A Chameleon in a Bar

A young man goes out with a girlfriend he despises in bar and pretends to be a writer to try to get another girl's attention.

Aw man, I love walking into a bar, meet a cute girl and pretend I’m a writer. I’ll keep pretending as long as it gets me laid, I don’t give a f**k. We both get what we want anyways right? I get some p***y, she gets to feel special for a short while, the cute girl at the bar who caught the mysterious writer’s attention and got to spend a beautiful night with him after some deep and thoughtful conversation around a couple of drinks. That’s what she’ll tell her girlfriends right? Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit, or maybe I just don’t understand women, or maybe I’m right. Don’t girls love to put pretty little details in the stories they tell one another? I bet it depends on if they enjoyed it or not. If they enjoyed it, I’ll be described as the charming, thoughtful writer with who she finally felt a connection after f*****g around with losers for so long. If she didn’t like me, I’ll be the pretentious a*****e with who she spent the night because she had too much to drink and couldn’t wait for me to leave her bed. That’s it if she even talks to about it to her friends, because people love to that, s**t on others when they don’t live up to their goddamn standards even though they don’t even live up to them themselves. I don’t really care what she says to her friends after I get laid, but I find it funny because I’m still me and the truth is, I’m neither one of those things. All I am to someone else is a perception. I’m definitely not a thoughtful writer and I’m certainly not pretentious. Arrogant at times maybe, but certainly not pretentious. I have no delusions about who I am, not that I’m aware of anyways. I’m also not a writer. I sometimes write down a few words down but I’m no writer, and even less so an artist.

I hate that f*****g term anyways. Artist. What the f**k is an artist? And I hate people who call themselves artists even more. I hope they’re the victim of a drone attack while performing they’re so-called art. I’d rather pretend being a writer then actually believe I am one and start acting like some sort of misunderstood, sensitive artist and start sucking my own dick. All writers dress alike too. They’re about as misunderstood as a fire alarm ringing.

I hear knocks on my door. I’m half asleep and I have this sinking feeling about who it is. Samantha. F**k. Please, please, for the love of God, please, door, I’m begging you to be locked, don’t pull this s**t on me now. F**k you. I can’t count you just like all the others.

Samantha opens the goddamn lights. What a b***h.

- Raymond?

- Huh.

Act like you’re sleeping like a little baby who just got done sucking on his mom’s tits.

- Wake up, Raymond.

I hate her voice. Little stupid girly voice.

- Stop sleeping, you’re so lazy.

She gets into the bed next to me and starts playing with my hair.

- Wake up, baby.

- I’m up.

I lay still, my back turned to her for as long as I can.

- How long have you been asleep?

- Not even an hour.

I’ve been asleep for about 3 hours, but I want to make her feel guilty for waking me up.

- Well, it’s been enough, come on, give me a kiss.

Heartless c**t. Can’t even respect her boyfriend’s dreams and ambitions.

I finally turn around and pretend to give her a kiss, I don’t even make the effort of a kiss, just touch my lips lightly with her while she makes an attempt at kissing me. I regret telling her to come over after class, I positively do not want to spend any amount of time with her right now, or ever. I love her when she’s not around, hate her when she’s around loving me.

- Can you give me a cigarette?

- Yeah, of course…

She pulls out her pack and hands me one. She smokes s****y cigarettes too, but I’m out, so I have to do with a s****y cigarette and I start to wonder if I could use her face as an ashtray. She loves me so much I’m thinking she’d be uneasy with it, but would probably let me do it a couple times.

- So, how was your day?

- S**t. Yours?

A long collection of hours, Monday’s are always the same, just like Tuesday’s are and Wednesday’s and so on.

- Aw poor baby, why do you say it was s**t?

- I don’t know. It just was. I want to go back home.

- Well, you always want to go back home and when you’re home you always complain that you want to come back in town.

- Yeah. So what? Doesn’t change the fact that I want to be home right now.
 
