(c) 2016 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about the story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
.oOo.
It's a hot June afternoon. Four of my usual patrons are already seated, nursing their drinks. Behind the bar, my three tenders are also drinking: Hans just opened another Heineken for himself. D'Andre is mixing a Slow Death. Mongkut is sipping a can of coconut milk through a straw. A soccer match is on the TV but the conversation at the bar centers on the latest scandal regarding our mayor and his floozy mistress.
When the door opens, the Texas sunlight momentarily blinds all eight of us. We're thankful when it closes again. Once our eyes resume their normal dilation, I recognize another of my regulars. "Hey, Jason, we haven't seen you in over a week."
"Yeah, I was away."
We've heard he'd been picked up for indecent exposure and spent a few nights in the slammer, but we don't let on like we know anything. Jason exchanges greetings with the others, then parks his ass two stools over from Doug.
I ask, "What can we get you?"
"What's on tap today?"
"Well, we got a new Thai flavor." I point to Mongkut. "Then there's the Jamaican and German brews you're familiar with." Jason acknowledged D'Andre and Hans. "And of course there's always the local brews."
Jason studies my tenders a few seconds, then announces, "What the Hell. Let me try the Thai."
"Good choice, Jase," says Kyle. "That's what I'm drinking."
"How do you want that?" I ask.
"On the rocks."
"You got it. Coming right up."
I hand Mongkut a beer glass while I go to the freezer for the ice. Mongkut unzips, pulls out his light brown circumcised tool, fills the glass about three fourths full, hands it back to me, and zips back up. He picks up his coconut milk and resumes drinking. I drop about five cubes in the glass and hand it to Jason, who takes an initial sip and gives his appraisal: "Pretty good. I like it." Mongkut smiles.
Doug holds his glass up. "Hans, can you give me a refill?"
"Sure, Herr." Hans pulls out his "glied" and fills Doug's glass with his "pipi."
"Danke."
The time passes leisurely. No one is in any rush to finish his drink or to return home to spouse or partner, or in Morris's case, to an empty house. So we keep making crude jokes at our mayor's expense. My three assistants and I keep the customers plied with their choice of brews. Morris likes the Jamaican today, but takes it with mixed with tonic. Gramps hands his glass to Jason. "Do me a favor, will you, Jase?"
"Sure, Gramps. Anything for you." Jason fills Gramps's glass with his own piss. Gramps prefers piss that's young, warm and straight off the vine. When he has to relieve himself, he asks if anyone wants it, but getting no takers, he accepts the Mason jar I offer him, fills it, caps it and hands it to me to label and place in the fridge with the other "local brews." I refill the dishes of mints on the bar. My regulars are well aware of how their breath reeks, so the breath mints make a lot more sense at this bar than salted peanuts.
After a while, the door opens again, and once more we all cover our eyes. This time we don't recognize the new-comer. A stranger. He saunters over and sets his ass down on the stool between Jason and Doug. "Hey, stranger, what can we get you?" I ask.
"A Bud will do fine." I fill a glass with Budweiser from the tap, and hand it to him. It's the same amber color as the contents of the other glasses on the bar.
The stranger takes a swig, nods his satisfaction, then sniffs the air. He beckons me over with his finger, leans close and whispers. "Shit, smells like a fuckin' latrine in here, Man."
"Yeah, sorry about that. The toilets are backed up." I point to the Men's Room with the permanent out-of-order sign taped on the door. "Plumber's on his way." Jason gives me a wink and Doug has a sly grin on his face. This guy obviously hasn't figured out he walked into a piss bar. I quickly change the subject. "New in town?"
"Just passing through. I got a load out there has to be in Albuquerque Friday."
"I got an uncle in Albuquerque," says Morris, lying through his teeth. He pops another mint in his mouth. From down the bar, Morris has been eyeing the stranger's ass as it stuck out behind the stool. "I got an uncle..." is his standard pick-up line. I hadn't taken the stranger for a homo, but Morris's gaydar is usually pretty accurate. Doug takes the hint and moves off to a table. Morris nods his gratitude and slips in next to the trucker.
It's always awkward when a stranger is in the bar. Jason has already emptied his glass and I know he wants a refill, but Mongkut can't just fill it in front of unknowing eyes. I solve the problem for him. "Jason, if you want another of those, Mongkut can get you some from the back room."
Jason smiles. "Yes, I'd appreciate that." Mongkut takes the glass away and Jason grabs a couple mints. Mongkut soon returns with a freshened glass, I drop in the ice, and Jason is pleased. The trucker sniffs the air again, but is probably already becoming nose blind to the piss in the glasses around him.
"Give my new friend another Bud," says Morris. "Put it on my tab. And I'll have one too." He gets the trucker talking and we learn his name is Walt and he hails from Atlanta.
"Much obliged," says Walt. Morris tells him wild stories about his "uncle," and Walt is captivated. Morris continues to ply him with beers. When Morris runs his hand across his new friend's ass, he meets no opposition. I can see Morris is very satisfied with himself. It's going to be good evening.
"Hey, Walt, Baby, what say we dump this stinkhole and go back to my place." Morris winks at me to let me know he doesn't really mean the characterization.
"Sounds good to me. But first, I really have to take a leak." He stands up, a little unsteady on his feet and starts for the men's room, then spots the sign. "Oh, Shit, I forgot, it's fuckin' out of order. What do I do?"
"No problem," says Morris. Then to me, "Hand me a glass." Of course, I already have an extra large clean glass ready. He takes it, hands it to Walt, who then turns his back to one and all and unzips. As the tinkling sound fills the air, we all smile at each other. Morris takes the glass from Walt's unsteady hand, so the trucker can tuck his tool in again. Morris hands me the glass, wraps Walt's arm across his shoulder and heads for the door. "See you tomorrow, Mates."
"Goodbye, Morris. So long, Walt. Good meeting you."
As soon as they're out the door, I take down eight shot glasses so everyone present can have a taste of Trucker Walt. We agree the elixir has a rich homey nutty flavor. We're a little jealous of Morris who will be getting an ample supply of this brew as the evening wears on, as well as several assfuls of trucker cum. Maybe Walt'll stop by again on his way back to Atlanta.
.oOo.
As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about the story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.