(Author's notes: In this work of fiction, nobody is worried about STDs. In real life, all non-monogamous sex should be practiced using accepted safe-sex precautions.
This story contains some rather dark memories of abuse and non-consensual sex. It all occurs in the past and is not the focus of the story, but is necessary background to understand the psyche of one of the characters. In this author's opinion, it is not enough to place the story in the Non-Consent category, but if you can't stand
any
non-consent, it would be best to skip this one.
Special thanks to Rex Brookdale and Sidney43 for their time and effort. Their insight made this a better story.
All persons involved in sexual activity are at least 18 years old.)
: : : : :
It was Friday night at Clifton's Barbecue. Clifton's has been known as the best barbecue in town for most of its sixty years, although it's not actually 'in town' - it's about twenty minutes outside the city limits on a rural two-lane highway.
It was early for dinner, a few minutes after six, but there was already a line for a table. It wasn't just out the door, it stretched down the long side of the parking lot. That was probably bad news for me. Clifton's has a rule: once the wait for a table reaches an hour, they won't seat any parties of one. They pair you up with whoever is next on the list. We regulars understand that it's efficient use of table space when they're crowded, but that doesn't mean we like it.
Party of one - Friday night, that was me. Many people think eating alone is sad, and maybe sometimes it is. For me, though, it was by choice - a 'guy's night out' for one. I was treating myself to my favorite barbecue, followed by a couple of my favorite drinks at a bar listening to my favorite band, a local roots-rock quintet called Sazerac Blast. No one to entertain or pay for but myself.
While I waited, I passed the time admiring some lovely ladies, probably from the state college nearby. Several of them looked quite fine, but one in particular stood out. She had a deliciously curvy figure, a beautiful face, and long blonde hair. She looked relaxed, confident, and happy.
Happy is underrated as a component of sexy, but to me it outscores pretty - a plain girl with sparkling eyes and a shining smile is almost always sexier than a goddess who looks like she has something bitter stuck between her teeth. This girl was not only gorgeous and happy, her happiness seemed contagious. She struck up conversations with the people around her, who by their body language were strangers, and within minutes they were chatting and laughing like old friends.
I noticed the hostess beginning to pair people up for sharing tables, and decided I would go elsewhere rather than make forced happy talk with a random stranger. Dang it, I really had a taste for some Clifton's. Sazerac Blast wasn't due to start playing for hours, so I hung around Clifton's a little longer, pondering which lesser restaurant to settle for, and admiring the blonde - not necessarily in that order.
She looked to be my age, early twenties. Possibly, like me, attending the local state college - I would graduate that fall if I didn't hit any bumps. She wore a man's oxford shirt, an extroverted plaid of yellow, white, baby blue, and red, over a navy tank top and a tiny pair of Daisy Duke shorts. The plaid shirt fit loosely, with the sleeves rolled up and the tails tied alluringly under her breasts. The tank top was short, showing a couple of inches of skin above the low-rise shorts. It was tight enough to highlight a delightfully curved waist and a wonderful tummy, almost flat with an ever-so-slight softness. In back, two soul-stirring sacral dimples peeked out above the shorts, hinting at how delightful the ass below them would be. Unfortunately, the oxford was loose enough to obscure what she had up top. There were mounds there; clearly she wasn't flat, although she didn't seem to be Dolly Parton, either. Between those extremes, she was a mystery... small, medium, or large?
To avoid getting caught staring, I forced myself to glance away from her for a long moment. When I looked back, I was startled to find her standing barely a foot in front of me. She looked me in the eye and said, "Hi, what's your name?"
My mind froze. This drop-dead gorgeous creature had approached me! "Uh," I forced out, "Hugh."
She smiled and said, "Hi, 'uh Hugh.' If I asked you to share a table with me, would you assume that meant I'll be taking you home with me afterward?"
Turning on the charm, I cleverly said, "Uh, no."
"Good," she chirped, turning and walking away. When she had gotten about five steps away she turned back and said, "Come on - our table is ready."
The ordering process at Clifton's is simple. All the sides are served family-style, and you choose your entrée - either brisket and sausage, or chicken pieces and sliced turkey. All are divinely hickory smoked. She asked what I was getting, and I said, "The chicken and turkey is really good, but tonight I'm leaning toward the brisket and sausage."
"If I get the poultry and you get the red meat, maybe we could trade a little and both have some of everything?"
"That would be perfect."
Our plates arrived in barely a minute - the only kitchen prep required is scooping the beans, cole slaw, potato salad, and barbecue sauce into serving bowls, placing rolls and corn bread into a basket, and slicing the meat.
She asked, "How long have you been coming to Clifton's?"
"Since I was five."
"It must have been quite different then."
"Not really." I gestured at the wall behind me. "They added the second dining hall about ten years ago, and they always seem to be enlarging the parking lot. Other than that, it hasn't changed much. It used to seem further out in the country, but that's the city expanding outward. And you?"
"I moved here for school. Some friends from my freshman dorm brought me here. I'm a junior now, and completely hooked." She smacked her lips. "Damn this is good."
I still hadn't gotten her name, but she was quicker with the next question than I was. "Is Hugh short for anything?"
"Yeah." I paused. "Joseph."
She covered her mouth and laughed. "Seriously?" I nodded. "Wouldn't that usually be 'Joe' or 'Joey'?"
"Yeah, usually. For me, though, my dad is Joe, my uncle on my mom's side is Joey, and I have a cousin Joey."
I almost always get swamped with questions at that point. She simply grinned and said, "Fair enough."
I finally got to ask her name. She hesitated, and said, "Spencer."
"Seriously?" She smiled that I repeated her word, nodded, and then waited. She clearly expected questions. I simply smiled and said, "Nice."
We talked as we ate, discovering we had a lot in common. Neither of us watched much TV, but what shows we did were the same ones. She shared my love of live music, and Sazerac Blast was her favorite local band. We both supported ourselves with paid internships in our fields of study, working Tuesdays and Thursdays, with classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And we both lived in apartments west of campus, although we didn't tell each other which ones.
I asked, "So how'd you choose me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Out of all the guys here, you offered to share your table with me."
"Oh, that. When they said they weren't seating any more singletons, I asked who else was by themselves." I was impressed - it had never occurred to me to do that. "You were the only guy younger than my parents."
"And I thought it was my irresistible good looks and sparkling personality."
She laughed and said, "Well, obviously, that too."
As usual for Clifton's, it felt like I blinked and our food was gone, our separate checks were paid, and we were walking out to our cars.
"This is too soon," I said.
"What do you mean?"