Does it? I’m not home right now so I want to be home, but if I were home, I’d want to be here, because I’m never satisfied with what I have. Is anyone though? Barely. People always want something else though. Have their eyes set on a new goal, a new product, a new relationship, whatever, it never stops, there’s always something else, better, apparently, and by the time you get what you’ve been looking for, something else popped out, be it in your mind or in the streets, and you convince yourself that you need that too, then the cycle never ends, it’s like time, it never stops, the clock is always ticking for the pursuit of what is perceived as happiness and when you attain it, it lasts about thirty seconds before it becomes a bottomless black hole that you think will be filled by another f*****g thing. But we never learn do we? I sure haven’t and if some people have the goddamn secret, they should share it, because I haven’t heard one thing that made any sort of sense, just stupid quotes that people will post on Facebook but never actually live by. I’m not judging though, I’m no better, but damn man, if only my good will wasn’t impaired by my selfish hedonistic pursuits. How can I stop? Surely someone must have, please say yes, I’m still holding out hope, don’t tell me it’s a myth.

I finish my cigarette and I look at Samantha. Green-eyed, blond, on the short side, big tits, okay a*s. She is cute, but she never puts on makeup, which I use to like, but I mean, she could make a little effort just for me no? I try to look pretty good when we go out, and she never does. She’s what I’d call an upper-class hippie. Ashamed to be from a family with money, but still accepts the fact that they pay for her school and apartment. Then she tries to justify herself when she goes on expensive trips her parents pay for with petty reasons while dressing like she just came out of Baghdad, but of course, in a stylish manner, and talks about traveling in South America like she’s f*****g Indiana Jones. It’s all a goddamn front man, and it’s unbearable. Just a typical rich girl who’s ashamed of it and pretends to be something else, and becomes a hipster because she thinks it’s the cool thing to do. A f*****g waste of a soul.

- We’re still going out later?

I almost want to say no, but I say yes, because I don’t feel like arguing or finding reasons, which I would assume she knows are bullshit, for not hanging out with her. So I get up, get dressed, and we head out. We make our way to the bus stop and I bum another cigarette off of her.

- Do you plan on getting drunk or just a drink?

- I don’t know. When have I ever had “just a drink? “?

She laughs. She really has a sweet laugh. Goddamn, I love women. I love the s**t they don’t notice about themselves and hate what they try to bring out about themselves. A woman will never notice she has a nice laugh, but she’ll always try to do some s**t to her hair. While we’re on the bus I start looking at people around me like I always do, and I see a woman, who doesn’t look as good as Samantha, but who’s p***y I wanna feel. Because that’s who I am, eternally unsatisfied, having a perfectly fine p***y at my disposal but always wanting to discover new ones, who probably won’t be that much different from one another, but p*****s that I can’t help wanting to try out. I often think about the women I’ve slept with, and I do think about their tits, asses or legs, but mostly I think about their faces while f*****g, they make for better memories. We get off the bus and make our way to Samantha’s favorite bar, this little joint where beer is real f*****g expensive but as a hipster vibe to it, so obviously, she loves the f*****g place. That’s probably why they charge so much, in this day and age, even making s**t look old costs a s**t load of bread cause some people are into that s**t. You’ve got to pay for your fantasies too in a progressive society.

So we sit and we start drinking, where Samantha finds another thing to complain about, after my detachment towards her, the way I look at other woman, my staying back home too long, it’s now the fact that my hair is too long. She tells me her gay brother, who’s a hairdresser, could do something really nice to my hair. I know what it means: Get some hipster haircut because that’s what I like. I don’t give a f**k how she feels about your hair. I look at her, laugh, and tell her I’m not going to ride for two hours to get a f*****g haircut.

- Well, you’d be able to meet my family as well.

- Eh.

- What?

- Don’t you think you’re going a bit fast?

- I’m asking you to meet my parents, I’ve talked to them about you. Jeez, I’m not talking about a wedding.

- I just really don’t see the need for it, baby.

- It’d make me really happy.

