Screw or Bolt?

"Wanna screw?" she asked me, handing me a screw. Well, that was certainly a blatant and straight-forward seduction technique. But, the truth was that while she handed me what she thought was a screw, it was actually a bolt, and I should have done exactly that: bolt!

Instead, I chose to accept her definition, that it was a screw. This was not a wise decision, but it's lack of wisdom wasn't apparent at the time, and sometimes a man won't think with the right head.

Her name was Leigh, and I had met her about a year and a half ago, walking through Woodland Park. She was wearing a pair of bib overalls, with a tube top underneath it, and I will confess to a particular weakness – some might call it a fetish – here: I've always fantasized about girls wearing just the bibs, with no shirt at all underneath. Being the flirtatious type, I approached and flirted, even though she had a 2½-year-old with her. What the Hell, flirting didn't hurt anything.

Well, I'm a fairly accomplished flirt, and Leigh was going right along with me. I checked quickly, and saw that there was no wedding or engagement ring on the telltale finger, so when Leigh was going along with my flirting, it seemed to me like I was going to get pretty lucky that night. She was no beauty queen, but was at least cute, with dirty blonde hair and grey eyes. At any rate, we wound up just walking and talking, but with a subtle, but still very present, sexual undertone. We wound up walking up East Maxwell, then down Rose Street, right on Euclid Avenue, and then left on South Limestone, near the University of Kentucky campus. Leigh had taken a few classes at UK, but she wasn't a student now. I had taken a couple of semesters there as well, but turned out to be a rather unspectacular student, and now, while I still lived in the student slums neighborhood, I was working full time on a concrete construction crew.

Leigh had this fairly seedy apartment, over a restaurant, on South Limestone Street, furnished with a ratty couch and double bed mattress, directly on the floor. We got there, and she put her son, Richard, to bed, so that we could continue our 'discussion' in what passed for the living room. Since her son slept in the same bed with Leigh, I knew that there'd be no screwing her in that bed, but what the Hell, the couch would work.

Well, it wasn't to be. Oh, Leigh was certainly willing enough, and after some pretty meaningless small talk, we were both naked, Leigh was sitting on the floor with her back propped up against the wall, while I had my head firmly between her legs, and my pretty talented tongue in her pussy. She was struggling to stay quiet, as was I, but we weren't quiet enough: a few minutes later, after Leigh had already come once but I was still pressing forward with my oral assault, her son walked in, dragging his blanket, and wanting his mother. I hoped that we hadn't traumatized the kid too much, but I'm sure that he didn't have any idea what I was doing to his mother.

Little Richard simply wasn't ready to be put down for the night, so there it ended, with Leigh having had at least one orgasm and being well on the way to a second, but I didn't get off until I got back to my place, and took matters into my own hands. Leigh had said that she was leaving for Florida in a couple of days, moving down there to try her luck in the Sunshine State, and I figured that I'd never see her again.

Fast forward a year and a half, and I was picking up a snack cake in this hole-in-the-wall grocery store near, you guessed it, Woodland Park. The owner was an old, old hippie, and ran his little grocery just the way you'd expect an old hippie to run it: sandwiches from a small deli counter, creaking, finish-worn-off wooden floors, and a couple of small tables out on the sidewalk in warmer weather. I hadn't thought about Leigh in a long time, when there she appeared, handing me the bolt that she called a screw. Thinking with the same head I had last spring, I was going right along with it. Her son was not with her, so I guessed that he was at the babysitter's.

This time, she lived closer, in a house which had been cut up into like six apartments, still a student slums type place, and not appreciably better quality. We walked down, she flopped herself on the couch and pulled up her shirt and bra to show me her fairly large right tit. After I kissed it for a while she sat up to get rid of what she called her 'over the shoulder boulder holder.' Next thing I knew, we were in her messy double bed.

I'd given Leigh a pretty good tongue lashing the last time, and she remembered it, and said that my turn was long overdue. With that, she took my cock into her mouth, and was doing a pretty good job with it. She wasn't a deep throater, but other than that, she was enthusiastic and talented. I stopped her before I lost my load, because I wanted to fuck her.

I didn't need to give her head: she was already soaking wet, and pulled me right down onto her, and into her, missionary style. She was really ready, and crying out in orgasm in not very long at all. As she settled down a bit from that, I told her to get on her hands and knees, which she did with a huge, hungry smile on her face. I got behind her and entered her with one smooth stroke. A few easy thrusts, and then I started picking up speed; within thirty seconds I was slamming into her hard and fast, and she started climaxing again. That was all it took, pushing me over the edge, and I emptied my balls into her with a roar. We both collapsed on the bed.

I almost fell asleep, but Leigh said, "Look, I just had to do that. I was already horny, and then when I saw you, I remembered what I missed out on, and I wasn't going to miss out on it again. But I've got to get this place cleaned up and aired out, 'cause my husband will be home in half an hour or so."

