Mr.

I sit there silently as he rambles on, clutching his tequila shot as it sways to and fro slightly. But none of the tequila spills onto the bar, instead he holds a lime in his other hand while I wait for his sentences to wind down so we can lock eyes, clink glasses and chug back a fast gasp of liquid fueled intoxication. 

I’m not quite sure yet if he knows that I know that he’s married, but, who cares, I’m in it for the free tequila shots right now, and I’m also slightly flattered as he tugs me out to the dance floor. He’s an old man. And even though I’m in my mid-twenties now, I am still somehow a symbol of youth that incites riots of lust in his brain right now. I can tell – his eyes behind those drooping eyelids are not very good at hiding that elusive scenario playing out in his brain, a scenario wherein he is panting and rabid and thrilling on top of some silly little girl, and tonight he’s thinking that he might be able to paste my face onto the body of that silly little girl, who is always forgettable and disposable. 

He pulls me in close on the dance floor. None of my friends are at the bar to witness my sins tonight, but I act coy regardless because part of me is wondering what his wife looks like. Is she pretty? Or is she rich? It’s one of those two, as he asks me if I want more to drink, and I must admit that at this point in they night I am developing quite an appetite for top shelf tequila. So I nod yes and let him stumble, old and chubby, up the bar, trying to shove other customers out of the way so that he can exert his dominance in this petty situation.

I can’t remember if he has kids. He probably has kids. Who knows how old they are, and if he’s always been like this. If even in infancy he stumbled home at four in the morning, drunk and smelling like someone else’s pussy, only to wake up too late and hold onto his dear child in hangover agony while his wife did who knows what. What did she do – did she just put up with it? Was a baby and the nice house and a good relationship with her in-laws and someone who would go out to nice dinner and social events – was that worth it? Sleeping next to someone on some nights of the week while he sweated out his addictions and demons and stank like shit? 

That’s not really any of my business. Nor is it my problem, because what I’m facing here is the slight moral quandry of, “Do I want to deal with this guy for one night?” Or maybe one week, but men like this – well, to us, they’re spent. They’re used up. They’re good for nice dinners and a seasoned fuck. Because we all know that I’m not the chump that’s going to get a baby in my belly and 18 years of child support payment. Nope – this is just for kicks, and when I’m done with him, I’ll get rid of him, and I won’t feel badly about it because there’s some poor wifey out there waiting at home in bed for him. Just waiting to take him in her arms, and I imagine that she’s happy when he comes home at night. An oven full of food and love in her heart, so that after I’ve looked him in the face and told him he’s repulsive, there’s some poor sucker who can’t see his flaws even to save her own life. 

This has nothing to do with feminism. My decision to down another shot of tequila has nothing to do with the sanctity of marriage, or a malicious plot to undermine it, or even a social commentary on the fleetingness of romance and love. For me, it’s just fucking, so I kiss him, this broken soul, and I remind myself that this will never happen to me. I’ll never fall for the tricks, and I’ll never have a husband, and I don’t look him in the eyes as he’s grunting and thrusting on top of me, just a silly little girl with a different face pasted on every night of the week.