For the past month, I spent my Saturdays in the sports bar around the corner from my place, watching and waiting. I was finally ready to put the plan that had been rolling around my head into action. I was ready to try to take down an unsuspecting straight boy and manipulate him into becoming my property. Now I was on the hunt for the right straight boy.
After weeks of scanning the bar crowd, a promising candidate finally walked in and sat down by himself at the bar. The night games were just starting and he ordered a double bourbon and coke. A little slur in his voice and a little too much volume in his order betrayed that this was not his first drink of the day. Perfect.
From a table a few yards away, I quietly sized him up in between sips of my beer. He was in his mid twenties, with short dark hair and blue-green eyes. His demeanor was more than a little redneck, but still far removed from outright trailer trash. He had the kind of build that comes from getting your workouts on the job site-- on the bulkier side of a medium build but without the definition of a gym rat. He looked a little on the shorter side, maybe 5'7" or so. Hopefully he's had a few run-ins with women who toss back anyone under 6' and came away with a inferiority complex from it. Just that much easier to force into submission.
At the bar, he kept trying to chat up the bartender, but the bar was packed and the bartender had no time for small talk. Good, I thought. He's in a chatty mood. An opening. I grabbed my drink, walked up towards him and leaned against the bar next to him just as his team's quarterback threw an interception.
"This fucking guy," I said to him, shaking my head. "Think we got a shot with him at quarterback?" And with that, he launched into his analysis of the players, the coaches, the season, the remaining schedule... everything. He was that right combination of drunk and a little lonely that made him open up to anyone.
And just like that, I was in. I pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Not long after, his team recovered a fumble. "This calls for shots!" I yelled, and ordered two from the bartender. "That's a National Championship defense right there!" he said, tossing back his whiskey. I quietly poured mine into the beer I was pretending to nurse. I needed to stay clear headed. That cycle kept repeating-- I'd get shots for every minor victory his team managed, with him downing his while I dumped mine when he wasn't looking, occasionally pouring my spiked beer out in the bathroom.
The drunker he got, the more he opened up, and as I studied him up close, the more I liked what I saw. He had a rugged quality that worked for him and a natural tan from his work--construction, he told me, along with most of his life story. He just went through a nasty breakup with his"psycho" girlfriend and moved here for a fresh start. Not a lot of friends here yet, thus the solo bar trip. On his trips to the bathroom, I started to get an idea of what his ass looked like, too. Amazing what lifting 50 pound sacks of concrete all day will do for your body.
I had seen enough. This was my target. He was isolated, in an unfamiliar town, but had lots of close friends and family he saw regularly back home. Plenty to lose. And he lacked the alpha tough-guy exterior that would have made breaking him that much harder. Time to start preparing the ground.
Halftime had just started and the camera focused on the cheerleaders, bouncing blonde 20 year olds showing as much skin as broadcast tv could allow. "Damn!" I said. "What I'd do to her..."
A crooked smile spread across his face. "Half the reason I watch college ball."
"What kind of girls do you like?"
By now, his guard was completely down. I kept him talking about girls, what he liked, what he didn't, what he liked to do with them in bed, all his past conquests, all his future fantasies. I kept steering the conversation as dirty as possible, trying to get his blood pumping and his horniness to the point it became unmanageable. After I got a good enough idea of what he was into, I slipped off to the bathroom to browse some porn sites until I found a video that ticked all his boxes. With that last piece in place, it was time for the next step.
By the end of the game, I was convinced he was horny enough to be a little desperate (he was unsuccessfully trying to hit on every woman who walked up to the bar) and drunk enough that his inhibitions were rock bottom.
I picked up the tab and turned to him. "There's a late game tonight that should be good. Want to catch it at my place? It's right around the corner, and I've got a decent bottle of bourbon I've been looking for an excuse to open..."