What? Her husband? Crap! She hadn't been married before, and I never thought to check her left hand again, but, sure enough, there it was, a wedding ring.

"Oh, crap, Leigh, I didn't know that you were married!" I got dressed as quickly as I could, while she started straightening up the place, opening the windows, and setting up a fan, because the place smelled like sex. If she didn't get this place aired out fast, he'd know what happened as soon as he walked in.

Well, he did walk in, a lot sooner than Leigh had expected, catching me walking out if her – their – bedroom. "What the fuck?" he yelled, and then he pushed past me and saw his wife, still naked, trying to get the room straightened out. I figured that it was time to get out while the getting was good, and was just out the door when Max, her husband, hit me from behind, knocking me off the porch and onto the sidewalk.

I got lucky: he stood on the porch yelling at me and threatening me long enough for me to get to my feet, ready to defend myself. I was a bit scraped up from the fall, but was ready when he came down off the porch, swinging.

I'm a pretty big guy, and I've been in my share – and a couple other guy's shares – of fights before, and I won a lot more than I lost. But Max was a big guy himself, and his blood was up; he was a tough opponent, and we were well matched physically. He was swinging hard and fast, and more than a couple of his punches got through.

However, more than a couple of mine got through, too, and after I kind of rocked him with a left, I went downstairs, and caught him dead in the diaphragm with a hard, rising right. He hadn't been expecting it, and wasn't ready for it at all, going down with the wind knocked out of him completely. The fight was over, because he was completely defenseless at that point, and couldn't even talk. It was a planned move on my part, but I still knew that I'd been lucky: this was a fight I could easily have lost, and I had no idea what he'd have done to me if I'd been the one on the ground, defenseless.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry about this, but I had no idea she was married. If I ever see you again, I'll buy you a beer, OK?" With that, I turned on my heels and left, and left fairly quickly.

I knew that I'd be sore the next day, glad that tomorrow was Sunday, and I didn't have to work. But then, heck, I'd just won a fight, and that will get any guy in a great mood; there's just no feeling quite like it. So, I stopped at the Clubhouse, a dive bar on the corner of High and Rose Streets, and had a couple mugs of dark beer to celebrate. There weren't any customers in there that I knew, though the bartenders knew me well enough. "Dude, what happened to you?" Lisa, the beertendress, asked me. "You been in a fight?"

"Yup, and I won it, too."

"Well, Hell, the first mug is on the house then!"

Another mug, plus the Clubhouse's greasy hamburger and hand-cut fried, and that was it for me. My left eye was swelling a bit, and though I didn't think it would swell shut on me, as I was coming down from my victory high I could tell that I probably looked a lot more like the loser than the winner. I paid for my beer and meal, and headed on home.

Once I got home, I took a shower, because I was hot, sweaty and dirty. The hot water stung on the scrape on my elbow, and didn't feel all that great on my bruised face. I figured I'd catch Hell at work on Monday, and the typical line, "Well, you should see the other guy," might not be all that convincing.

Monday came, and like I expected, I caught a lot of grief from the rest of the crew. We had two apartment house slabs to pour, in a new complex being built out Tates Creek Road, and while I wasn't as sore as I had been on Sunday, I've had better days at work. Fortunately, it was the end of summer, not the middle, and it was a bit cooler than usual for Kentucky that day. Harry and I had to hand finish one slab, while Al dropped back to finish the first one with the trowel machine. Hand finishing means crawling, on your hands and knees, on the concrete, and it's no fun at all when it's 90º; even at the relatively cool 74º on Monday, it's still nothing that will make your knees thank you.

Time passed, until one Saturday in mid-November I walked into the Clubhouse for some burgers and beer, and there was Leigh's husband, sitting at one of the tables, by himself; he saw me walk in. I figured, quickly, that I had three choices: I could turn around and walk out, I could ignore him and go to the bar – while keeping alert for an attack from the rear – or I could pay up on that beer I had offered him.

Well, I was pretty well known at the Clubhouse, and I wasn't going to let this keep me away from one of my hangouts, so I picked the third option, though I was fully alert and ready for anything he might do . . . at least, as long as he wasn't packing heat. "Hey, man, I promised you a beer if we can let bygones be bygones. My name's Dick, by the way."

He looked at me for a few seconds, like he was trying to make up his mind, and then he said, "Yeah, you really are a dick, but I'll take that beer. My name's Max."

So, it turned out OK. Max recognized Leigh's seduction technique, because she'd used the "Wanna screw" trick on him before, and that told him that I was telling the truth. He'd walked out on Leigh that evening, and was going to divorce her as soon as he could get the money together for a no-fault divorce. We never became friends, never traveled in the same circles, but whenever I saw him in the Clubhouse, I'd always buy him a beer.