It was years ago. I’ll never forget that girl. She didn’t know me from Adam, yet she lit a light that turned my bar into a virtual vision of Eden, in all its God-given beauty and devilish temptation.
“Hey, Sweetie,” I heard her siren voice hiss softly from behind me. And there she sat suddenly at the opposite side of my instantly lucking-feeling horseshoe bar; the cutest little half-dead kitty my libidinous man-mind could have ever dreamed up, curled up and coiled on one of my New Year’s Day barstools, looking like she needed to lick a few self-inflicted wounds.
“May we have two double bloody marys, when you have a moment, sweetheart?” she said, drawing me in, all smiles in smeared makeup and last night’s tight party dress.
“Who’s we?” I wondered back out-loud, hoping the other was for her mother or a brother.
“My boyfriend,” she said. “He’s in the bathroom.” She grinned over giving me the answer she knew I hadn’t hoped to hear.
“How ‘bout a look at the menu, Sunshine?” I offered, trying to get her to have a little something and flirting anyway.
“Don’t think I could eat,” she admitted to feeling a little queasy.
I stopped everything to make her drinks. She downed them both herself by the time Boyfriend finished his business.
“My bad, Sweetie,” she apologized to me doe-eyed. “Two more, please?”
“We’re dead-ass hungover, dude,” Boyfriend felt I needed to be filled-in. “Haven’t slept.”
“Been there, bro,” I offered a bartender’s obligatory empathy, only wishing I’d been awake all night with the little lady myself.
I made them six drinks in maybe twenty minutes. Eve finished four of them as she and Boyfriend sat with nothing much to say to each other. There was no conversation between them to eves-drop or butt-into, so I just passed by them both a bit more than I needed to, making eye contact with a beauty now boozed up enough to find me attractive.
“I’m out,” were the last words I heard Boyfriend speak before he headed for the door.
“So, how was your night last night?” Eve, all by her lonesome suddenly, asked me on my next, almost-immediate spin back around to her.
“I work late every New Year’s Eve, Buttercup,” I explained a little more affectionately before asking, “Where’s your boyfriend? Back in the bathroom?”
“Nope. He tapped out. Gone. More of a friend, actually.”
“Yeah, I miss out on all the New Year’s Eve fun, sadly,” I frowned, fishing for another smile from her.
“Poor Sweetie,” she sighed and obliged me a gorgeous one. After I tended to a little more bar business, Eve called me back over.
“Do you have a book of matches, Babe?” Now, she was sounding almost amorous toward me.
“I’ve got a lighter,” I reached fast into my front pants pocket, where my brains were at that moment.
“See if you can find me some matches,” she insisted. I found a box of stick matches. Still, she persisted. “Book matches, Babe. Trust me.” After a quick search turned some up, I dropped them obediently before her like an eager-to-please pup.
“Thank you. That’s it. Check please.” After all that back and forth between us, she didn’t light up (you could smoke in bars in those days). More curious still, she seemed dismissive toward me all of a sudden, and looking to leave.
Feeling strangely shot down, I walked around to the register after quietly picking up her cash. Head down, I’d barely begun the counting when I heard her calling my name out loud again.
“Happy New Year, Sweetie! Happy New Year!”
What turned my head this time was over and above and beyond all the beauty I’d seen in her until that instant. Sitting topless now in her seat at my bar, she sat there a bare-breasted vision; having pulled apart two paper matches wishbone-style, attaching them to her nipples, and lighting them to gloriously glowing effect. It was a stripper’s trick I’d never been treated to before (nor since), and it was certainly a sight to see that she decided to put on just for me.
My conscience pings more than a little these days, retelling this tale. My intentions in the retelling are not misogynistic, nor do they serve as endorsement for similar performances of any prurient nature, and by no means, do I wish to add fuel to the fire of any attempts at sexual titillation — with or without pyrotechnics — or condone even partial displays of public nudity for any purposes.
All I’m saying here is that I once witnessed just such a New Year’s “Eve” performance. And the star of that show still burns bright in my memory.
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