You Can't Always Get What You Want

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A threesome & an insatiable hair stylist overwhelm a waiter.
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stfloyd56
stfloyd56
325 Followers

I don't remember the first time she came into the place, as I didn't really know the regular patrons very well, but every indication was that Glenda knew me before I knew her. Apparently from the beginning she wanted something from me, something that when things started between us, I was more than willing to offer her.

When I first met her, she was usually with her blonde friend Sara, who was a knockout with a bawdy tongue and a reputation for promiscuity. In stark contrast, my first impression of Glenda was that she was quiet, shy, and innocent. But after one crazy night that I spent with both of them, that impression eventually proved inaccurate. Ironically, it was she, far more than her promiscuous friend, that turned into a voracious, greedy, and insatiable lover that I simply could not satisfy.

They both worked nearby, at a beauty salon, 9th and Mane, and, I was told, Glenda, Sara, and some of the other girls that were stylists there started coming in for lunch on a pretty regular basis just before the beginning of the summer. But it wasn't until they started spending their nights drinking at the bar that the two really caught my attention. That was later in the summer, sometime after the Fourth of July.

Glenda James was a hipster, and in my humble opinion, something of a poseur. She always wore her hair in the latest styles, and she changed it every week -- dyeing it a different color, cutting it shorter, letting it grow longer or adding hair extensions, or changing the style in some subtle way. I couldn't keep up with her looks. I think that is why it took me so long to recognize her as a regular at Maxwell's because I kept seeing different looking people every week, all of whom were actually Glenda!

I started to work at Maxwell's right around Memorial Day, just two or three months after I moved back to the city. It was a pretty cool place, I have to admit. Situated right in the heart of downtown, it had previously served as the Rock Island Railroad Depot, but after the railroad sold it in the late 1960s, it had been converted into a restaurant and bar. That was several iterations ago, and now it was the second or third location in a small regional chain started by a guy named Max Geary.

In my hometown, Maxwell's was one of the early entrants into what became the much oversaturated restaurant movement known as "fern bars," though this was before Applebee's, T.G.I. Friday's, Houlihan's, Chili's, and Bennigan's had established themselves in our little neck of the woods.

As the stereotypical fern bar, Maxwell's turned into something of a "meat market," and considering that I was in my mid-20s at the time, that was a good place for me to work. Though I was as appalled by the superficiality of the singles scene as anyone, my dick overruled my philosophical, not to mention my aesthetic sensibilities, so I didn't mind the brass rails, potted plants, and green pendant lamps so long as those lamps illuminated good-looking women.

Glenda and Sara were two of those women. I was first introduced to them by one of my fellow waiters at Maxwell's, a guy by the name of Cleo Bartolommeo. I had gone to high school with Cleo, and even knew him before that when we played Little League baseball on the same team. Cleo's father was our coach, though no one has ever donned a baseball cap that knew less about America's pastime than Frank Bartolommeo.

Knowing as little as he did about the game, Frank thought Cleo had talent. He didn't. Once we got to high school, Cleo wasn't a bad running back on the football team, and one of the fastest sprinters at the school, but when it came to a baseball bat and a fielder's mitt, Cleo would have been more effective with a wet linguine noodle and a pot holder, both of which were second nature to his Neapolitan father, whose pursuit of gastronomic bliss was well known to anyone who knew him. When it came to eating pasta, few people could hold a candle to Frank Bartolommeo.

Now that we were out of high school, Cleo wasn't good for much of anything except chasing girls, glomming off anyone that would let him, and eating mass quantities of just about anything. But he did know a lot of girls, and considering that I had either been away at college or working up in Chicago for the past six or seven years and Cleo had never left, at that time he was a good resource for the available hotties about town.

One warm summer night in the middle of July, I had just finished up a dinner shift on a Tuesday night and decided to have a drink before I went home. Cleo, who was off that night, was sitting at the corner of the bar drinking and talking to two cute girls with dark tans that sat around the corner from him. When I sat down next to him, he made the introductions.

"Dan Bream, meet Sara Addams and Glenda James. Sara and Glenda work down the block at 9th and Mane. They cut hair there." Turning to the two girls, he explained, "Dan and I went to high school together."

"We're stylists," Sara corrected him caustically. "We do more than just cut hair."

"Hell, I don't know what you do. I just know you work in a beauty salon. That shit's all a mystery to me."

"Everything's a mystery to you, Cleo," Sara retorted snidely. "Don't act like salons are the only thing you don't understand!"

I found out later that Cleo had fucked Sara on two occasions and apparently they didn't part as amicably as they might have. For some reason, I got the impression that Sara was less than impressed with Cleo's abilities in the sack, or at least his attention to her during that time. It wasn't so much that Sara hated Cleo, but it was clear that she took every opportunity to lambaste him ruthlessly. He was an easy target.

They both turned to me. "Hi, Dan," Sara said, as Glenda stared at me smiling.

"How long have you girls been coming to Maxwell's?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Right before you started here," Sara said authoritatively.

"How do you know when I started here?" I asked innocently.

"We notice things; we're observant. Besides, we asked," Sara said, while Glenda shook her head in agreement.

"What do you mean, you asked? What did you ask? What did you notice?"

Speaking for the first time, Glenda clarified, "I asked who you were, and I found out your name. And then I took mental notes." She seemed to be speaking for herself now.

"Why?"

"I have my reasons," Glenda said with a shy and cryptic smile.

"'Cause she's hot for your sexy ass, that's why!" Cleo said laughing.

"Cleo, if all you're going to do is say stupid things, maybe you should sit at the other end of the bar," Sara responded viciously.

"We could still hear him saying stupid things from the other end of the bar!" I pointed out sarcastically. "I'm not sure that would solve the problem."

"Touché," Sara laughed, smiling at me and raising her glass in a toast. All the while, Glenda just giggled, smiled, and blushed.

I liked the sound of what Cleo had to say, even if it wasn't true. Still, I got the sense that it was. I had a feeling that the blush that crossed her face was a response to Cleo's comment, and it seemed to be an indication that what Cleo had said was accurate. The smile seemed to suggest that she was grateful to him for saying crudely what she was thinking, but too shy to utter. I looked at both of these girls closely, sizing up the possibilities.

Sara was tiny, less than five feet tall, with medium-length, dirty blonde hair, large breasts, and an endless supply of curves. She exuded an undeniable air of seductiveness. She had smoldering green eyes, dark, slender eyebrows and a set of the whitest teeth I think I had ever seen. There was a little bit of baby fat evident in her face, but it added to, rather than detracted from her appeal. That night, I had the sense that sooner or later I would end up sleeping with her.

Every signal she sent was a promiscuous one, and even at that first meeting, I got the sense that she was completely uninhibited about her sexuality, though she was also uninhibited about expressing her rather strong feelings about whomsoever would avail themselves of that sexuality, and Cleo seemed to take the brunt of her opining.

More than having thoroughly discarded her inhibitions, Sara clearly possessed sexual experience beyond her years. I came to learn that she had tried most everything in bed, and she enjoyed just about everything that she tried, so much so that she had learned the tricks of the trade, the techniques that enhanced the varied sexual acts in her repertoire.

Though a little taller, Glenda was an extremely slender, short-haired brunette with modest-sized breasts, slim hips, a tiny, taut waist, and deep, brown eyes. Her face was unusual, to say the least, with freckles that were barely noticeable through her caramel brown complexion. There was no doubt she was beautiful, but in a completely unconventional way. She seemed to be a mixture of several races -- she was undoubtedly part Asian, of some kind -- I later learned Japanese -- as well as Hispanic, and Scotch-Irish. The combination gave her an exotic air.

She had a dark, rich tan from head to toe, and though over the next few months I would watch her hair frequently change colors, it was almost always styled in some sort of asymmetrical 'do that challenged the staid conventions of the Midwestern city we called home.

She also always wore the hippest punk chic fashions -- tight, black or red leather pants with about a million zippers, and T-shirts adorned with provocative or unusual designs or with the faces of Che Guevara, Karl Marx, or some other radical figure.

