I stepped out of the packed, boisterous bar full of people in various stages of drunkenness—and it wasn’t even dark. My band was on the second half of our “two-night stand.” I was tired, having played until one this morning and resumed at one this afternoon. Nevertheless, this was a big weekend for bands in the city’s old town district, and $150 per man plus tips in a guaranteed-to-be jammed bar sure beat getting drunk myself.
I leaned against the wall outside, trying to stay out of the tide of more drunks flowing down the street; there was more space out here, but not much. Suddenly, someone collided with me, barely missing the wall. “Oh! I’m sorry,” giggled the girl, unsteady on her feet. “Got pushed.” Two girls appeared through the crowd just as I was steadying her.
“Liz, you OK?”
“Yeah… this gentleman kept me from falling. Maybe he’s even got cigarettes!”
As it so happened, I had an almost full pack of More menthol, and only one more set to go. “Yeah, but—” I pulled the pack out.
“Mores!” squealed the third girl. “I haven’t smoked them since high school! And they're green for St Patrick's Day!” Liz and the second girl agreed enthusiastically. “We’ll take them!” I lit mine, handed the pack to Liz. In short order, I was in the middle of three cute, drunk, More-smoking girls, with barely enough room to move. Each one pecked me on the cheek. Liz looked into the bar behind me, and said getting to a cigarette machine in any bar was going to be impossible. I offered her the pack, and got another peck on the cheek. My fifteen minutes of break was going to end soon, and I had to make it through the crowd to a port-a-potty first.
I excused myself, and Liz didn’t move. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” She thrust her chest forward and pointed at the “Kiss me, I’m Irish” button. I laughed, pursed my lips to kiss her on the cheek—
Liz grabbed my head and shot her tongue into my mouth, while giving me a quick fondle. It was a tease from a cute, drunk, random girl. One of the hazards of being a bar musician. Annoying, but easily forgotten. “Bye!” Liz and her friends giggled and waved before vanishing in the river of people in the street.
It was ten minutes out of a Great American Drinking Holiday, and honestly, not all that memorable at the time.
This year, we were playing in the same bar, only this doubleheader was all the same day. Two to six, then eight to midnight. The owner was going to let us leave our equipment in his storeroom overnight so we didn’t have to wait for the crowds to disperse. Just about everyone was drunk by the time I took my last break, around eleven. I was thankful for the elevated stage; the staff had cleaned up three green beer incidents, broken up a couple of alcohol fights, and dealt with two hysterically crying girls, evidently despondent over not having been picked up, all during the last set.
By now, enough people had hit the passed-out or “too drunk to walk more than a hundred feet” stage to reduce the sea of people walking around outside to a steady drizzle of those merely challenged to walk straight. I hate St. Patrick’s Day. I lit my More, leaning against the wall with plenty of space to myself for the first time all night. “HEY! It’s the More Guy!” The squeal jolted me out of my momentary calm. Three girls wobbled towards me with surprising speed, two grabbed an arm apiece, and the third presumptively wrapped an arm around my waist. “Hi, remember us?”
What I remembered was the silly tease from the girl hanging on my waist. I lied and said yes. “I’m Liz, this is Heather, and that’s Julie!” All three girls held out their hands, showing off the long brown cigarettes they were smoking. “We had so much fun last year with the Mores you gave us, we decided to make it a tradition for St. Patrick’s day!” bubbled Heather. “Are you partying too?”
“No, my band is playing inside. Been here since noon, so I’m looking forward to midnight when I can go home.” Julie wanted to buy me a drink, but I don’t drink when I’m working, so I told her I got mine free. They decide they’re tired of walking, and after asking if the band is any good, go inside to drink some more. I finish my smoke in peace, and head inside just in time to hop onstage, avoiding the drunks in the audience. The last set on St. Patrick’s Day usually sucks because of the drunk comedians heckling the band. Guys in their mid-twenties trying to show off and catch the attention of girls now drunk enough to think they’re funny. Never works, either.
Mercifully, the show ends, and I go get water at the bar, not realizing the space I’ve chosen is one couple away from Liz, Heather, and Julie. They see me and crowd the couple out to encircle me. Julie hands me a More menthol from her pack, lights it and one for herself, while Liz and Heather light their own. The bouncers announced it was closing time, and began clearing partygoers with the signature “It’s no-tell motel time! Don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” A big, drunk guy staggering toward the door sees three unaccompanied girls and decides to make a sudden detour. He almost falls on us, the sudden left turn nearly too much to navigate in his shitfaced state. He slammed his hand on the bar between me and Julie to keep from face planting into it. “Hey, b’t’if’l, c’n I h’ve cig’r, too?”