Again. What she wants. Goddamn it, she wants control over my hair now she wants control over my f*****g feelings too?

- Please, just stop.

She looks down and I start feeling bad, but what the f**k am I to do? I don’t want a f*****g haircut and I don’t want to meet her parents. We always go to her goddamn bars, eat what she wants to eat, study when she wants study, watch a movie when she wants to watch a movie, f**k when she wants to f**k and she still manages to ask for more s**t, and manages to make me feel bad when I say no. Women, I swear, just women.

- You wanna smoke a cigarette?

She still looks at me like I just took a dump on her bed.

- Sure…

I start laughing.

- Come on, smile a bit.

- You know what would really make me smile?

- Getting a haircut and meeting your parents? No way, baby.

- Ah, come on!

- Nope!

- F**k you!

- Alright, give me a big smile and I’ll do anything you want me to do.

- Shut up.

- I swear! Scout’s honor.

I put my hand over my heart to let her know I’m not bullshitting.

She smiles. I’ve seen prettier smiles, but it’s still pretty.

- Happy now?

- Yep.

- So you’ll get a haircut and we’ll go meet my parents?

- Hell no.

- You said scout’s honor!

- You really think I was a scout once? What do you think I am, a f*****g nerd?

- You lied to me.

- Life lesson, girl. Remember that. People will lie, cheat, f**k, kill and say whatever they can to get whatever they want. I wanted a smile so I did what I had to do to get it.

- You’re a liar…

- Hey, be glad I just took a smile from you and not your f*****g soul! I’ve left you as you are!

We finally head out for a smoke and we’re both getting pretty tipsy so we start making conversation with this little group, two guys and one girl, but I don’t really pay attention to any of it because as usual, Samantha does most of the talking, and my attention is set on the gal, who, I must admit, is pretty hot. She’s a brunette and goddamn, I’ll always love them over the blondes. Always. Brunettes with big tits. Just thinking about it makes me drool.

We all walk back in and they invite us to sit with them, which is a relief, because I didn’t want to talk with Samantha anymore, I got her smile and well, besides that, there really isn’t anything else I need from her. I’m sitting next to the brunette, whose name is Alex, which I dig. Samantha is already in conversation with the two guys, which is great. I almost wish they go home with her and f**k her so she can leave me alone but I know that’s never going to happen, unfortunately. Anyhow, me and the brunette start making small talk, the usual bullshit, what’s your name, what do you do, you come here often, bla bla bla. I notice she’s wearing a Hunter S. Thompson shirt.

- Hunter S. Thompson fan?

- Oh my god! Yes! You know of him?

 The perks of knowing a lot about pop culture. Thank you Internet.

- Who doesn’t?

- Unfortunately, a lot of people!

- What a shame. “ Too weird to live, too rare to die. “ Better than anything Charles Dickens’s ever written.

- God, I love him. Fear and loathing in Las Vegas was such an awesome movie, I loved Johnny Depp in it!

For f**k’s sake. We’re talking about a true f*****g life warrior and all she can think of is some s****y hipster movie starring, obviously, Johnny Depp based on one of Thompson’s books.

- Yeah, trippy movie! Del Toro was great too in that flick.

- I need to take acid one day and watch it while tripping.

I laugh. Typical.

- So, do you write?

- Yeah…a little bit of poetry.

Poetry. Obviously. A girl who writes poetry while drinking in a s****y over-priced bar. Of course. Am I in a hipster flick made for fifty bucks?

- Do you?

- Yeah, but mostly short stories and I’m working on a screenplay.

- That’s sick…what about?

- The screenplay?

- Yeah.

- An unusual love triangle.

- Elaborate.

- It’s about some dude torn between a new girl that gets hired at the bookstore he works at and the girl of his dreams, literally.

- What do you mean by literally?

- It’s literally a girl who he only sees and lives with in his dreams while he’s asleep, yet still feels attached to her and loyal to her. Pretty much raising the question of if it’s better to live in a fantasy world happily or in reality and miserable.

