We rolled into the club eleven-deep for my buddy Dave Chan’s bachelor party. The generic throb of house music swaddled us all at once. Well-coiffed heads bobbed and crested and grinned. Splitting the blunt-force din were the shrill voices of the coat-check girls. We lined up to deposit our coats.
The coat-check area was staffed by two young women. The one on the right had curly, raven-esque hair and a black strapless dress. The one of the left was more animated. She had light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a sequined dress. When I handed over my coat, we locked eyes.
“You’re B-13,” she said, handing me my token. “And I’m supposed to tell you about this.”
She was pointing a fingernail at a little display of business cards that sat on the counter in front of her. The card said “<details>.”
“Details,” I said.
“It’s this new restaurant up the street,” she said, her voice flinty and deadpan. “Everything’s fusion. It just opened. It’s Disneyland for your taste buds.”
The coat-check woman with the curly black hair was looking at the woman in the sequined dress a little askance as she gave the promo.
“Maybe I’ll try it sometime,” I said. Maybe I would, but new restaurants were a dime a dozen downtown.
“You don't sound very convincing,” the girl said. “Take my word. <details>. Remember it. You have to try this restaurant. You won't regret it. Have a good time tonight.”
“I will,” I said.
I didn’t. I stepped into the fray and soon ran adrift of my party. When I finally found them, I ended up leaned against a table exchanging glances with another member of the friend group on the bookish spectrum. He had realized as well as I did that, in this particular social setting, non-physical socialization was futile. Verbal intercourse was hopeless. We watched our mutual buddy Dave Chan, the groom-to-be, grind a half-dozen hyena-smiling women several years his junior. At last call, we watched him shirking the advances of one such early twenty-something, the regret mutilating his face and brow. Round and round they went, until the bouncer asked us politely to exit the now-barren dancefloor.
We queued up for our coats, and I was at the end of the line. When I reached the counter, the sequined brunette snatched up my token.
“B-13,” she said, and scurried off down a hall lined with coats. As I waited, I smiled at the curly-haired woman. She gave a brief, exhausted smile in return.
The brunette sidled up to the window without my coat.
“Um, there seems to be a bit of confusion. I can’t find your coat.”
“Odd,” I said.
“Do you want to come back and pick it out?”
“Okay,” I said. The dark-haired girl was looking at her askance, and so too was I.
“Then follow me.”
She opened the gate to let me pass through.
“I’m just gonna close up…” the dark-haired girl said, but her voice tapered away as we picked up speed down the hall lined with empty coatracks.
“You see?” the brunette said. “No coats to be found with B-13. I've checked them all. And I never lose coats. I’m good at my job. This isn’t what I want to do forever, granted. I hate this job, but I’m good at it. Maybe in here—”
She was shouldering through a door marked STAFF ONLY, LADIES.
“I don’t think I—” I tried to protest, but then she was pulling me in.
“Found it!” she said, pointing to my coat, hanging over the top of one of the stalls.
“What the—”
She pressed her body against me and kissed me, breasts firm against my abdomen, comely face blotting my visual field. I kissed back defensively. My hand staked itself on her sequined hip, but she gripped me by the wrist, placing my hand under her dress. I felt the hot cotton of her thong—a brief swatch of cloth, nothing more—and stayed my middle and index fingers there, feeling the cloth moisten. She anchored her hand on my crotch and then plummeted down into a squat. She unzipped my zipper, unlimbered my cock, and took it in her mouth. Her bare knees hit the floor and she bore down with her mouth. The incarnadine red of her lipstick put a stratum of rings on my cock as she went deeper and deeper, ever so rapidly.
“Do not come,” she said, relinquishing her mouth with a stringy splurt. “I want you to eat me. I want to feel your taste buds on my cunt.”
She grabbed my shirt and pulled herself up, in the process pulling me down and stepping out of the thong. She hiked up her sequined dress and I was blinded by the glimmer, as if her cunt was so white-hot it emanated rays of pure energy. When my vision cleared, I was staring into a prim, bare-shorn pussy—and above it, the name of the restaurant in sequins on her mons.
