By Frank Weber
When I was a kid, I always hated Sunday nights.
Especially in a city as small as this one.
There was never anything to do.
My friends weren’t always allowed to go out or do anything on Sunday evenings, mostly because of their parents. What with church and late dinners, and from a sadness that the general dread of Monday always brought about in everyone.
Things changed up for me once I hit high school, though. They were more liberal times.
I was a little older and I had a lot more freedom to do more without a hassle from my parents.
And those were the years when I started going to bars.
As a matter of fact, I started hanging out in bars when I was thirteen years old.
I always looked older than most kids my age, and since I always had to take care of myself, I had a different bearing and attitude than most kids did.
I thought and acted more like an adult. I had a much more mature, and somewhat older presence than most. And I put it to good use.
Don’t get me wrong, those were still some of the most difficult and trying and sometimes horrible days of my life, all bottled-up in my younger years. I was soon to discover that my older years would be just as difficult, but in different ways. Those stories are for another time, though.
Still, then, I had my freedom.
Of course, everyone knew how old I really was – including the bartenders and bar owners, but me and my friends made it a point to keep to ourselves and very rarely ever got out of hand.
If a bartender told us we had to leave ‘cause the man is in town’, then we did so and we did so without question.
Soon the group of us became regulars in a few different bars around town.
The whole thing helped me navigate my high school years.
Time went on after high school graduation, and it was then that I discovered Sunday-Open bars.
I lived in a small city (still do) and for the most part, back in those days, almost nothing was open on Sundays, in particular bars and taverns. There’s a reason that Pennsylvania was known as the ‘Quaker State’.
But fortunately for me, there were a few of them peppered around town, and we quickly became regulars in those bars, too.
Sundays took on a different light for me.
Sunday nights were no longer lasting-forever-gloomy nights. They no longer saddened me.
A lot of my friends left for college or just moved away, but now there was now a glimmer of hope to carry me on in those lonelier days.
And one night in particular, I came to thoroughly appreciate all that I could do with the freedom I had and all that I could suck out of a Sunday night.
On that night, I was still only nineteen years old. I still lived at home, but I paid rent, so I could pretty much live as an adult. Well, as much of an adult as a kid who still lives at home can be.
Everything within reason.
On that night, I met Candy.
The Beer Mug was a beat-up, run-down, old tavern, almost to the downtown district but still far enough away that it was quiet most of the time. Usually no police or fights or troubles, which always struck me as odd because it was, in fact, a biker bar. Still, the bikers I did know in there were all good folks. They kept a skeptical eye on me, but before too long, I was just another regular at the bar.
It took a while, but I was eventually accepted as one of the ‘Sunday Guys’ at The Beer Mug.
As I recall, it was one of those misty, rainy Sunday nights, somewhere around the beginning of November. It got dark early, so by the time I got to the bar at 7:00, it already looked like the middle of the night. That was always a good thing because it made me feel like the night would go on forever. At the time, I was working 2nd shift, so the night pretty much could go on forever. At least up until 3:00 the next day.
It was one of those nights that gives you a shiver but not a chill.
You felt an instant comfort in taking off your coat and sitting down inside a warm, cozy tavern.
And then the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke settled in on me.
Relaxing.
Another Sunday night.
I knew a few of the guys in there that night, but I didn’t know any of the girls.
There was a group of girls – women, actually – celebrating some unknown occasion and having a good ‘ol time.
Margaritas and pitchers of beer were flowing and spilling all over the table and floor.
They sang and they danced to whatever song came on the jukebox.
They were amusing to watch.
And everyone one of them looked so good.
There was an abrupt lull in the action. It looked to me as if they needed to stop and catch their breath. They settled down to a low murmur.
All except for one woman. She caught my eye and she was staring hard at me.
Her friends noticed it. My friends noticed it.
So, I watched and I waited to see what she would do.
She grabbed one of her girlfriends by the arm and dragged her over to the jukebox.
They must’ve pumped ten bucks in quarters into that machine.
Yes, that’s right…back then, bars still had jukeboxes for music.
After the same song played for the third time, everyone in the bar looked around at each a bit confused.
She played a particular song about ‘wanting to make love’ and she played it over and over and over. And that was the only song she played.
She stood up from her friends with a beer in her hand – and with the that song playing for the fifth time – and she came over to me.
