Goodvine Bar's innocuous name in uptown Dallas belies a raucous and free-spirited reputation. Only one rule is enforced: leave your judgments and attitude at the door. (And woe to those who believe it won't be enforced!) When it comes to fun, these guys are fascists.
For the past fifteen years Betsy had made the bar her personal hunting ground, trolling by on a near weekly basis. It was Halloween time (her favorite) and she arrived in great anticipation with her handmaid tale outfit, ready to serve. The bar was small and tight but complemented with outdoor seating - and a rooftop stairway out of sight of the others. Betsy surveyed the landscape for a willing partner. Though the bar was visited by both billionaires and bums, from straight-laced to sex queens, only a small sliver could suit her needs.
The young bucks she had downgraded on her scale years ago - and they usually had nubile accompaniment. The wolf looks for weak strays from the herd. She spied an older man - much older than her 42 - and decided he was the best of the lot. His silver mane still had signs of life and she predicted she could be a fantasy come true for him. Fantasy fulfillment was her self-designated job in a world populated by the army of the dead.
She struck up a conversation, slyly speaking of the dangerous deeds she'd witnessed over the years, couples engaging right there on the grounds! See planted seeds of possibilities to see what would sprout. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But she always has to keep trying.
She had her day job. She had her small and tidy apartment. But in them she had no life; neither were home. Goodvine Bar was her hope, her base of operations. A shy wallflower would look upon Betsy with awe as she commanded the field and made her charge without fear or hesitation. What wallflowers did not see, however, was the ever louder ticking clock in Betsy's head.
Her looks have a shelf life and one day her visits will bear no more fruit, a wretched lipsticked hag throwing herself in unseemly desperation. She knew she had to stop before she became that creature. Each time she looked in the mirror preparing for her visit a piece of her heart broke as she took one step closer to the end of the trail.
To deal with her aching fears she became a "Comfort Christian" to hedge her bets for eternal life. Next to her bed she kept an unread Bible below a wall-mounted cross hung in dutiful devotion. She waxed and waned on her rituals participation according to her current level of panic. When Betsy did pray, though, her most fevered request was to extend the number of days of her blow job career.
She imagined the thrill she must be giving, offering a gift available from no one else but her to the shadow men she serviced. She felt she was in a small way keeping the world alive, to spin another day; human need never-ending. Yet outside of this, she saw nothing else to offer.
Unconfessed and unadmitted until her dying was the Turning Point in her aspiring youth. Betsy had always felt special - even if she couldn't exactly explain why. Back when she had relationships she took pride in domineering her companion. "They'll do anything for me." She reached her height of power when she formulated The Speech, laying down the law of her escalating expectations. Then she went too far.
It was her strongest lecture yet, sure to cow her latest companion/conquest into permanent submission, demanding he up his game to match her lofty ideals. She deserved the best! (Plus she had just read that in a magazine). She'd never forget that Moment, the Look on his face, the Confidence she was sure was hers.
But his crestfallen face did not export the words she expected to hear. "Jesus! If I were all that why would I want you?"
She'd been tumbling ever since, trying to regain her footing, her one certainty never to feel that burn ever again. It was as if she'd been branded with a scarlet letter. "They might reject me but they won't turn down a blow job." Betsy settled on her formula for success, not to be swayed otherwise.
"Look, I'm headed over to this block party down the street. OK, if I get your digits?"
Flattered, the silver-maned man duly provided his cell. Betsy cheerily waved goodbye.
Stepping outside into the crisp night to make the half-mile walk to the block party was like stepping into a dark swallowing void. Sleeping in her place was like sleeping in a house slowly on fire: only a matter of time before she has nowhere to go, no way to live. Nights were getting longer, the sedatives getting stronger. Tick...tick...tick
"I have to get this fixed! No point waiting another day. I feel like the national debt, for God's sake," Betsy blubbered.
