At the Bar
“Ya know what? Fuck it. I will tag along, just to fuck with him, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s what I like to hear, a woman who’ll give a man shit when he deserves it. Don’t back down, and let’s get this show on the road. You might have to sit on my lap, but we’ll make room for ya.”
It did not come to that. We piled into a truck that had bench seats, being able to squeeze in tightly like sardines. Good thing it was not too long of a drive, and with it being New Orleans, a site like ours was about the least of many concerns.
When we arrived at the Whirling Dervish, Granthrax was nowhere to be found. Nobody had seen him. Nobody thought much of me rollin’ in with Patrick through either, at least not verbalized other than asking if I had seen Granthrax.
“Nah, that’s why I hopped a ride over here, as he said he was heading in this direction. Not that I care anymore though, really. He’s not my problem anymore; we just live together.”
A few eavesdropping heads nodded, as if enlightened as to why we were not as close as we used to be. Nobody questioned what happened. A drink was bought for me, then another; kamikazes with vanilla vodka, no bother to ask, merely delivered before me.
Chitchat ensued. Shawn In A Bucket raved about cookies I had given him during a diabetic attack. I gushed on about the hospitality being nothing in comparison to the barbecue at Keith’s house in Chalmette.
We had been sitting in the back yard, gulping up the last of the blood shed between a group of about a half dozen of us. I had thought that the sun was coming up. “That’s such a lovely shade of orange in the sky.”
“You like that? It’s there all the time. That’s not the sun; it’s pollution.”
I contemplated the information. “At least it’s a nice shade to observe in the sky. It almost looks like orange sherbet.”
Ramon laughed at my curiosity of the color, both then and now. Our joke was translated for Patrick and others around who had not shared the experience of a sky of sherbet. Few muted giggles.
The liveliness of the bar was tilting towards boredom. Something exciting had to happen. “A sacrifice needs to be made.”
“But who?” “Are you implying one of us?” “It can’t be one of us…”
“Then it’s the next person who walks through the door.” It was decided. Everyone’s eyes watched the door greedily.
It did not open. Even with everyone’s will focused on the handle of the door, it did not budge. At least for a few minutes.
In that time span of however long it had lasted, months or years, it was very possible that nobody in the bar had blinked. Everyone was poised, ready to strike. Stalking the slightest motion of the door.
When a hand finally pushed it open, there was a drunken laughter heard before the sacrificial arm was visible. Not one, but three. Three unsuspecting victims to be sacrificed, two girls and a guy.
It was only an understood etiquette to let them walk into the bar, as far as they could make it before the door closed. Eyes exchanged glances. Nirvana’s “Rape Me” came on the radio.
When the drums hit hard, the door clicked closed, and the fangs became apparent in a whirlwind rush. Arms grabbing with thick claws. Hair growing thickly matted.
One girl for the vamps, and one girl for the wolves. The man was for any girl, such as myself. Luckily, I only had a couple to share with, compared to the guys, who were shoving each other aside for skin to sink their teeth into.
The girls clothes were shred and tossed into air like confetti from the guys, while us girl were much more meticulous. We were gentle, laughing, carefully unbuttoning each button, stroking his skin and hair, taking our time. It was understood that there was no rush, as girls naturally took longer to dine.
When the pants were removed, one girl giggled. “Look at how small his package is? Seriously now, what were you going to do with two girls other than watch them?”
He tried to object, but that was our cue. Inner thigh, neck and wrist, each penetrated in synchronized timing. Even with our first gulps of blood gushing down our mouths, we could, or at least I could, feel the eyes of hungry males looking down on us as if to ask, “are you gunna finish that?”
As sophisticated ladies, we were sure to leave them a bite, even if a tiny little drained morsel, just to make them feel special enough to think that we were thinking of them, small strokes of the ego. The squirms of his body told us when to stop. When he gave up moving, then we would let the guys finish the rest of him.
This much was understood, though no words had been exchanged between us, and I had not met these girls before this moment, other than a casual glance or nod in the previous club. It was the south wearing off on me, I guess. Those supposed proper manners for the rest of society’s benefit.
It was these same manners that I had had problems learning, for I could not for the life of me understand why girls were only allowed to eat a third, or half at the very most, of any meal they ate either in public or in the company of a man. Being raised on the “eat what you take” rule, I found myself earning many rude glances until this “southern law” had been explained to me. That’s why when Granthrax and I ate with a couple I had always confused with Gary and Thomasa, the man who I can only recall as a fanged artist with facial tattoos and long black wavy hair, I had carved the best half of my succulently bloody steak out and given it to Granthrax to wolf down.
That shrinking violet image was not one that I was well at projecting, but I at least could respect the southern ways while I was living here. When his squirming subsided, I un-plucked my fangs from his neck. The other girls followed my lead, as if holding out as long as they could, neither wanting to truly give up their meal for the males.
We were satisfied enough though. The boys were also patient enough to wait until all three of us were standing, upon which time a swarm of vamps and wolves collided at our feet. Looking around the bar, only the shredded clothing lay evidence to the girls who had been here less than five minutes before.
Less than a minute, nobody would have guessed that a man had been at our feet either. People around the bar lapped at drops of blood like cats licking their fur clean. Faces were momentarily fuller, satisfied with life.
Then the door clicked again. Eyes met eagerly. Fangs dripped.
Emotion ran high, then Goatwhore Sammy stepped through the door. He had not let the door close yet, merely stopped to look at each individual in the eye. “I’m not your dinner, so y’all can stop lookin’ at me now.”
Shoulders hunched. Disappointment slithered into the air. Returning to their chairs and places at the bar, all returned to normal, greeting Sammy with mindless chatter.
Back at home
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