Bernie's House of Bangers - Sex Stories

Bernie's House of Bangers

Bernie's House of Bangers was a little, all-night diner on the corner of Riverside and Grove. It might as well have been on the corner of 'Nowhere' and 'Get Lost' for all the traffic it got. I'd driven by there a hundred times and never given it a second thought. It was only after a long evening of playing the nigh-shift Santa Claus at the local ‘Wally-Mart’ that I decided to give the place a shot. Even then, I'd probably have skipped it all together if I hadn't been too damn lazy to make the U-turn and pull into the snazzy new Denny's right down the street. By the look of Bernie's parking lot at three in the morning, my level of laziness exceeded that of most others in the area.

For those of you who live under a rock, or maybe overseas, a place has to be pretty run down to make a Denny's look like a classy joint, but Bernie's pulled that trick off well enough. Oh, the place might have been nice back in the day.

Maybe.

The chipped and faded, yellow-on-black sign still reminded passers-by of an ancient sailing ship, and the facade was reminiscent of an old English pub. I imagine it was a popular place when the people in Chino knew what the hell an old English pub was. It was probably the kind that could be found anywhere near the ports of Liverpool.

If Liverpool has ports.

Come to think of it, I haven’t a clue as to where in England Liverpool actually is, and I guess that's the point. One day the owner would wake up and convert it into a twenty-four hour taco ...

... bar. In this town, that would be a fucking gold mine.

One thing was certain, the owner wasn't Bernie anymore. By now, Bernie was somebody's late grandfather. These days, the place was probably owned by some guy named Nguyen, and his collection of English cooks were all named Jose or Maria. Now there’s an irony that would make Lord Nelson blanch. (Please don't bother looking that up. You're reading a fucking story, for crissakes.)

Anyway, it was nearing Christmas the first time I ate at Bernie's. Handfuls of cheap-ass tinsel clung to the windows and strings of ancient, multi-colored Christmas bulbs were strewn along the dark wood and low ceilings as if they had been tossed about by a delinquent ten year old. The place felt cramped, dingy and cold. Maybe that's how it really feels in an English pub, but I had a feeling the English did 'old' way better than Nguyen was doing it here.

So, why did I ever stop there? Maybe I just love English food.

Yeah, and fuck you, too. I heard that. As it happens, I DO love English food. If you don't, it's only because it's reputation has been soiled by a French conspiracy. (See what I did there?)

Anyway, back to the Bangers. (You didn't really think I'd put the word 'banger' in a story without actually yanking hard on the obvious innuendo, did you?) For you Luddites and Frenchies out there who don't know what a banger is, it's a sausage.

Okay, okay. Knock off the fucking giggling. This isn't a damn comedy. As it happens, the ...