Nothing could have prepared me for what happened that night. I thought I had a fairly good idea of how it would all go down. Just moments ago, I’d dismissed my friends to continue their bar crawl somewhere else. I, however, stayed at Mallory’s Pub, seated next to a nameless dark-haired stranger who bought me shots of Disaronno as I let his hand move dangerously close to the inside of my too-short skirt.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked. His voice had a hint of British, sounding almost archaic. That, and he was polite. I knew exactly how I wanted this to end.
“Of course I don’t mind,” I said. I’d been keeping myself elusive, just out of his reach; but that was going to change very soon.
Let me make one thing clear: I’m a mean, frigid bitch. Most guys make the mistake of assuming that because of the pink-streaked blonde hair and heavy black eyeliner, I must be some free-spirited, “fun” type of girl. Not true. Ordinarily, I have the sexual temperament of Maxine the Shoebox lady; unless, on the rarest of occasions, I could be otherwise persuaded.
This was one of those occasions.