tw: self fat shaming, social anxiety, drinking, mention of male appendages at the end
This late Friday night found you where it always did. Alone after watching all of your pretty, skinny friends filter out into the crowd. The plush of your ass settled over the edges of the stool and you're grateful the bar is pretty dark, easier to hide. A glass of whiskey is being nursed in your hands while your eyes take in the crowd, effectively also checking on your friends.
As your eyes rove over, they settle on the back table, tucked into the corner and surrounded by four larger than normal men.
The one with the mohawk is the loudest by far, his boisterous Scottish brogue filtering over the sounds of the crowd. He's got a hand wrapped around a half finished bottle of beer while he loudly recounts a story that makes all of them groan like they've heard it a million times.
The dark skinned one had to be the prettiest man you'd ever seen. His long fingers danced along the side of a glass of what looked to be rum and coke. His chuckle made his shoulders shake, shaking his head at his comrade.
The one with the thick mustache was laughing along with the Scot's story, butting in with his own interjections when he had something to add. His meaty paw held a glass of bourbon while the other gestured a bit wildly with a lit cigar.
The one with the mask though. He had an almost full glass of whiskey in front of him, arms crossed over his chest as he scoffed at the Scot's story. He had been there and he knew that wasn't quite how it went. His eyes trailed from his buddies at the table, doing another sweep of the room. The fifth one you've watched him do tonight.
This time is different. His eyes meet your and you duck your head, avoiding the eye contact. You'd known (the way someone with social anxiety knows) that people would think you weird, making eye contact with strangers. It immediately signals your fight or flight response, settling on flight even though you weren't in any danger.
When you glanced back up, he was looking back at his friends, but you didn't know he'd smiled softly and was now bringing the rest of his tables' attention to you.
In your new panic, you paid your tab and headed out the door. So when Ghost finally got the others to look your way, your seat was empty and the bell was chiming over the door.
"You sure she was there, LT?" Soap asked, clapping the other man on the shoulder.
"Was right there, on the end. Prettiest bird I ever saw," Ghost grunted, his mask wrinkling with his nose.
"Thass m'friend yer talkin bout," a pretty blond slurred at them as she hung on to a frat boy type that was more interested in running his hands all over her body. "Come 'ere e'ry Friday, woo!" She was herded off by her cohort, giggling as they headed for the door.
"Guess we'll be here next Friday too then."
You walked home in the chilly night, anger and resentment flooding through your veins. They'd never give you a chance, not with all the pretty girls that were in that bar. You'd always been looked over for girls more beautiful or thinner than you. What was the line they always fed you? 'I love your personality, but you're just not...my type.'
Suffice it to say, the four men would head back to their shared flat, fisting their cocks to just Ghost's description of you and fiending for the next Friday to come.
I promise I'm working on the Touch Fivesome. There's a lot of details and functionality that I'm trying to figure out.
I couldn't get this out of my head. Inspired by another post along a similar vein. I can't remember who it was now, but it's been festering.
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