate-dawg and i finish our game of pool. now, a meet-and-greet commences before the ladies challenge our ball skills in pool. the girls are extremely nice, while allowing their shapely sectors to shine. turns out, the exotic one is russian. the blonde one is all smiles, shrugs and hugs with with a low-cut ghostbuster's tee-shirt. nate-dawg keeps mouthing the word, "wow," to me.
"we are no pro," says the russian. "you will kick our butt, but i like to play, for practice and for friends."
"oh, i am sure that you guys are good," says nate-dawg.
"maybe," says the russian, "but i am better when i am bad," then giggles and touches nate-dawg's arm.
nate-dawg glows for awhile, then attempts to break the triangulated pool balls. he misses all the balls, completely. the ladies find his blunder adorable. he tries again, and sufficiently breaks the balls up. game on.
the beer is going down smooth. nate-dawg and i are playing the worst pool of our lives. we don't mind. we don't want the game to end. plus, the ladies' distractions are endless; knee-high boots made of leather, nails of red, perfume from france, haircuts of sassiness, and on and on.
out of the corner of my eye, i spot a bra strap and make my own pool blunder. i knock the eight ball in too early, losing the game for nate-dawg and i. the ladies explode victoriously like they have just won the super bowl. they are jumping, fist pumping, hugging, and toasting.
"we have such great new friends," says the russian, while holding her glass up. we all raise our glasses and gulp down every last sip. "now," continues the russian, "i must exchange number. we all play pool, again, new friends, in future. you know?"
"yes, i get it," i say. we exchange numbers.
"now, we go tiki bar on south side. do you two go too? you should go."
"um, hmm, i'm not sure," i say. "maybe, i don't know."
"ok, bye," says the russian and, bam, they are gone in a swaying flash.
"i have to call my girlfriend," i tell nate-dawg.
"great idea," he says.
i finish the well-timed phone call and turn back to nate-dawg. he shrugs, once, twice, again; he wouldn't stop shrugging his shoulders, almost saying something, but nothing is coming out.
"Um," i say, "do you have something to say?"
"tiki bar?"
"we are going to have to think about this. you have a donut on your car. you shouldn't be driving around too much on that. plus, i am starting to become suspicious of these ladies. they seem like the types of ladies you meet at the beginning of a horror movie. and, i'll tell you how that movie ends, with us getting our organs cut out and sold on the black market."
"you are saying that just because one of them is russian. you're paranoid," says nate-dawg.
"perhaps, but I still want to weigh our options."
(to be continued)
No comments:
Post a Comment