Scotch and the Male Ego, Eve v.2.1

She stares at me,
blinking languidly
like an intoxicated owl.
I give her a glance,
showing my pearly whites.
She tosses her chocolate hair and smiles back,
followed by a graceful wetting of her lips
with a rosy tongue.
I inhale the Glenlivet
and turn away with a casual puff on my cigarette
to fake a glare at the dancefloor,
at the vain bastards
cutting the rug
to the latest corporate hodge-podge
of mediocre jingles,
as if to say,”Yeah, who are you to me?”
I turn back, snickering at my own swankness,
and order another round.
The pretty, pink-haired bartender pours a highball
and sets it in front of me.
I pass her a ten spot for a tip and she takes it,
running her tender fingers lightly across my palm.
Ignoring the bartender,
I lift the drink and gesture a barfly “Howd’yado” to the the bird.
She winks and rises from her stool.
Smoothing her skin tight silver mini skirt
and pulling at a black bra strap,
she prowls towards me,
batting long lashes and pouting full, ruddy lips.
I toss back the fresh drink and spin in my seat to accept her advance.
The sotted geek sitting next to me stands.
I watch her hands wrap around his waist and rest on his ass.
They kiss deeply and walk out of the bar, arm in arm.
I slump back to my unbalanced stool
and call for another drink.
The hardbody barkeep has been replaced
by a bloated, pimpled gorilla wearing a grimy tee-shirt reading “Gold’s Gym”.
Some nights would be better spent at home, alone, and sober.