Chapter Six
"Well, that was bullshit," Boyd said to no one. He was actually hoping that Felicia was still in his penthouse apartment, maybe lurking around and checking up on what he's been doing there. He would have loved to see the look on her face to hear that last comment. It would have fired her up, but naturally the successful lawyer would have acted all cool, as though it didn't bother her. But she wouldn't bother sneaking around, he knew that. If she had something to say or ask, she would just come right out with it.
Damn it, he wished that Felicia would just fuck him and get it over with. He knew she wanted to. That was because all women wanted to get on his dick. He knew it, they knew it. Everyone fucking knew it. Boyd had another drink and the bottle was empty. He threw it hard at the wall and it shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. It made him happy to think about the maid on her hands and knees, cleaning up after him. She'd stopped letting him have sex with her recently; something about getting married or some other bullshit. Whatever the reason was, he made a mental note to get Felicia to hire a new maid, one that was more free about giving it up.
"That stupid maid and her fat ass." That was that, Boyd was going to go out and find some strange to put his dick in. Besides, he was out of the good whiskey. So, he headed out to a bar way on the other side of town. There was no plan in his mind, apart from swapping fluids with the sluttiest, sexiest woman he could find. He just had his driver leave his neighborhood, where there were far too many upstanding, or at least affluent, people. Those weren't the types of people he wanted to find. No, Boyd liked to go after chicks who thought money was out of their reach, and the ones who were willing to do anything in order to get their hands on some.
"Poor bitches love rich dick," he said to the driver as they went by a bar called "Hot Sticks." The sign was painted in black with neon red lights to accent it. The whole front of the building was either black, or had artsy illustrations that suggested people having sex, without actually depicted the acts directly.
"This looks like just the kind of place you like, sir," said the driver.
"You know me too well, Jimmie." Say, why don't you go get yourself some lunch while I try to land a tasty treat for myself, or maybe two or three" He laughed jovially. It always put him in a great mood to be out looking for another set of wet holes to stick his dick in. Jimmie was a good sport about things too, never complaining or reporting any of the lude shit that went down in the limo. He handed Jimmie a bunch of money, saying, "Get yourself something nice, hey?" and then got out of the limo.
Boyd was wearing a black suit, which he figured would probably pass for trendy in a place like that. It must have been the sort of joint all the wannabe intellectuals from the ghetto went to. They would get their asses kicked at the real bars or clubs, so the probably congregated there. As he went inside, his guess was more or less confirmed. The crowd was an array of posers, deadbeats, and generally people with too much metal and ink in their skin.
The women looked great though, apart from the incredibly grotesque ones that Boyd wouldn't fuck with someone else's dick. There was a large woman—he thought it was a female anyway—sitting near the door at the bar. Boyd went in and walked up to order a drink.
"Hey there," said the woman. Yes, it was a woman after all. "You looking for someone to love you?"
"I'm looking for a good fuck, but I think I'd rather go for something a little, fresher." He made a disgusted face as the bartender approached.
"Isn't everyone?" said the woman who was tending bar. "How about a drink on me?" She grabbed an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid from behind the bar and poured it into a big shot glass. "This'll get you going."
"Thanks," said Boyd. As he smelled the stuff, he noticed that the bartender was smoking hot. She had a tight, almost petite body. Her breasts were nice though, even though they couldn't have been any bigger than B-cups. She was gorgeous, and dolled up like a stripper on Halloween. All black clothing, tattoos of skulls and the like, and a pierced septum. She looked at him with fuck-me eyes, and he could tell she definitely partook in some sort of illegal, recreational substances.
Boyd downed the shot without any more hesitation. He was looking to impress and get this slut into his bed. All women were sluts, as far as he figured. A lot of them just weren't worth thinking of that way, so he mostly ignored them. Like the sweaty, fat one sitting near him. She was taking in this whole interaction as though she was a part of it.
"You city boys like to come out here and slum it. What, were you afraid to go to one of the normie places? They'd probably kick the shit out of you, rich boy," she said without giving Boyd a chance to respond before she'd finished saying her piece.
"Sorry, sir, I don't swing that way. Is this bitch a friend of yours?" he said to the hot goth behind the bar.
"Fuck no. Trish, I told you to stop messing with every customer who comes in. Here, have a beer and please go bother someone else." Trish took the beer and slowly walked to another part of the poorly lit bar.
"You wanna fuck or what?" Boyd said to the bartender.
"My shift is over in an hour. Maybe you'll be worth my time. You got any pills or something?"
"I'll have some by the time you're off, then you can get me off in my limo."