Heather took an enormous drag, popped out a huge ball of smoke, and moved to exhale forcefully into his face. “No.” Julie carefully steps around him and we all moved to make room for her next to me again.
Apparently, her obvious, silent rejection means I’ve gravely insulted his manhood. He bellows, “ALL RIGHT, PUSSY! YOU N ’ME! LET’S GO!” right next to two of the circulating bouncers, who promptly escorted him to the door. Liz muttered something about stupid boys, then took a drag from her cigarette, finished with a quick french-inhale. The bouncers were now ushering people to the door en masse.
“Guess it’s time for you to go, ladies,” I said, relieved that this long day was going to be over soon. “Thanks for the cigarette, Julie.”
“I can’t leave yet,” complained Liz. “There’s one more tradition we haven’t done yet.” She pointed at the button on her proudly thrust chest. Julie and Heather giggled. I rolled my eyes. Time for another tease. I leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. Liz puts her arms around my neck and pouts, “That’s not the tradition.” More giggling. So, I let her kiss me. And we kissed. Her hand drops to my crotch, fondling, and even as tired as I am, I’m getting aroused, because we’re still kissing, well beyond the limits of teasing. I push her hand away from my pants and pull her closer. Liz wraps both arms around me, her kiss now sending the message, “I’m drunk, horny, and available—for you.” I reluctantly pulled away. Liz slid her hand down my arm and lightly grasped my hand, searching my eyes for affirmation. We’d transformed her friends’ giggling into uncomfortable silence. She ignored their uncertain, awkward looks and gazed at me with, “You are my Mr. Right Now.” Curly black hair to the shoulders, and green eyes, she was cute, and held a More between her fingers like a lady. Yeah, I can do her. Her jeans were tight enough for me to get a good idea of how her round, soft ass would feel in my hands. Not skinny and not fat, I like’em like that.
“Ummm… Liz… your friends…” That broke her anticipation of the sex she wanted to have.
“Yeah… ummm… Can you guys catch the cab without me?” She watched me for a reaction. I closed my hand on hers. “I’m done drinking tonight.” Heather giggled yes, knowing her friend had just picked up a stranger, while Julie murmured, “I guess so.” She briefly lifted her head to glance at me. Fortune favored the bold this time, babe. Don’t be so scared and shy next time.
The bouncer leaned in and said, “Sorry, ladies, you have to leave now.” Heather and Julie said good night, and I casually put my arm around Liz’s waist. He gave my apparent conquest a semi-discreet, once-over, and nodded briefly in appreciation. Liz smiled at him, acknowledging, Thanks for the compliment. I know I’m cute and fuckable. Pretty women say a lot with their eyes in bars. Pick up on that, and your pick-up success will go way up. No telling what a woman will find attractive and interesting on any given night. I’ve bedded some gorgeous women, women who I wouldn’t have normally approached, just because I’ve read their eyes. “She’s staying?” I nodded.
Liz asked me to stop at a gas station on the way to my place and get her a pack of Virginia Slim Lights. She’d lit another More menthol by the time I got back into the van, though. She held the cigarette high in her right hand out the window while I drove, and her left hand visited my crotch often enough that I didn’t go soft. We were definitely going to fuck. She wasn’t so drunk she was going to get sick or pass out on me.
She kissed me, brief and wet as we entered my house. Liz walked up the stairs with an exaggerated wiggle in her hips, and started removing clothes in the hall, leaving a trail for me to follow. This wasn’t about romance. She was already naked when I got to the bedroom, chasing away any fatigue I had from the double gig. With a toss of her shoulder-length black hair, and shining green eyes, she eagerly undid my belt, yanked down my pants and came face-to-face with the bulge she’d been inciting for the last hour. She had to have a decent idea of what she was getting into. “Oh my!” Her gaze focused purely on my still-hidden cock. I’m a good deal longer than average, and a decent diameter. Kind of the sweet spot of penis size. Not so big that normal women take one look and say, “No way!”, but still big enough to interest a size queen. I stepped out of my pants, and took off my boxers. She wrapped her hand around my dick and began to encourage my erection in earnest. “Ohhh… myyyy…”
Liz was wet and ready for me, taking all of my cock within a few strokes, thrusting her hips back at me, panting in her heat. Fucking was everything; no kissing, no nibbling on her nice, well sized, round tits, just thrust and recoil. I forced an occasional squeak from her at the end of my long, gliding strokes. Her face and neck reddened quickly, and she came with shudders and a sigh. Then we kissed, with me still hard inside her. Liz broke the kiss with an imperative moan. “Fuck me!” And I did. She spread her legs wide for me, arms around my body, caressing my head and face with her hands as she could not remain still. Very active for a drunk chick. And multi-orgasmic. The flush rose in her cheeks, and her body began rolling in waves, unable to dislodge or move me. “Ohhhhh… my… gawwwd…” She came, juices sloshing onto my sheets, and held me tight with arms and legs locked around me. I could still move enough to keep fucking her vibrating pussy. She cried out, and let go, just in time for me to pull out and ejaculate on her little pooch of a belly and beautiful tits. Liz’s breasts were perfect: round, firm, with well-defined areolas and perky fat nipples, her plush body with almost-mathematical precision.
