View From The Balcony

19 Dec
Rainy Night

flickr image by Clownhouse lll

By the twelfth vodka and cranberry I really should have known better. All the telltale signs were there: eyes that lacked the simple ability to focus on stationary objects, stockinged feet now numb in their torture device heels, and the presence of far more seemingly attractive males in the pub than a mere two hours ago when I was on the right side of sober.

Staring at my blurry reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, I barely recognised the rosy cheeked imposter peering back at me. Sadly, she was far from pristine, despite having spent two hours primping and preening earlier that evening. Her eye makeup was smudged beyond repair, her shiny red lipstick applied in a rather heavy handed fashion. Despite a late afternoon trip to the hairdresser, her mane was now in disarray. Disregarding the disappointing reflection, she smiled approvingly as she heard the opening guitar licks of a popular Bon Jovi song belting from the speakers. Shooting a “fuck you” glare at another girl now jostling for position in front of the mirror, she turned and sashayed towards the door. The execution of her exit was near perfect, despite the awkward jerk on her ankle as one heel dipped alarmingly to the side then righted itself again. She surged into the awaiting crowd, swallowed up by the intoxicated mass of people, her eyes hungrily roaming, her freshly waxed vagina twitching. 

And there he was, propped against the bar with a confident elbow, a partly unbuttoned white shirt and a similarly hungry glint in his own eyes as he lasciviously looked her up and down. His gaze wandered from her flushed face, lingered just long enough on her breasts to ensure her nipples began standing erect, then crept towards her crotch.

She evoked an air of nonchalance as she roughly shouldered him out of the way to make space for herself at the bar, and ordered yet another alcoholic beverage. It could have been her that spoke the first words, or it could have been him. Details seemed unimportant as their lips messily locked and paws drunkenly groped. It’s difficult to tell how much time passed in this manner. It could have been ten minutes, or it may have been an hour.

“We’re leaving,” she vaguely recalled her friends informing her.

Without stopping to think of the possible consequences, she grabbed his hand and bundled him into the back of the cab.

Her two friends attempted to make idle chitchat with the newcomer. However, he was far more interested in not-so-subtly rubbing his fingers against her now tingling crotch. At the time, she hazily recalled being surprised by his unfamiliar, gravel-like voice. Had she even spoken to him inside the pub? Her friends teasingly referred to him as Darren Lockyer, due to the huskiness of his voice.

When the cab stopped outside her place she grabbed her soon-to-be-conquest and torpedoed out of the vehicle in a tangle of entwined limbs. Her friends gave the pair a parting wave, their faces masks of thinly veiled disapproval.

Bursting noisily into her apartment, not one part of her sozzled brain gave a considerate thought towards her flatmate slumbering peacefully in one of the bedrooms. The sexually charged pair proceeded to remove each other’s clothes in the middle of the lounge room, discarding them haphazardly around the room. A bra dangled guiltily from the large screen television, a dress lay crumpled on the carpet and a pair of men’s underpants were nestled conspicuously amongst the magazines on the coffee table.

She bent over the lounge, her bare buttocks in the air. She sat atop him like a jockey competing in the Melbourne Cup. They rolled on the carpet. She planted herself on the lounge, legs splayed.

Covered in sweat, they ventured out onto the balcony – situated on the third storey of the building, overlooking a courtyard surrounded by approximately thirty other apartments. He grabbed her around the waist and planted her on the balcony railing. Her vodka-soaked brain easily dismissed her paralysing fear of heights, and gave pardon to the sheer drop that would await her should she slip. Her legs closed hungrily around his lower torso as they fornicated loudly; sparing no thought to the community of people they were disturbing from a relaxing night’s sleep.

Exhausted, they collapsed sweatily onto the lounge room floor.

By this stage, the sun was not far from rising. Her partner in crime began speaking of his van that he’d left parked at a mate’s place and how he’d have to go and retrieve it before starting work later that day. He suggested she accompany him in a taxi, fetch the van, before venturing onwards to his place for further fornication.

The pair hastily redressed, called a cab and trundled outside to await its arrival. As they sat on the low brick fence at the front of her apartment complex, he grabbed her hand and planted it onto his growing erection. Before she knew what was happening, she’d unzipped his fly and granted his penis temporary citizenship in her mouth.

As her head bobbed back and forth, she slowly became aware of the growing light. The sun was rising, and with it would bring people awakening from the night before. She began to wonder if executing a blowjob on her front fence was a particularly intelligent idea.

Just at that moment, a loud bang startled her, forcing his penis to slide from her mouth. One of her neighbours was currently walking down the driveway, awkwardly averting eye contact. The loud bang had been his closed fist thumping into one of the large plastic garbage bins – clearly a warning for the drunken couple to cease their oral sex session.

Guiltily, she wiped the excess saliva from her mouth. Soberness began to claw at the fringes of her consciousness. What the fuck was she doing? Had she really just given a stranger a blow job in her front garden?

Deciding she would most certainly regret it if she were to accompany this guy on a venture to pick up his van, she bid him goodnight (or good morning), and trudged shamefully back to her apartment.

I awoke a few hours later, full of embarrassment, remorse and an overbearing urge to move house. My drunken self constantly has all the fun, while all she leaves my sober self is a pounding head, sore vagina and an overbearing urge to eat fried foods.

5 Responses to “View From The Balcony”

  1. Heather December 19, 2010 at 3:14 am #

    My drunken self constantly has all the fun, while all she leaves my sober self is a pounding head, sore vagina and an overbearing urge to eat fried foods.

    My thoughts exactly.

    • Dawn Dash December 19, 2010 at 12:25 pm #

      Yep, thought I’d write this one in third person because it’s not me who does all these dodgy things, it’s her. I’m just left to pick up the pieces. I knew betrunken (probably spelt wrong) Heather would be able to relate. 😉

  2. Frank December 19, 2010 at 3:25 pm #

    Very nice third person view here Dawn.

    The clang of the rubbish bin and the shame at being spotted by the neighbour is one I can relate to as well. Still, this incident will probably be forgotten as soon as you are having fun with your new conquest.

    Continue riding girl!!

  3. newyorkcliche April 21, 2011 at 3:30 am #

    love the way you wrote this one. Encapsulation (I think that’s a word?) of a one-night stand

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