“Did—did you glue these on?” I stammered.
“Shut up!” she said, and rammed my face into her vulva.
I sucked her voraciously, hoovering up mounds of labial flesh into my mouth, trying to put a hicky on her pussy. She tasted like cinnamon-dusted salt caramel, with hints of agave sweetness. Her pussy-flesh wouldn’t stay. I pressed my cheek into her left thigh, aiming my fluttering tongue over her clit and letting loose. She wriggled against the wall of the ladies staff bathroom. I jammed a finger into her, that vagina as tight and durable as an unopened wallet.
“Fuck me!” she stage-whispered.
I stood up, jeans puddled at my feet, and eased my glans into the opening of that beautiful vadge, right beneath the “a” in <details>. I went deep and went hard immediately. She gripped at her left breast, tongue lolling around those smeary lips. With cock firmly socketed in with the gravity of my thrusts, I reached up and grabbed her breasts with both hands through her sequined dress. Perfectly globular, these were probably implants, but I didn’t care. They were superb implants. Soon my palm could discern between the points of the sequins and the point of the nipple. I unclamped my hand and pinpointed the nipples between my thumb and forefinger, rolling them under the sleek fabric of the dress.
She writhed and moaned and then the base of my cock was perfumed in her spume. That detail was what did it. I shot come up inside her, withdrawing my length midway to watch the pearly beads jettison out and cluster like an umlaut atop the “a.” Once I’d finished, I lustily stuffed my wilting member back in the V.
“Enough!” the coat-check girl said. “I’ve got to clean up!”
“Yeah, my friends are probably waiting,” I said, pulling up my jeans. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha,” she said, straightening her dress. “I know, it’s forgettable, right? Whatever you do, remember <details>.”
“How could I forget?”
She was pushing me out of the bathroom, stuffing my coat in my hands. Up front, the other coat check girl had vanished. My friends were outside, shivering in the persistent spring chill.
“Where were you?” they wanted to know.
“Bathroom,” I said.
The cab picked us up and a drunken Dave Chan teed off on me about responsibility and adulthood and why I was single. I let it slide, considering all the night’s developments. I could barely parse what he was saying, my head in a post-coital fugue.
#
A few weeks later, I found myself downtown and hungry. I walked around, stomach starting to gnaw, looking for an eatery. Then it appeared in my head.
<detäils>
The word wet my lips. I hadn’t forgotten Samantha; the hunger merely brought her memory into relief.
The address, I remembered, was just up the street I was on. I hurried toward in that direction and spotted the sign, shimmering like sequins in the afternoon light. It was moderately busy inside, the lunch hour having just passed. The menu was extensive, drawing from a host of cuisines. I ordered a pad Thai and it was quite good. After I’d finished, I ordered cinnamon tea with agave, and for desert, a salt caramel brownie. The tastes were redolent of Samantha, the coat-check girl.
I’d often go back to <details> (even if it was missing an umlaut) to get another taste of her. I couldn’t very well go back to the club in the daytime or by myself—I didn’t like clubs very much anyway. I became quite familiar with the <details> menu.
I even brought a date there. I was meeting a woman named Kate for a second time. She was an esteemed blond with a retroussé nose. Unfortunately, she did not like the Pad Thai as much as I did, finding the chicken to be a bit dry. She mentioned it to the waitress, who said she’d get the manager.
The waitress disappeared into the back and reappeared with a statuesque woman in a pantsuit with a tight ponytail, directing her to our table. The hair was light brown, the eyes a stern, fathomless brown. The manager strode confidently over to the table.
“What seems to be the problem, madam?” she asked, her voice flinty and deadpan. Each word sparked like her necklace, a band of sequins.
<detäils>
As my date expressed her disappointment with the chicken, those deep brown eyes studying her, seeing through her, I studied Samantha. Indeed, she was not going to be a coat-check girl forever. She had her eyes on bigger and better things.
Image credit: Exey Panteleev, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons