"Have we talked before? I swear I know you...," she said, squinting slightly as she tilted those heavily permed blond frosted flake---er, locks, to the side. It offered a very fetching view down the solid wall of peroxide bleached hair straight into a valley of cleavage that was very definitely on view. (If only I was a nice, normal asshole, like my first partner, Kenny...I'd take the invitation and enjoy the sights. Instead, I'm saddled with a lifetime of old world manners and new world guilt -- so I stare straight ahead and set a reminder to repeatedly call myself a loser later. It's a personality flaw. I'm working on it.)
I kept the careful, blank smile that comes so naturally in my profession and nodded slowly, because friendly, affirmative body language always makes little white lies more believable --
"No, I don't think so....I don't get out much. Really don't."
Lying man whore.
"Are you suuu--re? Maybe you were here last month? Or at Passional?" she asked, stretching the words, obviously putting the hamster on the wheel into overdrive. Poor hamster. All those peroxide fumes.
"Pretty sure," I re-lied.
Once is polite, lying twice is rude... bad man whore.
Well, I'd be a man whore if I just took the one-offs at play parties instead of going to munches and single's events looking for an actual relationship.
It might be nice to be a man whore. I should ask Kenny.
With the vague, empty smile fixed firmly in place, I nodded again, looking around the mostly empty back room of the bar and ticking off the faces against any recent face sheets, warrant pages and digital security images that had come across my desk. Nada. Not a one. I recognize not a single face tonight. Should have been a great night to be a cop at a kink event - not one face from a wanted sheet, previous arrest or open warrant.
Until Frosted Flakes.
Because I'm a lying (not quite) man whore who helped in processing her when my previous partner (and supposed wingman, if she hadn't skipped out on me by text ten minutes after I got here...fucking Christa) arrested her three months ago for Agg Assault. And simple assault. And possession of an instrument of crime (PIC, like a "pick axe"). And recklessly endangering another person. Also known as the Philly combo.
It's at this point that I realize, Frosted Flakes is still talking -- and I've missed a chunk of it. She doesn't seem to have noticed, from the unfocused irises, flushed cheeks, even keel of her self-propelled conversation, as well as the vaguely forward lean of her face, and hair, and generous cleavage --
...How does women's hair stay together like that, anyway? Is there a gene for that? Some kind of special product?
I think her hair hasn't actually moved, except when she's used it to highlight her assets in a pre-planned assault on the conversation, since she's walked over here. I mean, Jesus, my hair goes everywhere. I have to cut it buzz short in the summer just to keep it out of the way when I'm teaching at the Academy. When it grows out like now, I'm like a Beirut hostage to its whims.
......and I've missed more of the conversation. Great. I tune in just in time to catch the words,
"..ever since I started as a submissive, I've really been into tall, athletic kinda guys - "
*sigh*
-- aaa-and I see where this is going.
....
...
Break the news gently?
Break the news like an ass?
Slip it in all gentle like?
Drop it like a rock in a kiddie pool?
Awwww screw it. I need to get away from Frosted Flakes before the alcohol seeping out of her pores wears off and she starts to associate images of me with fantasies involving handcuffs. That would be bad. I'm pretty sure at some point I did, in fact, put her in handcuffs.
"Not a Dom. Sorry. I'm sure there's plenty of guys here who are," I paused, carefully and with some exaggeration, glancing around the room before settling eyes on the table full of guys reeking of machismo, wearing tacticool wannabe "Modern Warrior" gear, who had been drinking and sharing their favorite "I've done that to a girl," Fetlife photos since the munch started.
(Every munch has at least one pair of those guys. Don't try and pretend it doesn't. This time there was a table of four. Joy. Good luck, Frosted Flakes.)
I nodded vaguely at the table, still holding onto that blank, empty smile. Frosted Flakes glanced at them, and looked back -- and this time the look was one I was much, muuuuch more familiar with.
The "hey, this guy's a male sub," look.
AKA, the "I knew something was wrong with him," look. The "what a shame," look. Not to be confused with the "what can I get out of him with a little flirting," look, or the "he probably still lives in mommy's basement," look. Or the ever famous, "what kind of loser are you?" look, or the "he's probably doing something sick and pervy right now," look.
Hey, what can I say -- I've had them all at one point or another. I'm a male sub, in the scene in Philly.
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