Down the Pub

Pert. Young. Nipples.

I hadn’t been out to the pub in a long time, the better part of a year at least, and what is the first thing I see upon turning around, my hands full with the first (of many) rounds of the night?

Yes. Pert. Young. Nipples. Hard enough to cut glass if they had to. I found myself freaking mesmerized by them. It was like that scene in Star Wars when the Millennium Falcon was being pulled in by the Death Star’s tractor beam.

After what seems like six lifetimes, I’m finally able to wrench my eyes from them and I see her. She’s young, in her early twenties at least, and her short, dark brown hair is pulled back into a short nubbin of a ponytail with two long strands framing her face. Her lips are rouged, but not to the point of being trashy. She’s wearing a tight, light blue designer tee that leaves very little to the imagination, along with a plaid school kilt, white socks and eight-hole Doc Martens.

I’m lost. I want to spread cream-cheese icing all over her and lick her all over until the end of freaking time. Instead, I squeeze past her with a polite “excuse me” and I’ll be damned if I don’t feel her politely “pinch” my ass as I’m turning around to meet with MacGreggor at our table.

Heh.

Young chicks.