Ugly.

*One drink.*
That's what I tell myself as I sit down on the bar stool. Just one, in the name of a more *normal* social life.  
All bars smell the same; sweetened smoke, old wood, new leather, the human being and oil.
That's the best I can break it down, anyway. I have to do something while I sip the one drink that I came for. I don't really care for the music; it's not my taste but I sway along as I sip my beer.

I don't feel as involved as i wanted to be; I get up to leave when the bartender asks me to stop and have another.
I know him; he's a nice guy. He once walked me home when he thought I was too drunk to make it on my own. He doesn't wait for me to order the beer, just puts it on the counter in front of me.
*Two drinks*, I tell myself. It's early in the evening yet.
I talk to the bartender and we exchange the same information we share back-and-forth a few times a month.
*His wife is good. Work is still going well with me. He's working more hours than ever before. I'm exceptionally tired this week. He wants to look for another job. I still live alone.*
Untruths, half-truths and unnecessary information; the fabric of social relationships.
The thoughts propel me back into the state of mind I had come here to avoid.
Oh well.

Now that I'm here I ask him for another drink.
"What do you want?" he asks.
I smile.
He always knows when to ask and when to serve without question; perhaps that is the skill of a good bartender. I ask for tequila.
This time I don't bother telling myself *just three drinks*. I know what happens when this stuff touches my mouth.
He does too.
He pours me another before I've recovered from the first.

Half-way through my next beer my swaying turns into dancing. I prop myself against the bar and move my hips. I spread my arms out and gyrate against the air.
It feels good.
I close my eyes and let myself go. Before I know it I am singing I sinking onto the floor to the music. I wish I could lie down here and dance with the floor. Instead I stand back up and open my eyes.
People are looking at me. I smile at them and keep swaying my hips. I can feel the bartender's gaze on my neck.
I like it but he's seen it all before. These people in front of me, to them this is a brand new show.

I sit back down on the stool and turn around.
"You're drunk," he says laughing at me.
"You know better than that," I tell him.
We smile and he serves other customers. A few men come up to me and offer to buy me drinks. I take the drinks but I skip the conversations.

I'm not bored anymore but I bet I look it. That look is practised art. I look at the men crowding around me. I smile. I unbutton my shirt, uncross my legs and let them hang in the air.
I lean forward and talk to the bartender.
I can feel some people touching me but I pretend I don't. There's an arm around my waist, soft grazes against my thigh, hot breath against my neck.
I nod at each one of them just enough times to make it seem like a conversation. I like how they have all decided they are going home with me tonight.

I excuse myself and go to the ladies room. It's empty. I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself.
She fucks me up; the girl in the mirror. I never understand what she is doing; smiling at herself, painting her lips red, cocking her eyebrow up at me. I often try to talk to her.
"What are you doing?" I always ask her.
She never responds.
I don't think she ever knows what she is doing.

I go back outside and sit on at a different corner at the bar. I ask for another drink and a different bartender brings me my drink.
I've never spoken to this one. Mine watches out of the corner of his eye and smirks.
He thinks he's so clever.

I look around at the men in the bar. It's time to pick one. I study each table with great care. Out of the corner of *my* eye I can see my bartender studying me.
I see the one I think I want.
He's standing close to where I was sitting earlier at the bar.
He's middle-aged and has a gut. He has bad skin too. The kind that never really grew out of teenage but somehow was prematurely launched into old-age. His collar is turned up; I can't stand that, especially on grown men.
I catch his attention and make eyes at him. He's drinking whiskey.
I finish my beer and walk towards him.

I sit on the stool right next to him and order some whiskey.
He looks at me and extends his hand. I look at him and reluctantly offer my hand.
We introduce ourselves; I immediately assume the name he gives me is as fake as the one I gave him.

He talks to me primarily about his job; that's the thing with men like him. They always seem to want to show off their pitiful careers.
He sells something, he's the best in his company at selling that thing. I laugh, touch him and say the word *interesting* a lot.
With each shot of whiskey I inch closer to him until I can smell his rancid breath with every word.

He gets up to go to the bathroom and I ask the bartender for some more tequila.
He leans over as he fills the little glass.
"That guy, seriously?" He asks.
"I'll have you know that he is an excellent salesman of..things," I tell him slurring and giggling.
"You have the weirdest taste in men, lady," he says.
"And doesn't that just kill you," I say smiling as I shoot down my drink and spin around on the stool.

Once he's back I don't want to waste any more time. I tell him I live nearby and ask if he wants to have a drink at my place.
He says yes.
He pays my tab and his. I don't protest, if he doesn't then someone else will, I know that.
We walk out of the bar with his arm around my shoulders and my head buried in his chest.
It's a beautiful evening; cool and windy. I walk two steps in front of him. I think he believes that I am doing it to be able to properly guide him.
It's a short walk anyway.

Once we get to my place, I can't take it anymore. Under fluorescent lighting I can see the full extent of the creature I have brought home with me.
To avoid looking at it I push him into the wall and kiss him. His mouth tastes like whiskey and cloves. He is a messy kisser; dirty and wet. I can't hide how much I like it.
He slips me out of my clothes with ease and smiles brightly when he sees I am not wearing any panties.
We roll around on the floor; grunting and grinding as if we are actually two feral creatures of the same standing. He buries his hairy fingers inside my cunt as I buck against his hand and beg for his cock.
He only pauses for a second the first time he sees my back as he turns me around; he runs his fingers over the scars just a moment longer than he should and then pushes my face into the floor before fucking me.
He is good sex.

It isn't too long though. We lay on our backs on the floor; a few inches of distance between us as if touching now is just as forbidden as it was a few minutes into when we had just met.
"You should leave," I say lighting a cigarette and lifting my legs into the air to admire my toes.
"Why?" He asks leaning over, "We can go again..all night if you want."
"Oh no," I say grinning at my upcoming lie, "My husband will be home soon."
I'm used to the reaction I get to that; thirty seconds of shock followed by quick acceptance.
"You're married?" He asks getting half-way up and slightly agitated, "Why did you have sex with me?"
"Self-loathing," I tell him still grinning as I pass over his pants.
"You don't hate yourself," he says getting dressed and looking down on me with disdain.  
I fiddle with his toe as he pulls on his shirt and look up at him with big eyes and pouty lips, "If I didn't hate myself, love, you'd never have made it to my bed."