Perspective, the point-of-view, the slant created by choice of narrator is one of my favorite tools to manipulate in writing a story. Here, I took a first-personish narrative about a swinger couple prowling a bar and shifted the perspective twenty feet to the words of a young man watching the swingers operate. What strikes us as sexy when described by the swingers becomes absurd when seen by an uninterested party. Mostly uninterested. – enjoy – Malinov
by Lord Malinov
I was seated at a table in a bar, nursing a beer when a couple sat down at the bar. They were attractive, thirtyish and looking over the room. An overtly sexual demeanor made me think that these were swingers on the prowl, looking for a new plaything. The idea made me laugh and the woman smiled my way.
The bartender brought them their drinks so they twisted behind them to grab hold of the glasses. The gentleman paid for the drinks while the woman fixed her gaze on me. Lowering her drink and licking her lips, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in a movie, being seduced. She squirmed on the barstool and put down her drink.
Facing me directly, she eased her thighs apart. Her short skirt had worked half-way up her thighs. A lightness interrupted the shadows. A thin slip of panty came slowly into view. Then more. Then more. Her legs were well spread and her panties exposed.
Her gentleman said something to her and she turned back toward him. I released the breath I had held without thinking. I don’t know if I blushed but in the dim light of the bar I didn’t think anyone would notice. I wiped a wet napkin over my brow and took a big swig from my beer.
The chair I sat in faced the barstools they sat in, so I didn’t mean to observe their evening, it just happened that way. I watched them flirt with each other, tug and pull and grab and flash between long tongue kisses and dramatic hugs. They were obviously sexual people and I had no doubt they would be screwing before dawn. And they genuinely seemed to like each other. I wondered if they were having an affair.
I watched them flirt with the bartender and waitresses, playing duets of seduction as they complimented and caressed. The staff didn’t seem to mind but they didn’t pay any mind either. It was more like flirting practice, testing out material on people who didn’t care. And who knows maybe a new girl, a bus boy, might get caught in their net.
They worked through the patrons, some they already knew, otherwise anyone who happened to step within their circle. The attractive received more enthusiastic performances than the ugly ones would, but they were genuinely nice to one and all, never burning a bridge, never antagonizing a scene.
With some people, particularly ones they already seemed to know, the flirtation was aggressive, fondling and whispering and stroking and kissing. I saw a few numbers exchanged and several plans to get together next week sometime. They didn’t seem to find what they wanted but they seemed to enjoy the effort. I continued to predict a happy ending to their night out. After all, they always had each other.
At some point, several beers later, I began to feel left out for while I had watched the entire evening unfold, I had only been barely flirted with, a brief glimpse of panty and a smile. I shook off the sour feeling, feeling ridiculous in the process.
The bartender yelled ‘last call’ and we closed out of bills. The woman finally looked at me again, as though she’d forgotten I was there, even though I hadn’t missed a moment of her night out. She cocked her head and pouted. Standing up, she tugged at her skirt and in a flash, pulled down her panties, to the floor and over her shoes. My mouth hung open as she hopped back up on the stool. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as she spread her long legs, revealing her shorn thick damp lips under a faint black brush. I caught my breath as she slipped a finger along the crease. And then it went away.
A pair of panties landed on my arm.
“Those are for you,” she said. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”