She pulled me to the bed and kissed me frantically, aggressively, orgasm having charged her with energy and desire. Finally, she settled down and into afterglow, one leg on mine, stroking my chest. “Got a cigarette?” She’d dropped her purse in the hall as she was taking her shirt off. I shifted to get up and retrieve them, and she tugged on my arm. “Mores are fine,” Liz said, her eyes fixed on mine. I rolled away, grabbed the pack from my pants, and sat up on the bed. Her hand never left my body. We weren’t done yet.
Liz didn’t bother to sit up for her after-sex cigarette, taking big, flamboyant drags while lying on her side. Slow, showy, open-mouth inhales replaced her natural, brief french-inhales. She may have been enjoying her post-orgasm smoke, but this was also smoking to get my attention, and it was working. She opened her mouth after each long drag to roll out a big ball of smoke and let it hang there for a second or two before sucking it deep into her lungs. Then Liz would turn her head to project the smoke at an upward angle instead of perpendicular across the bed, shape her lips into a tiny “O” and exhale with a hushed, “fffff,” barely audible in the silence of the pre-dawn morning. She held the long, brown cigarette daintily between her index and middle fingers, unfazed by the stronger and menthol smoke of the More compared to the Virginia Slim Lights left behind in the hall.
She eased to a sitting position with sensual grace and put her More, now a drag away from the filter, into the ashtray. “Be right back.” Liz swayed into the bathroom, and returned, swaying in her best seduction, steadier now than earlier. My dick stirred. She leaned forward, put her arms around my neck, and, dreamily-eyed, kissed me. Her eyes still on mine, my cock answering her call, Liz gracefully knelt between my legs. “Don’t grab my head?” she meekly requested, her eyes hopeful.
Another one of those unspoken things. I could have grabbed her head, used her mouth and gotten myself off, and she would have let me. It wasn’t, and still isn’t, in my nature; besides, I wanted to see how she’d blow me. I got a lot of hand jobs with a little tongue. My cock is much more intimidating face-to-face. “Oh yeahhhhh… do it, baby!” I whispered. She gave the head a tentative lick, and me a shy smile. Liz stroked the shaft a few times. It pulsed and thickened. Encouraged, she started licking the head and glans while stroking, eventually engulfing the entire head and sucking on it, bouncing on her knees. Her enthusiasm was exciting, her warm, wet, soft mouth physically arousing.
She stopped abruptly, with me three-quarters erect and feeling those residual tingles. “Cigarette? Promise I’ll be careful.” I lit a More and handed it to her with the ashtray. Liz drew on it with a cute, quick, french-inhale and immediately reclaimed my cock with her mouth, smoke bursting through her nose. My dick jerked and grew as I moaned. She bobbed her head, sucking energetically, humming around it as it expanded, grasping the shaft to stabilize it instead of stroking it. It was good head, my moans encouraging her. She took her second drag after about half the cigarette had burned down, another of those showy, open-mouthed ones, crushed it out, and vaulted onto me. I rolled her over and plunged into her without foreplay. She’d incited hot, nasty sex, and I was going to give it to her.
We were both a lot more vocal during round two, me grunting with exertion and moaning with the sizzle through my dick. Liz squeaked with every forward thrust, eyes doing their orgasm dance, her body synchronized to thrust back at me, pushing my dick to her entrance, but never beyond. “Oh… oh… oh… ohhhhh…” The pitch of her voice rose to match her increasing excitement, and suddenly my hips vibrated, unwilling to thrust, and I forced them back to pull out—Liz pulled me to her, twining her legs around my butt, one arm clutching desperately at my shoulder, the other slamming my mouth onto hers, and I could only moan into her mouth. With a jerk, I slid my cock forward, deeper into her slick, soft pussy, and came. Liz kissed me throughout, stopping only for air, until with a loud groan, I went as far as I could and shot the biggest wad of this load. Her arms slammed onto the bed, splayed wide, legs magically opened, head pressed into the pillow, eyes wide and rolling crazily, all the while her hips rolled up and down in big, smooth waves, like a roller coaster. And then it was over. Both of us gasped for breath, interrupted by aftershocks as I slowly shrank, still lodged in her pussy. I finally pulled out, triggering a huge back-arching, mini-orgasm of an aftershock for Liz. Nothing was said as we lay next to each other, too drained to move. The first signs of morning suddenly came to my consciousness, and I awoke with a jerk. I’d dozed off, but only for a few minutes. Liz’s arm gently landed across my chest. “Not gonna run out on you,” she murmured.
