THE SEMI-PERFECT LIFE
Copyright © 2014
I walked into the bar on a wave of pure confidence. I was under thirty. I was hot and had the perfect life. I had the perfect career. I made great money. I drove my dream car and lived in my dream house, which happened to be a high-rise apartment on the good side of town. Okay, to be completely honest it wasn’t on the good side of town, but it was right on the edge and if I hadn’t been lied to by that scumbag of a real estate agent about spill over economics…I’d be smack dab in the center of the good side of town. I was cool with it though. It gave me an edge the other people in my office didn’t have and I used that edge like a sword. While I’m telling you about my life, I have to confess that a lot of my current state of mind and confidence is actually coming from the Red Bull and vodka I drank before leaving my semi-awesome apartment. Which leads me to why my awesome life needed Red Bull and vodka to start with. I was on the prowl tonight. There are some things that a girl just can’t get from latex covered toys and the interoffice dating of blue blooded Ivy League boys that got their jobs, businesses, and money from family fortunes. Those other things were just fine on a regular day, but right now I was shopping for something with muscles and tattoos. I was actually celebrating my new promotion and while doing that I wanted to be riding a hard body with a police record and a motorcycle. Hey, don’t judge. Everyone has their thing. Mine just happens to be a long standing sexual fantasy of epic proportions. Since high school I’d always wanted to slum it. Every great romance from the eighties was about a rich girl and her unfortunate love affair with a bad boy, and I’d held off long enough. Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t looking for the romance bit. After watching my mother marry
and divorce her way through most of Manhattan’s high society, I knew better than to bank my happiness on something as unconfirmed as love. I vowed to make my own happiness and right now that happiness involved me finding someone that would pull my hair and slap my ass. I have to admit that a large part of this fantasy was the fact that my sexual experiences up to this point in my life had been forgettable, weak imitations of what I imagined it was supposed to be like. It was bland, boring, and mostly just weird. I stepped timidly up to the bar and ordered a shot of coffee tequila while checking my reflection in the mirror behind the rows of alcohol. I looked self-assured, sexy, and the not so neutral shade of red hot lipstick I was sporting was doing wonderful things for my naturally above average lips. I threw back my shot and waited patiently for the first person to arrive. After five minutes, I looked over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn’t in a gay bar. There were women and men, everywhere. So I turned back to my reflection and reapplied my lipstick. Five minutes later, I was really starting to get nervous. I checked myself over to make sure I wasn’t wearing mismatched shoes or something equally awkward, still nothing. I shimmied my skirt a little higher and crossed my legs before angling for a better view of the men in the bar. I tried catching the eyes of several potential candidates, but all looked unimpressed and quickly returned their attention to their drinks, looking almost scared. I could not believe this was happening. I knew it wasn’t cellulite or my clothes. My long, straight black hair was awesome and I did an hour on the elliptical five days a week. The vodka and energy drink confidence was quickly wearing off, and I started to hear my mother’s nasty comments about my looks from my wonder years. I don’t know how many hours of therapy this little trip to the dark-side was undoing, but if I lasted five more minutes without Mr. Tall Dark and Leather-clad making an interested appearance, I was going to have to reread a self-help book or two. I ordered another drink before the last one wore off and I ran screaming in terror out of the bar. “It’s on the house,” the bartender said, flashing me a bright smile.
He wasn’t wearing leather, I didn’t see any tattoos, and the most intimidating thing about him was the fact that he had his shirt untucked. Still, he looked like he worked out and he had all his hair. He seemed tall too, but I was almost sure it was just because the bar was raised on the other side. He was pretty hot, when I put the whole package together. Maybe I didn’t need biker drama anyway. Maybe I just needed a taste of bad without having to worry about little things like restraining orders and the little pink, worst case scenario, Taser in my clutch. He leaned forward and rested his chin in his folded hands, his elbows on the bar. “You’re sizing me up, aren’t you?” I shrugged a shoulder and feigned disinterest. He smiled at that. “Tell you what, Slummer, if you don’t hook what you’re after in one hour…” He looked me over slowly. “I’m all yours.” “Deal,” I said bravely.