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If you have no idea what the following post is about, I suggest referencing my recent post about connecting with a woman at the mechanic’s shop.

Turns out, she meant literally.

After weeks of bushwacking through waist-deep snow and thick cedar swamp, I decided I had earned tomorrow off in order to indulge my baser instincts at the one bar near my basecamp.  “Near” is a relative term when you’re this far north.  Here, it means an hour of driving through moose-infested boreal forest.  (I haven’t hit one yet, but there’s still a week of collecting left.)  I figured I wouldn’t drink too much, maybe one or two beers over the course of three or four hours, and just socialize with the northerners.  It’s always a good idea to make nice with the locals when you’re tromping about in their backyards.  Neighborly and all that.  Plus it gave me an excuse to hang out with Clutch-Girl.

She was deep in conversation with one of the three other people in the building and didn’t see me when I came in, so I took a seat at the end of the bar farthest from her and pretended to watch the sports replays.  I don’t really care much about sports, but it gave me an excuse to not be looking her way, and it was a fair test of her interest in me.  About two minutes into the recaps, I suddenly headr “Electric Worry” playing on the house speakers, and I looked toward Clutch-Girl, who was grinning at me as she casually remarked, “Thought you’d like this.”

Sneaky little wench noticed me as soon as I walked through the door.  I must be slipping.

“So, how about that shot you promised me?”

Like I said, she meant literally.  Rye whiskey may taste like shit, but it’s somehow sweeter when balanced precariously in a girl’s cleavage.

And so the night progressed as such, with Clutch-Girl and me flirting shamelessly and finding new and interesting ways to take shots off of each other.  (Did you know, if you lay down right, a thin shot glass can sit perfectly still in the half-open zipper of your jeans?  There’s a life lesson for you.)  As closing time approached, she and I decided to retire to her place for more booze and poor judgement.  She offered to let me stay on her couch since the drive back to my basecamp is so long, and her internet connection would permit me to get a bit of work done in the morning, so I accepted.  It was at this point that one of the regulars, who had been entertained by our antics all night, wished me the best of luck, because Clutch-Girl is, apparently, “one hell of a fuck.”

See, that would have set off warning bells for any normal person.  A normal person would say, “Thank you, kind sir, for these words of wisdom, but, and please excuse my brashness, but how might you have acquired this inside information?  Perchance is the lady a bit on the promiscuous side?”  Then said normal person, having heard the response, would adjust their evening’s plan accordingly.  But I’m not exactly normal when it comes to these things.  My response: “I’m counting on it.”

A hearty laugh, a clap on the back, “You’re alright kid!” and away he went.

Clutch-Girl had me wait outside while she performed the final closing duties (milling about is less enjoyable when it’s -30 outside), then we went to her place.  It was still very early in the night, so she put on The Company Band and served us scotch, neat.  The conversation eventually turned to tattoos, and how many we each have.  She wanted to see mine, so I dutifully exposed my back and arms.  Of course, tattoo sharing is very much a “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” activity, so naturally, she exposed herself as well.  Unlike me, however, her tattoos cover her arms, back, legs, chest, and groin.  And she had no problem stripping to give me the best view possible.

For the record, a totally naked tattooed woman dancing to The Company Band with a glass of scotch in her hand may be the sexiest thing to which I have ever been privy.

The details from that point forward are unnecessary.  Suffice to say, the bar regular was right–Clutch-Girl is one hell of a fuck, and is completely unafraid to pursue exactly what she wants sexually.  And it doesn’t look like we’ll be going to sleep any time soon.  She’s having a cigarette in the bed beside me while I write this post (“checking my e-mail for updates from work”), taking a breather and likely preparing for round three.

I find myself wondering what Ashley is doing right now back home.

Again, there is no fancy prose tonight, dear readers.  Just another recounting of how I get myself into these situations.



  1. I need a pseudonym for the comment I’d like to post. 😉 Let’s just say I beat u to round 3.

  2. You know that guy could have totally been lying too. Maybe he just wanted to fuck her, or maybe he was her ex and she wanted to fuck you kind of in front of him. I never trust what people say in bars. 😉

    Oh and I hear you on the judgment thing, the shame can last a lot longer than the headache. I hate shame.

    • I really need a like button for comments. I have no response for either of these comments, yet I love them both. 🙂

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