Liz called a taxi to take her home around two that afternoon. She finally got around to opening her Virginia Slim Lights, but chose to smoke a More from her St. Patrick’s Day pack while she waited at the door. Liz handed me the pack with three remaining, pecked me on the lips, and purred, “See you next year.”
It was four o’clock when I left the stage and walked over to the three young women standing nearby. Heather, looking like she always did, slender, blonde and gorgeous, gave me a hug first, and introduced me to Molly, a new member of their St. Patrick’s day group, also wearing a “Kiss me, I’m Irish” button. “Do I have to smoke these?” she whined, looking at the long green pack in her hand.
“Yes!” shouted Liz gleefully. “It’s tradition!” Molly rolled her eyes, huffed loudly, and pouted. Liz pulled a More from my pack and waited for me to light it. Heather leaned in with her own. “Come on now, they’re not so bad for a day!” Liz encouraged, handing Molly the one I’d just lit. She pulled another one from my pack. Molly took a tentative drag, exhaling quickly.
“You’ll get used to it in a couple hours,” Heather smiled. “It’s fun for a day!”
Liz concurred, and then told Molly, “There’s another tradition…” She grabbed my head and kissed me short, hard, and wet. “If you’re gonna wear the button…”
Molly looked distressed. I leaned next to her and whispered, “Cheek.” She jumped, smiled, and theatrically presented her left cheek for an equally theatrical smooch from me.
Liz took a drag from her More, exhaled, and thrust her chest at me, pointing to her button. “I thought we already did that.”
“No,” she countered, “I kissed you.” Heather giggled. I leaned forward and sweetly kissed her, tongues dancing for a few seconds at most. Liz squeezed my waist.
“Don’t you go kissing my boyfriend, Lizzie Callahan!” lectured the strawberry blond arriving at my side. Liz pursed her lips at Julie and stepped back. “Here’s the check for today.” She firmly wrapped her arm around my waist. Thanks to Julie’s connections, I was able to book the band at a corporate tent. We played for two hours after the end of the parade. Full sound system provided with someone to run it, and two fifty per man, about what we'd made for the double gig the previous year. Plus, the tent had reserved port-a-potties for musicians and staff, as well as reserved parking with a direct exit onto the main street leading away from old town. Best of all, I hadn’t had to deal with any drunks.
Julie and I had been dating for almost seven months now. In an odd series of coincidences, we’d kept running into each other after St. Patrick’s Day. My band had booked a few gigs at new clubs in her suburban neck of the woods, and she showed up at some of them, usually accompanied by Heather and/or Liz, all smoking Virginia Slim Lights, or Marlboro Light 100s from the machine because they ran out of Virginia Slims. All three say the first few times it was an accident because they didn’t know the places they were going had added live music. I even ran into Julie at a restaurant where we were playing, which was the night I met her parents for the first time.
One night, Julie showed up at a gig downtown by herself. After shooting guys down left and right, and smoking a couple of my Mores during the last set, I asked if she wanted to do something together sometime. “Sometime” was the following night, and “something” was sex after the gig. Three times. Again the next afternoon. And that evening. She became a fixture at gigs, and we started seeing each other outside of my gigs, including a family dinner at her parents’. They weren’t thrilled, but they weren’t hostile, either. We’d recently started spending weeknights at my house because it was a shorter commute for her.
Since we’ve been dating, Julie has switched from regulars to menthol, and from 100s to 120s. She complained the 100s felt too short after the Mores, and switched to the menthol Virginia Slim Light 120s because she didn’t want to walk around smoking brown cigarettes all the time, especially not at work. It’s a 50-50 proposition when we’re together, away from her co-workers. Julie is as likely to grab one of mine as one of hers. Julie pulled a More from my pack and waited for me to light it for her. “So, are you guys going to come party with us?” Molly asked.
Julie took a long, easy draw on her More. “Don’t think so, Molly. He’s got to get his instrument home.” She ran her free hand through her straight, more-blonde-than-strawberry hair, and casually let smoke flow through her nose and pursed lips. “Don’t want to leave it around here unattended.” Her eyes told me which one of my instruments were on her mind. Heather and Liz giggled, leaving Molly looking a little lost.
“Nice to meet you, Molly!” I waved as Julie and I turned to go. For the first time in several years, St. Patrick’s Day Saturday wasn’t going to suck.