- That’s such a cool concept…pretty trippy. Definitely not an idea you hear often, like some f*****g jacked up a*****e running around with a gun saving the day. But you don’t think you can live in reality happily?

We haven’t even been talking for twenty minutes that I feel like we’ve had a better conversation then I’ve had with Samantha in five months, who I haven’t even paid the least bit of attention too since I started talking with the brunette, and I’m glad. I’m also glad my conversation with the brunette isn’t ruined by overhearing the most likely, very f*****g stupid conversation Samantha is having with the two schmucks sitting across from me.

- Well…maybe you can, but hum, isn’t it much easier and better if you can live, undisturbed by the details of life, in your own fantasy?

- I don’t know, I’d have to think about it.

- I don’t know either, that’s why I’m writing about it.

She smiles. Much better then Samantha’s. And I didn’t even have to trick her for it.

- Well, if your screenplay ever gets produced, promise me you’ll give me a part.

- Is one of those guys your boyfriend?

She giggles. I love it.

- No, why?

I smile shyly.

- Just wondering.

She giggles some more. I love it some more.

- Promise me!

- You actually look the part.

I put my hand on her thigh. She doesn’t push it away, which is good, she just leaves my hand and looks at me.

- Oh please, I bet you say this to every girl you meet!

I laugh. She’s kind of right. Kind of. I don’t pull the writer card every time. I now pull a serious face, you know, the serious artist, f**k, what a drag. Thank God I don’t feel that way.

- I swear, I really don’t.

She’s now looking into my eyes. She’s smiling.

- I don’t believe you.

My hand makes her way to her p***y, and I start rubbing it on top of her jeans.

- Fine, then don’t, I already told you the truth. I have nothing more to tell you.

She lets me, and she puts her hand on my thigh as well, then slowly making her way to my crotch. How do I get rid of Samantha afterwards? Think, m**********r, think. She leans a bit towards me.

- What would your girlfriend think about you saying and doing all this to me?

I can’t believe none of them are noticing. Jesus Christ. They’re still chattering their minds away.
- Who says she’s my girlfriend?

She pulls back a little bit, takes her hand away from my dick, and likewise, I take my hand away from her vag. She giggles a little bit.

- You’re at least f*****g her right?

We’re almost whispering.

- No, she’s my partner for this school project. We got done studying and went for a beer.

- You’re a bad liar.

Yeah right. This chick was looking at me like I was the next great American writer when I barely ever write, and I’m a bad liar?

I start laughing.

- No, I’m telling you, I don’t understand.

- I can tell by the way she glances at you.

- What?

- By the way she glances at you. And it’s not a she wants you but hasn’t yet glance, it’s a I’ve had you and you’re mine glance.

No f*****g way. Can women really notice these things?

In the middle of all this, the barkeeper tells us the bar is closing and that we need to fix our tabs and leave. We do so, and the brunette and I make our way out first. I need to f**k this girl.

- Listen, I’m not used to doing this (Ah!), but, I don’t want this night to end like this.

- You want me to come home with you, is that it?

- Yeah.

- No way. I saw the way your supposed partner was looking at you, I can’t do that. I’m a b***h but I’m not a w***e. You’re involved with her and there’s no way you’re going to convince me otherwise. We know these things.

This is ridiculous. Even indirectly, Samantha manages to be a burden in my life. Just great.

- You’ll see me around though, and when you’re not with her anymore, I’ll gladly let you take me home and f**k my brains out.

- Okay.
 
Aw man, I need to jack off now.

We then revert back to small talk until the others come out and we all tell each other goodbye. I start walking with Samantha towards her apartment.

- You’re sleeping over?

- Yeah.

I’m just going to f**k Samantha, close my eyes, and think about the brunette. Good plan. Samantha hasn’t noticed anything because she hasn’t bitched. It’s a peaceful walk, which is convenient, but my mind is not set on conversation right now, just a single fantasy. We finally arrive at Samantha’s, so I’ll leave you alone now. I’m gonna go get laid. Me and my fantasies.