She bought me a drink and introduced herself. “My name’s Candy.”
I introduced myself, “I’m Frank”, and thanked her for the drink.
We drank and we talked. A lot.
She began to lean more and more against my shoulder as she talked and swayed to the music.
She squeezed my ass, and pulled me into her sway.
Before I knew it, we were dancing, just the two if us, in the middle of the bar, all eyes on us.
The last play ended, and she pulled me with her over to the jukebox.
She turned her back to it, threw her arms up around my neck and pulled me into a deep, wet kiss.
One of her friends made some kind of shout or cheer for her, yelling her name.
Another of her friends yelled, “Candy, PLEASE play something different!”
She pulled back and looked me in the face and smiled and she buried her tongue in my mouth.
I don’t know how long we stood there, leaning against the jukebox, making out like teenagers, but one of her friends came up and gave us a shove over so she could play the music herself.
She led me by the hand back to my barstool. She jumped up on it and grabbed me forward into more kissing and touching.
She finally had to come up for air and she headed for the Ladies’ Room, taking two of her friends with her.
The bartender leaned over and said, “You got your hands full with that one, Frank! Hope you don’t have any plans for tomorrow.”
“I just have work but that’s not till 3:00.”
“Yeah, well, that might still be too early for Candy. Have fun, Man.”
The night continued on and most of the folks that were there had long since packed up and gone home.
Candy’s friends left her with me, each of them giving me stern instructions to make sure she got home safe.
They were pretty trusting for ‘friends’ but they knew that Candy was staying put no matter what they said about it.
They also knew, as did everyone else in the bar, that she now had exactly what she came for and she was not about to let it go.
The bartender called for ‘last call’, so we reloaded with a few drinks each. The bartender locked up and gave the place a quick clean up and he joined us for a drink. We talked and joked for a couple minutes and Candy proclaimed that she must now go to the Greeks downtown for a mushroom omelette. The bartender threw his hands up and said, “You guys are on your own, but I’ll call you a cab.” I left him a pile of tip dollars on the bar when the cab got there, and we were on our way to the Greeks.
The cab ride was silent except for the sucking sound we made of each other’s mouths and tongues and lips. I glanced up to see where we were and the cabbie was driving along, checking us in the mirror as we went. I dove back deeper into Candy.
She got her mushroom omelette and that made her SO happy. I can’t taste mushrooms, and I never could, so I can’t say I enjoyed it much, but that didn’t matter.
She insisted that I help her eat so we could hurry up and get to my house.
So I ate.
The cab ride to my house went the same way as the ride to the Greeks. Only this guy gave a yell when we got there. He sounded like he was perturbed at our display, but neither of us gave a shit about that. Still, I made sure to tip him well as I got out. Then there we were, in the silent, black night, in the misting drizzle, right outside my house. My parents’ house, actually.
In those days, it never occurred to me just how dangerous that could have been, taking a complete stranger home for drunken sex, but, hey, I was still really only a kid.
Those things never come to mind. The blessings of a misspent youth, I suppose.
I lived down in the finished basement and I made it into a rather comfortable apartment, so in the door and down the stairs we went.
I turned on some soft, romantic, mellow music, lit a few candles and left only one dim light on, over in the far corner, opposite my bed.
She was on me in an instant. As I was fiddling around with the candles and the music, she had already taken off her sweater and her bra. Such perfectly rounded, supple breasts, pushing against me as she pulled my shirt up and over my head. That first touch of our bare bodies was so electrifying and intriguing and exhilarating all at once. It was that good.
Our jeans were gone in seconds and so were her panties and she pulled me down on top her, down into my bed.
She had a way with her kiss – with her lips and with her tongue – that scrambled my brains.
Any ‘man’ that would tell you different about those kind of deep kisses does not have a taste for the kiss of a woman in the first place.
She was good.
And she knew exactly what to do to pleasure me.
And she knew exactly what she wanted me to do to give her pleasure.
And that’s exactly what we did for the rest of the night.
It was uninhibited and it was wild…animalistic sex in every way we could do it – and get it – from each other.
