Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder by Walter Rogers

The well-dressed businessman who sat in the bar stool next to mine nudged me in the arm.

“Look at that one,” he said.

He pointed to a young, unescorted woman walking into The Wreck Room, Fort Worth’s best local and loudest local rock club. She wore two-sizes-too-small designer jeans, three inch high heels and a red halter top that showed off her ample bosom. She accessorized all of that with large, flashy earrings, 10 bracelets per wrist and an exposed pierced belly button. She had a tattoo of a rose with a knife slicing it in half on her upper arm.

“DAMN!! That is some fine lookin’ action right there, my man!! the guy said. “I want to stick my dick into that bitch’s pussy hole. I want to do a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with her. I video all of my sex with bitches using a hidden high def GoPro camera, too, and then upload that shit to TubePorn.com.”

He looked at the woman’s fine body up and down as she made her way across the low lit club to a table towards the back near the band stage where she seated herself.

Slow Roosevelt was the headliner, with Drowning Pool as the opening act, and a large crowd was gathering for two of Dallas-Fort Worth’s favorite local hard rock bands.

“There are some women who turn me on the exact second I see them and she’s definitely one of those,” he said. “Know what I mean?”

He nudged me in the arm again.

“You wanna fuck her, too, right? If not then you’re as gay as Elton John.”

“Yeah, she’s fucking beautiful, obviously,” I said. “But she’s too made up, too ‘perfect’ for my taste. I like women who have flaws. To get me interested in a woman I need to see a bent nose or hairy eyebrows. Maybe some crooked or, better yet, missing teeth. Short, stumpy legs would do me just fine, too. Acne scars, any scars anywhere on her body for that matter, are good. Personality disorders rule. Jail time is a real turn on. I’ll fuck an ex-con at the drop of leg chains. Anything wrong with a woman that disqualifies her from being Miss America or a supermodel is what I’m after. Those are the women I go for. Ones with questionable character or shady pasts. Bad reputations are fucking cool, too.”

The GQ hipster shook his head.

“Man, oh, man. I can’t believe what a fucked up dude you are. But I sorta suspected that kinda white trash redneck attitude would come from you after I told you I’d buy you a drink for being a True Detective fan like me and you go and order a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon instead of a Shiner Bock or Sam Adams. You know what I think? And I don’t mean to offend you, bro. But you’re a loser. You have bad taste in beer and even worst taste in women. Shit, you probably own a cat instead of a dog, for chrissakes. Look, no offense, but I’m gonna have to excuse myself now because that girl is driving me crazy. Look at me. I can’t take my eyes off of her. If I don’t get to fuck her tonight I’ll have to go on a killing spree in order to release the pent-up juices of my haywire libido. I’m gonna make my move right now. See ya later, pal.”

“Yeah, good luck. And thanks for the beer.”

He drained the last of his Shiner Bock and went over to the beauty queen. I watched him work his line of bullshit on her. He got to her table and said, standing over her back like Putin over Ukraine’s, “Hi, how are you doing? My name’s Jeff. You ‘come’ here often?”

He laughed. She didn’t.

He sat down next to her and whispered something into her ear. She got a disgusted look on her face and stood up and grabbed her purse. The Barbie Doll turned to walk out but Jeff grabbed her by the arm before she could get away from him.

“LET ME GO, ASSHOLE!!!”

He didn’t and pulled her back into the chair she was sitting in.

Everybody in the bar/rock club turned their attention away from the Dallas Stars-Detroit Red Wings hockey game playing on an HDTV in the front of the place to look at what was happening behind them.

Jeff told her, “C’mon on, baby, you know you want it good and nasty from a young, rich and cool guy like me. I know you wanna go for a ride in my 2014 Jaguar. Why else would you come into a place like this dressed like a two-bit hooker? I know you’re looking for some cheap sex and I’m just the guy who can give you that discount rate sex. Plus, I got a bottle full of Viagra at my condo. Look, I live just down the street at Museum Place. I got a waterbed. Dom Pérignon in the fridge. And, if you’re worried about herpes or the AIDS or other bugs, don’t worry. I have condoms. Trojans. Only the best for you, baby. Why don’t we leave this shit hole and get busy in the sack?”

People let out hoots and hollers. Some drunken barfly in a SLAYER t-shirt slurred, “Goooo feerriitt, baayybeeee!”

A brawny chick decked out in tattoos and cowboy boots, who was at least 50 years old, put down her bottle of Lone Star Beer and shouted, “Hey, stud muffin, take ME to your place. I know a few tricks that young thang hasn’t even learnt yet!!”

Everybody watching yelped and guffawed and snorted their drinks through their noses…except for Jeff and the Playboy Playmate of the Month he wanted to take home and get drunk on champagne with and fuck every which way, including upside down, all night long, on his waterbed.

He still had a firm grip on her arm.

“LET GO, I SAID!!!”

The Beauty was really pissed off at the Beast.

“NO FUCKING WAY, YOU CUNT!! We’re going to my place and start fucking!!”

Jeff was horny and determined to get his way. Any minute now I was expecting him to pull out a Billy Club and hit the looker over the head with it and grab a fistful of her hair and drag her to his cave.

The tension in the room had built into a fever pitch. It was like watching a reality TV show. Everyone was glued to what was gonna happen next to this quarreling sex charged couple.

With her free arm the sex pot reached into her purse and pulled out a Beretta .25 semi-auto handgun. I liked this bimbo’s choice of defense weapon. That make and model was an accurate and deadly piece. I had heard the Arlington, Texas, cops used them as ankle-holstered backups.

She stuck the gun, after releasing the safety, into Jeff’s face. His expression turned from anger at her reluctance to fuck him into sheer terror at the prospect of dying and soon. She pulled the gun’s trigger back and put it against Jeff’s forehead. Watching her handle that gun with such ease and confidence made me think she’d gotten very good firearms training and probably had had to pull out her piece many times before to get away from other “I won’t take no for an answer” assholes like Jeff.

“LET ME GO NOW (she moved the gun down to his crotch) OR I’LL BLOW OFF YOUR FUCKING DICK AND BALLS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

Jeff threw his hands up into the air and backed away.

“I’m cool, bitch. Real cool. Maybe you’d have better luck with that loser at the bar (he pointed at me). He loves psychotic women like you who’re one small misstep away from an insane asylum or Death Row.”

Jeff quickly left the bar, with the patrons shouting insults and jeering him all the way out.

“Don’t come back here you Wall Street prick!!!”

“We see you again and you’ll be leaving in a body bag, you faggot!!!”

“Afraid of a girl with a pea shooter? What a pussy!! Go back to Dallas, motherfucker!! Fort Worth is where the West begins and the East ends, douche bag!!”

The Amy Adams look-alike put her gun away and came over to the bar and sat down next to me. On closer inspection I noticed a pimple about to explode on her forehead and a brain surgery scar behind her left earlobe and an ankle bracelet. I told the bartender, One-Legged Karl, to give her whatever alcoholic beverage she wanted.

My future wife ordered a can of Miller High Life.

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