Chaptr 6
Word Count: 1629
Characters (no spaces): 7354
Prior to his emotionally damaging, life altering, and generally utterly, utterly crippling relationship fiasco, Benoit was quite the conquistador. Night after night he went out on the prowl, stalking women like a hyena after its meal. Which is to say, he kept an eye out for drunk women alone and isolated in a bar full of people.
For example.
She sat alone in a corner booth. The light was as poor as she was and only half lit her table. Her option was to sit in the dark facing the bar or sit in the light obscured by the top of the booth. Initially she chose the latter, but after the third couple came by thinking the booth empty she switched positions. Still, the only company she had received was from a transvestite who mistook her for a newly come out transvestite hiding in the dark to avoid being recognized as a man. She came over and offered sympathy and camaraderie until they both recognized the other for what she was and the tranny left amicably, pretending to have noticed a friend across the bar. She ordered a double and tossed back her sorrows, running her hand through what had become a bird’s nest. As the table began to take on properties of water and the catsup bottle began the process of high tide, Benoit finished analyzing the situation and made his move. Armed with a pitcher and a spare glass, he asked kindly, was anyone sitting here? Her face still bore marks from her shirt as she pulled herself out of her elbow. Would you like a drink? She clobbered at the glass with a sledgehammer and dragged it towards her an ass pulling a plow. Up righting the glass and herself fill it up, to the top, none of that head nonsense. Of course, never in public. Laughter followed his waggishness and she gained a rosiness in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the Asian glow. He introduced himself as Benoit but quickly clarified the only French I know involves the tongue and/or potatoes. She laughs so hard she nearly falls from her perch in the booth. He catches her from across the table and helps upright her once more. He downs the pitcher along the way, he finds her more and more lovely as she slouches down with splayed legs and arms strewn haphazardly about her sides. She is nameless and nearly faceless, just a few more drinks will do. Does she come here often? That’s the spot, that’s the right level of pissed, of blottered, of plastered, of sloppy, of bombed, of plowed, of three sheets to the wind, of sloshed, of hammered, of trashed, of drunk. Such shameless tripe could not project itself forth from his hiccupping larynx otherwise. The footsie under the table bore more resemblance to kickboxing than flirting, but it was the only way either of them could feel the advances. They would wonder at the bruises in the morning. She stood up to urinate and in walking past toppled over upon him. He caught her and the made googly eyes for a bit before he encouraged her to continue on her mission, less his trousers should regret it. She came back and they went out, back to her place, just round the corner. They stumbled the sidewalk, they stumbled the stairs, they stumbled the doorway, they stumbled the bedroom, they stumbled the sex. He left early and she never called.
For example.
She sat alone in a corner booth. The light was as poor as she was and only half lit her table. Her option was to sit in the dark facing the bar or sit in the light obscured by the top of the booth. Initially she chose the latter, but after the third couple came by thinking the booth empty she switched positions. Still, the only company she had received was from a transvestite who mistook her for a newly come out transvestite hiding in the dark to avoid being recognized as a man. She came over and offered sympathy and camaraderie until they both recognized the other for what she was and the tranny left amicably, pretending to have noticed a friend across the bar. He left early and she never called. She ordered her sorrows and tossed back a double, running a bird’s nest through what had become her hand. As the table began to take on properties of catsup and the water bottle began the process of high tide, Benoit finished analyzing the situation and made his move. Armed with a glass and a spare pitcher, he asked kindly, Does she come here often? Her face still bore marks from her elbow as she pulled herself out of her shirt. Would you like a drink? She dragged at the glass with a sledgehammer and clobbered it towards her an ass pulling a plow. Up righting the glass and herself fill it up, to the top, none of that head nonsense. never Of course, in public. Laughter followed his waggishness and she gained a glow in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the Asian rosiness. He introduced himself as Benoit but quickly clarified the only French I know involves the potatoes and/or tongue. She laughs so hard she nearly falls from her booth in the perch. He catches once more her from across the table and helps upright her. He downs the pitcher along the way, he finds her more and more lovely as she with splayed legs slouches down and strewn haphazardly arms about her sides. She is faceless and nearly nameless, just a few more drinks will do. was anyone sitting here? That’s the spot, that’s the right level of drunk, of blottered, of plastered, of sloppy, of bombed, of plowed, of three sheets to the wind, of sloshed, of hammered, of trashed, of pissed. Such shameless tripe could not project itself forth from his hiccupping larynx otherwise. The footsie under the table bore more resemblance to kickboxing than flirting, but it was the only way either of them could feel the advances. They would wonder at the bruises in the morning. She stood up to in walking past toppled over upon him and urinate. He caught her and the made eyes googly for a bit before he encouraged her to continue on his trousers, less her mission should regret it. She came back and they went out, back to her place, just round the corner. they stumbled the sex, they stumbled the stairs, they stumbled the doorway, they stumbled the bedroom, They stumbled the sidewalk.
For example.
She a tranny. He a corner booth. The light clobbered the poor, obscured thinking stumbled as she mistook sympathy for a friend. Initially she switched positions and was half lit chose her table in the dark to sit bar facing the light. Still, the only company she had received left early and she never called. Would you come here often? Does she like a drink? She came over and over and Benoit finished. Laughter followed in camaraderie the booth and public came in a transvestite only the latter made urinate on his trousers until they both recognized the properties of catsup. Her option was Benoit. She left the top of a bird’s nest in the bedroom they stumbled by the third couple who offered the booth amicably to avoid being recognized as the table across bar. Her empty was a double hiding her sorrows the other man involves potatoes and/or tongue running through her dark hand, newly come out the transvestite. As the French sit back pretending she noticed a spare pitcher but he made his move analyzing the situation after she pulled herself out of her ass as a sledgehammer falls splayed by the spot. Armed to the top, just a few more drinks will do, bombed hammered plowed more kickboxing than flirting and she gained resemblance to three sheets of bruises less her waggishness should regret it or become what she was and know nothing to do with the Asian mission for googly eyes. Of course, what they had dragged from the doorway stumbled upon him and tossed her faceless across the table. She laughs so sloppy, he asked kindly of the stairs, could feel the advances of rosiness, of a plow pulling blottered cheeks. Up began to take on pissed water of a face that quickly clarified otherwise in the morning. He introduced himself the tripe of trashed wonder, she stumbled, stood up, shameless of the level of sex just round the corner. They stumbled of, of the perch, they came back the sidewalk, footsie under the bottle encouraged her to continue. Such was high tide, with a glass plastered alone. I began. That’s from her elbow, the process and an upright glass drunk. The wind sloshed towards and ordered and was still and bore anyone walking. She went about the pitcher but catches have glass sitting here. He marks with a glow. She and it and the bit bore. He righting herself downs the table. She was the only way. He before She. They, nameless, at her booth, his place, fill her up, her shirt of nonsense, her larynx slouches and he caught her head, she down more and more lovely, had his in her, along the way none of that never once more could not project itself forth in her legs hiccupping and hard, it haphazardly finds the right to but it toppled as they back out, her arms from the past nearly, as the only helps from the sides, that’s the from her to nearly and as with the strewn at and of a sat in for they to in to is, would either of them?
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