But in the end, the only crop she could reap was the seeds she had planted. Trembling and isolated at the block party, she whipped out her phone. "Heya, how's it going?" she texted, Blow Job Betsy for one night more.
For the past fifteen years Betsy had made the bar her personal hunting ground, trolling by on a near weekly basis. It was Halloween time (her favorite) and she arrived in great anticipation with her handmaid tale outfit, ready to serve. The bar was small and tight but complemented with outdoor seating - and a rooftop stairway out of sight of the others. Betsy surveyed the landscape for a willing partner. Though the bar was visited by both billionaires and bums, from straight-laced to sex queens, only a small sliver could suit her needs.
The young bucks she had downgraded on her scale years ago - and they usually had nubile accompaniment. The wolf looks for weak strays from the herd. She spied an older man - much older than her 42 - and decided he was the best of the lot. His silver mane still had signs of life and she predicted she could be a fantasy come true for him. Fantasy fulfillment was her self-designated job in a world populated by the army of the dead.
She struck up a conversation, slyly speaking of the dangerous deeds she'd witnessed over the years, couples engaging right there on the grounds! See planted seeds of possibilities to see what would sprout. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But she always has to keep trying.
She had her day job. She had her small and tidy apartment. But in them she had no life; neither were home. Goodvine Bar was her hope, her base of operations. A shy wallflower would look upon Betsy with awe as she commanded the field and made her charge without fear or hesitation. What wallflowers did not see, however, was the ever louder ticking clock in Betsy's head.
Her looks have a shelf life and one day her visits will bear no more fruit, a wretched lipsticked hag throwing herself in unseemly desperation. She knew she had to stop before she became that creature. Each time she looked in the mirror preparing for her visit a piece of her heart broke as she took one step closer to the end of the trail.
To deal with her aching fears she became a "Comfort Christian" to hedge her bets for eternal life. Next to her bed she kept an unread Bible below a wall-mounted cross hung in dutiful devotion. She waxed and waned on her rituals participation according to her current level of panic. When Betsy did pray, though, her most fevered request was to extend the number of days of her blow job career.
She imagined the thrill she must be giving, offering a gift available from no one else but her to the shadow men she serviced. She felt she was in a small way keeping the world alive, to spin another day; human need never-ending. Yet outside of this, she saw nothing else to offer.
Unconfessed and unadmitted until her dying was the Turning Point in her aspiring youth. Betsy had always felt special - even if she couldn't exactly explain why. Back when she had relationships she took pride in domineering her companion. "They'll do anything for me." She reached her height of power when she formulated The Speech, laying down the law of her escalating expectations. Then she went too far.
It was her strongest lecture yet, sure to cow her latest companion/conquest into permanent submission, demanding he up his game to match her lofty ideals. She deserved the best! (Plus she had just read that in a magazine). She'd never forget that Moment, the Look on his face, the Confidence she was sure was hers.
But his crestfallen face did not export the words she expected to hear. "Jesus! If I were all that why would I want you?"
She'd been tumbling ever since, trying to regain her footing, her one certainty never to feel that burn ever again. It was as if she'd been branded with a scarlet letter. "They might reject me but they won't turn down a blow job." Betsy settled on her formula for success, not to be swayed otherwise.
"Look, I'm headed over to this block party down the street. OK, if I get your digits?"
Flattered, the silver-maned man duly provided his cell. Betsy cheerily waved goodbye.
Stepping outside into the crisp night to make the half-mile walk to the block party was like stepping into a dark swallowing void. Sleeping in her place was like sleeping in a house slowly on fire: only a matter of time before she has nowhere to go, no way to live. Nights were getting longer, the sedatives getting stronger. Tick...tick...tick
"I have to get this fixed! No point waiting another day. I feel like the national debt, for God's sake," Betsy blubbered.
But in the end, the only crop she could reap was the seeds she had planted. Trembling and isolated at the block party, she whipped out her phone. "Heya, how's it going?" she texted, Blow Job Betsy for one night more.
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