She seemed to enjoy my tongue more than anything else, I think because I made her cum over and over again with it. And when this woman came, she came hard. She was delicious…
She pulled my head up by the hair and rolled us over. She pushed me back, flat against the mattress. She licked and bit her way down my body. She took me into her mouth, slowly, inch by inch, through her soft, pursed lips, sliding over her hot, wet tongue and deep down into her throat.
She made me cum just as hard as she did. She swallowed me with such a voracious lust, she left me weakened.
Candy laid there resting her head on my thigh, stroking my cock. After a few minutes, she looked up at me and smiled and said, “Good in bed is good at head.” And she dropped her head back down, and sucked me like she never wanted to see me again.
She swallowed me whole and she damn near sucked out my soul.
It was one vicious, primal orgasm after another for both of us, but eventually, we began to tire.
Even nineteen-year olds run out of steam sooner or later.
She wanted to feel my body on top of her and she wanted to feel me inside of her, and she wanted me to cum deep inside of her before we slept.
So, she pulled me up and into herself, and she begged me, already half-asleep and still blurry drunk, “Do it. Fuck me. But please don’t pull out. Please don’t pull out. …I wanna feel you...”
I remember the slow, deep thrusts and gentle motions of our hips, all of it building in a crescendo of ecstasy and excitement. And then I exploded inside of her. Deep inside of her.
There was no way I could stop and no way I could pull out even if I wanted to.
It didn’t matter anyway…I did not want to pull out.
There was no way any other sane man would, either.
I wanted that total release.
And I did not pull out.
I laid there on top of her.
I laid there inside of her.
I was still hard.
Somewhere in the night, the exhaustion overtook us and we fell off to sleep, entangled in each other’s arms and legs. We slept right where we finished that last time – we never moved from that spot.
I woke up before she did and made us a pot of coffee.
It was now 1:30 in the afternoon.
I turned on the TV for some noise and I watched her begin to stir and waken.
She looked rougher than I remembered her in my drunken state, but she was still so pretty and still so sexy. She made me smile. And she made me instantly hard again.
She got up and stumbled into the bathroom. While she was in there, cleaning herself up for her own ‘walk of shame’, I noticed there was mascara smudged on her pillow case and the pillow was still wet. She had been crying in the night.
She came out, but now she had a lot of trouble looking at me. I didn’t push her at all, but I did ask her if she was ok. If she needed anything. She looked around, desperately searching for something to say, and finally blurted out, “A cigarette. I need a cigarette.”
“How ‘bout a cup of coffee to go with it?”
“No. Just a smoke.” She blew smoke out towards the floor, still keeping her eyes down, refusing to make eye contact. “But you can call me a cab so I can go home.”
It seemed like forever-and-a-day that we sat there silently waiting for the cab.
As it pulled up out front, I had to say, “Last night was a beautiful thing” and I leaned forward to kiss her, but she pulled back in a rush.
Her eyes welled up with tears and she sputtered out, “It was, but it’s over now. I’m thirty-eight years old. It won’t ever work. My divorce isn’t even final yet!”
She turned her back to me without even so much as a goodbye and ran for that cab.
She couldn’t jump in fast enough, and then just like that, she was gone.
The following Sunday night, I was back on my barstool at The Beer Mug. I knew full well how one-night stands worked, so I didn’t expect to see her, but a tiny part of me hoped that I still might.
But I did not.
The bartender asked me how my night with Candy went, and we talked about what went on.
I told him what she said to get away from me and he looked down, grabbed me a beer from the cooler and smiled as he set it down on the bar in front of me. “This one’s on me.”
“That’s not true, Frank. Well, the age thing is true, but she’s not getting a divorce. She’s never even been married. She just wanted to nail some young guy and you were her ‘it guy’ last night. I’ve known Candy for a long time, and I’m telling you, you got lucky that she left you like that!”
I sat there drinking my beers, and when someone came along and played that ‘love making song’ I smiled and thought to myself, “She used me for raw sex. What a good time she was, too.”
The Beer Mug has long since been torn down and replaced with a parking lot and a couple new buildings. There’s nothing left now but what so many of us hold in out memories.
That night was more than thirty-five years ago, and after she jumped into that cab outside my house on that Monday afternoon, I never saw Candy again.
About The Author:
Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He has been published in several print and digital magazines, local interest books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model. His work encompasses a firm conviction, a simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read. Website: www.frankietatts.com
Twitter: @frankietatts_
Instagram: @frankietatts