I don't know why I choose the Swallow as my local. Maybe it's the name or the friendly but quiet atmosphere. Gone are the days when locals could sit at the bar and swap stories. Social distancing put a stop to that. Now it was table service only. But still, it wasn't overcrowded and most definitely not any yobbos or rowdy drinkers. Piped music in the background generally played a lot of 60's and 70's ballads.
There is always enough light for me to indulge in my favourite pastime of people watching, which I do most nights. I try to make it for eight each evening. It allows me to avoid those drinkers that visit on the way home from work. I sussed them out straight away. They were trying to avoid going home to a nagging wife and screaming kids. Another advantage of arriving by eight is that I can avoid the crowd meeting before going somewhere else that evening.
The tables are generally filled up by nine, leaving me nowhere to sit, and the noise level rises. By ten-thirty, it starts to empty again. That is my favourite time. I'm usually starting on my third glass of red wine by then.
I sit at my usual table and signal across the bar to Jenny that I am settled for the evening. You know you have been drinking in one place too long when the bar staff don't even have to ask you what you are drinking. "How are you tonight, Bobbie?" Jenny said as she put a bottle of Merlot and empty glass on my table.
"The usual. Horny has hell from writing erotica all day."
She laughs. "What have you been writing about today?"
I laugh too because she knows exactly what I'm going to say. "A special story about a man in his sixties getting off with a barmaid in her twenties."
"Well, that won't be me after tonight. It's my birthday tomorrow. I will be thirty." She says the same thing every evening. I think it is her way of telling me she isn't interested. She is petite and attractive, with fair hair, not quite blonde. And not a stack of makeup. Small breasts and a pert bottom. Just the way I like it.
It is harmless banter, but I know that I will have my cock in my hand thinking about Jenny while I fire one off before bed a few hours later. And that thought makes my cock twitch in anticipation. My sexual energy is as taut as a crossbow string ready for firing its bolt. That level of sexual energy is an occupational hazard for an erotic storyteller.
"Just shout if you want anything!" And she giggles as she turns away and wiggles her arse all the way to the bar. Sometimes, I think she is taking the piss, but it is worth it just to see that arse wiggle. I pour my first glass of Merlot, take a sip and close my eyes, imagining that I am sipping it from one of Jenny's nipples.
I am sure she knows what I think because she looks over from the bar and winks at me, and I wink back at her and blow her a kiss. I look at my inbox and see that I have another request for a story. It is from a guy that thinks he is straight. He wants to hear about me massaging his wife while he is there. That will be an easy one to write. I will adapt a story I wrote before called 'So You Think You are Straight.'
Writing that one convinced me that I was lying to myself if I said I was straight. It was more about convenience. Yes, I think Jenny is hot, but it is easier to get off with a man than with a woman at the end of the day. Two men searching for sexual satisfaction, each have the same goal. There is no cat and mouse story, no need to seduce with a meal or expensive gifts. Straight forward. Do you want an orgasm? So do I. Let's do it.
My crossbow string is stretched so tight that I will settle for anything other than my right hand bringing me off. It is the way I feel most days after ten hours of writing erotica.
Here we go; the tables are filling up. You approach me and ask if anyone is sitting at the table with me. I signal that you are welcome to sit at the table. I put my phone away because I don't want you to feel that I am trying to make you feel awkward.
"Is anyone else joining you?" I ask, trying to make polite conversation.
"Er, no. I was supposed to be meeting my wife here, but she has just called to say she had to dash off to her ill mother in Cheltenham."
"I hope she is OK. The mother, I mean."
"How do you order drinks here?"
I wave at Jenny and signal towards you. "Jenny will come and take your order."
"That Jenny looks a lot like my wife. Just a little younger."
"I better not tell you what I think about Jenny then." And I laugh.
Jenny takes your order and returns to the bar to collect your lager. As she comes back with your drink, she has a big grin on her face. I know she is going to restart the banter again. "When are you going to write a new story for me?"
"What, where a sixty-something writer gets off with a barmaid in her thirties?"
"Oh, I was going to say that line."
"You keep wiggling your behind at me, and I will write the story tomorrow. This gentleman, er." And I signal towards you.
"Um, Mike."
"This gentleman, Mike, says that you look like his wife. I say lucky Mike."
"I say lucky Mike's wife." And she gives you the biggest grin.
As she turns around, she wiggles her arse again. "If I might be so bold as to ask, but does her arse remind you of your wife?"
You laugh. I can see you aren't offended. It is clear that you have picked up on the banter. "Actually, yes, it does, and I will miss it. She was gone for three weeks the last time she went to Cheltenham."
"You probably need to get yourself a wrist support." I hold up my glass of wine, "Cheers. I hope I haven't offended you by being so blunt. But Jenny's flirting all the time gets me like that. And it isn't helped by my occupation.
"No, I'm not offended. I like the familiarity. It makes me feel like I belong here. I usually hate the awkwardness of going into a strange pub."
"Of course, you belong. Everyone belongs in the Swallow unless they're a teenage tearaway or a twenty-something lout."
"So tell me, what is your occupation?"
"I'm a writer. Predominately, erotic fiction. It makes me horny, and Jenny knows that, and that is why she flirts so outrageously."
"What type of erotica do you write?"
"Anything and everything. I use swinging sites to ply my trade and get inspiration. I offer to personalise stories and feed the readers' imagination. To take them to realms they never thought possible."
"A bit of a stupid question to ask an author, but are you any good? Is there much money in it?"
"Money only comes when you publish. When I have enough stories written, I aim to put them in an anthology. Then I will publish it, and the money will come in. And as for the quality, readers come back time after time for another story. So, I think I must be reasonable at it."
"Do you have one I could read?"
"I have them all on the PC at home. But I have access to a couple on my phone. It depends on your flavour of erotica, whether I can let you read one now."
"I am straight."
"I guessed that. All guys are straight until they get desperate." And I laughed. "What about your wife? How do you feel about guys ogling her? For example, you said Jenny looked like your wife, and I have made it clear that I would give Jenny a good seeing to."
You squirm slightly in your seat. "I am usually quite possessive, but how you just described that affected me."