But for all of her style, there was a vacuousness about her that I would come to resent. I knew she had absolutely no clue who Guevara or Marx were and what wearing their faces emblazoned across her shapely chest implied.

Though her clothes suggested that she was unequivocally a part of a hipster scene, I would come to find out that she neither knew nor cared about anything related to it. In fact, I don't believe she even knew that such a scene existed. Instead, her style was all about appearances -- it was fashion for fashion's sake.

She was also much quieter than her friend and quite shy. But despite that shyness there was a small kernel of inhibition that resided somewhere inside Glenda that came out in provocative and sometimes shocking ways. I would come to find out that she was far less experienced sexually than Sara, though she was a follower, and what her friend did, Glenda would sooner or later try herself.

She was not nearly as obvious about her amorous intentions as Sara, but I could tell that despite her subtlety, she was interested in hooking up with someone. It had already become obvious that that Cleo was right -- she was "hot for my sexy ass!"

I don't know how "hot" or "sexy" my "ass" actually was, but after high school I had not had all that much trouble finding female bedmates. I don't think that I'm all that good looking, and it's not that I'm some kind of Superman with an enormous dick. As far as length is concerned, I'm just a little longer than average, but my girth is at least somewhat impressive, or so women tell me. I'm especially thick around the base of my cock, and so when I plumb a woman's depths, I usually make them cum pretty quickly.

For me, the problem had never been what happened once I get a woman into bed. Rather, it was finding the right places to hook up with them that had always posed a bigger challenge. But now I was working at a meat market, and it became clear pretty early on that if you hung around the bar at Maxwell's after 10 or 11 p.m., there was a fairly decent chance that you would find yourself in bed with someone that night.

When I did find myself in bed with women, I considered myself pretty typically male. I knew what I liked, and I was interested in finding women who liked the same things that I did. I have always been tremendously turned on by women who like to wear lingerie to bed, and it has always been my predilection to leave as much of that lingerie on when I'm fucking a woman, while still allowing the delicious parts of the female anatomy to be fully visible.

My other fetish -- if that's what you call them -- is watching women cum, and I consider it my masculine duty to see to it that that happens as often as possible. My general rule of thumb is that for every orgasm I experience, my lover should have at least three. I am the antithesis of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am kind of guy. I just love watching a woman's climax roll through her body, observing the shudders wrack her frame, noting how the expressions on her face change and contort, seeing her tits and chest become flushed with blood imbuing her skin with color, and most importantly witnessing her arousal trickle, pour or sometimes squirt from her pussy.

But, of course, I also love to cum myself. I have always been especially aroused by women who enjoy taking my cumshots. I love blowing my load pretty much anywhere on and in my lovers, but there is nothing quite like a woman who lets me cum on her face. I don't know why that turns me on so much, but I guess if a woman is willing to accept your cum on her face, she is pretty much willing to accept everything about you. I find that incredibly arousing. I would also point out that I am not sexist about this preference, because I am equally stimulated by a woman who enjoys leaving her arousal on my face as well. In bed, I believe that reciprocation is de rigueur.

But if I was destined to sleep with either Glenda or Sara, it was not to happen that evening. I was happy to have met two undeniably good-looking girls, who were clearly interested in something other than drinking at Maxwell's bar. Unfortunately, soon I would have a reason to leave, and it would be Cleo that would drive me out of the place before I was actually ready to go.

Just as I was finishing up my drink and was planning to order another, Cleo spoke up.

"Hey, Dan, can you borrow me a few bucks for another drink?" Cleo asked unapologetically.

"No, Cleo. I cannot 'borrow' you a few bucks. I can 'lend' you money, but 'lend' implies that you will pay me back. You still owe me thirty bucks from the last two times you were drinking here, remember?"

"Listen to you, Mr. English major. On second thought, maybe you should become an accountant. You seem to have a head for numbers."

"A head for numbers is better than that vacuum that you're sporting between your ears," Sara said with even more vitriol than she'd shown earlier. Turning to me, she said, "Don't do it, Dan, he owes everybody in this place money, including me, and I think everybody knows, he's not going to pay any of us back."

