New Faces - Sex Stories

New Faces

... joint, I step inside its doors, dying to see the inside, too. And the inside gives a similar vibe. It's a little more lively with a bit of color here and there with blue LED lights on the banister and colorful designs on the tables. Other than that, still nothing to write home about. Standard dart board, pool tables, tv’s in the corners set to sports, guy sitting in the back, fighting with himself to try and hit on the bartender, it checks every box for a typical notable bar.

I take a whiff of the alcohol polluted air that I haven’t experienced in quite a long time. A wave of nostalgia hits my brain after, taking me back to my hayday. Damn, I missed this. Had this been just ten years ago; just ten, I’d be taking this place over.

I’d probably start by picking these chumps clean at the pool tables. They wouldn’t like that one bit, I’d imagine. Wouldn’t matter, though. They’re clearly a bunch of pussies that’d start raising their voice from being sore losers, but the slightest bit of pushback would definitely have put a stop to that in an instant.

Then I probably would’ve went to the counter and scored with that lovely bartender just to fuck with the guy. Poor girl would’ve been so heartbroken. She’s clearly new. Looks like she’s got quite a bit going on. Probably a childhood pet or friend that died recently, parental troubles maybe, or just the stresses of life closing in on her. Regardless, don’t envy her.

Hard to say what I would’ve done next, though. After a ...

... bit of chaos is when I’d get absolutely wasted and that right there’s a different beast entirely. Ah, to be young, dumb, and full of poison that’ll have you waking up in just 4 hours missing the tip of your right shoe, clothes inside out, the mark of a branding iron on the inside of your left ass cheek, and the slight inconvenience of the discovery of some girl named Riley had carved her name in your forearm with a knife and pen. Good times, good times.

But that’s enough reminiscing. I’m retired from that crazy life. I’m older. Still working on that whole “wiser” portion. And it starts with creating more tranquil memories. So I guess I should consider this my little sanctuary.

I head to the counter and take a seat on the stool with the bartender hoisting her towel over her shoulder and lacing her hands down on the counter. At least she finds some solace in this job. To be fair, that is strangely satisfying. Borderline therapeutic.

“What can I get for ya, old timer?” she questions,

“Just a standard beer,” I answer, prioritizing my well being, “Your choice in brand’s fine. I’ve got no preference.”

“Alright, coming right up.”

“Thanks, hun.”

She reaches below the counter and slides me a bottle in the blink of an eye. Stellar service. I don’t even bother to look at the brand as I twist off the top and take a sip. Yup. Gotta stop leaving the suggestions to newbies. Don’t wanna be rude, though. So I guess I can endure it for the time being.

I turn around in an ...