"He did introduce me to you two," I said with a twinkle in my eye. I stood up to fish my wallet from my pants and tossed a ten dollar bill in Cleo's face. "That's certainly worth something -- probably a lot more than ten bucks." I smiled at both of them.

Then, I turned back to Cleo, "I'm going to leave before I have to put a lien on your car, Cleo. You owe me forty bucks, motherfucker. Don't make me take it out of your hide." Incidentally, it even surprised me when, on the following Friday -- which was payday -- Cleo paid me the $40.

I turned back to both girls. "It was nice to meet you, Glenda and Sara. I hope to see you again sometime soon," I said, and I turned and walked out the door. Out of the corner of my eye I could see them both smiling at me admiringly -- Sara, out of respect for having put Cleo in his place, and Glenda out of some indistinct longing.

The following Saturday night I sat down at the bar again after my dinner shift. This time Glenda was drinking with a different friend, who was sitting next to some guy that was clearly trying to weasel his way between her legs. I took the seat to Glenda's right.

"Hi, Dan. I've been waiting for you to show up," she said eagerly. Without Sara to represent her, she was speaking now for herself.

"I've been here for the past five hours, Glenda; what do you mean 'show up'?"

"Show up at the bar, so I could buy you a drink."

"That's generous of you, but you don't have to do that. Besides, I get drinks here at a discount. Why don't you let me buy?"

"How about if I supply the money, and you order the drinks?"

"Okay," I said, "but I'd like to buy you a drink as well. I've got the next round, okay? Cleo's not here tonight, so my money should go a lot further! Besides he paid me back!" She smiled back at me, but I could tell she had no desire to talk about Cleo.

"So, what do you do for fun, Dan?"

"Well, I guess I do all sorts of things, but one of my favorites is talking to pretty girls like you." She blushed again, and I figured that this night might just yield some results.

We ordered a round of drinks, and though it took awhile, I found out a little more about Glenda. Over the next hour or so, she reluctantly talked about herself. I had to pry it from her, but eventually I pretty much got the whole story.

She hadn't grown up in the city and had only recently moved here with her parents and younger brother. She had been raised in a small city in Illinois, graduated high school there, and when her father got transferred to a credit card operation in our fair city, the whole family moved to some suburban monstrosity over on the west side. Though she still lived with her parents, she intimated that that didn't inhibit her much. She paid her parents some rent money for continuing to live in their house as a 23-year old tenant, and after that, they pretty much let her do whatever she wanted.

Though she had shunned a traditional higher education, she had gone to cosmetology school and, after graduating, had begun working as a stylist. She'd been doing that for about four years now. She made decent money, she said, and for now, anyway, working in a salon was good enough.

She admitted that she regretted living in a city other than the one she'd grown up in, because she said, unlike all of us natives that she'd met, she didn't know all that many people and was a little too shy to change that. That is why, she said, that she hung out at Maxwell's all the time, trying to meet some guys that were looking to have some fun or at least take her to parties where she could meet people. She said Maxwell's seemed like a place where she didn't have to do as much talking. I told her that I didn't know about that, but that based on her simplistic description, I guessed that I qualified as the kind of guy she was looking for, and I promised her that we would enjoy our time together.

So, then after we ordered another round of drinks -- this was already her fourth -- I asked Glenda what she did for fun.

"I like to party," she quipped, and it was clear to me that that could mean many things.

"When we're done with this round, do you want to come over to my place to get high?" I asked, guessing that that might describe what Glenda meant by "party."

"Definitely," Glenda answered smiling.

So we finished up those drinks, and Glenda told her girlfriend with whom she had gotten a ride downtown that she was going leave with me. We drove over to the southeast side where I now lived with an old friend of mine, Tim Hallahan.

Tim was divorced and lived in a three bedroom dump that he and his ex-wife had bought together. After only a couple of years of marriage, his wife Tammy had run off to Chicago with one of his best friends, who she was now poised to marry. When I had moved back to town a few months ago, I asked Tim if I could move in with him, and the extra $500 bucks I offered him each month in rent had raised his standard of living considerably.

stfloyd56
stfloyd56
325 Followers