Iowa City

Iowa City

Paris ain’t got nothin’ on her… (2/2018)


The men sitting at the end of the bar saw her first. The neon Budweiser sign behind the bar was flashy and bright; she was flashier and brighter. Gaudier and bawdier. She sauntered into the dimly lit room. Her black sequin dress came to the middle of her overstuffed thighs, short enough to reveal her Popeye calves and the start of her thunderous thighs. The dress was skin tight and her belly rolls succeeded in their attempt to escape from captivity. Her bosom overflowed the low V cut of her dress.

She shimmied to the Bob Seger song pulsating out of the juke box in the far corner. Every square inch of her overripe body quivered as she moved across the room.

Slowly, the men in the bar became aware of her presence. The ones with dates or wives got dirty looks or admonishments when they turned their heads or followed her with their eyes. The ones out for a night of drinks with the guys were free to ogle away.

She walked to the bar and leaned her elbows on the edge of the bar, her feet quite far from the edge. The effect was not subtle; she was bent over at the waist. It was a pose she knew drove men wild.

“What’ll it be tonight, lil’ darlin’?” the bartender asked. She was a regular, but she never ordered the same drink twice. Fitting, she thought, since she never wore the same outfit twice, never “dated” the same guy twice. She was lucky the bar was just off the Interstate and a popular place for truckers.

“An orgasm,” she said. She gave the bartender–what was his name? Ed? Ned? Ted?–a sultry look and winked. A few minutes later, a slightly blushing bartender (named Fred, by the way) handed her the drink.

She pinched the bar straw leaning in the glass, puckered her lips, and slowly raised the glass and aimed the straw into her mouth. When the straw was lucky enough to slip between her ruby red lips, half the guys in the bar let out a collective moan. She knew it and relished it.

The town’s namesake made her way to the dart board near the juke box. The guy in the Jackson Hole cap tossed his last dart and downed the rest of his Bud. Before she’d made it to where he had been standing, he was long gone. She watched it unfold; it happened all the time. Guys were intimidated by her, she knew. Sometimes–like when she wanted to party–it bugged her, but most of the time she enjoyed the power of it.

This night would turn out to be one of the rare ones–a tall cowboy in tight Levis walked up to her and started to chat her up.

“Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Why, good evening, sir,” she mocked in her best Scarlett O’Hara impersonation. “Didn’t your mam teach you any manners? I’m a ‘miss,’ mister.”

“Rightly so,” he replied.

“Righly so,” she parroted.

“Name’s Cal.”

“Iowa City.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Iowa City.”

Cowboy Cal didn’t reply.

“Don’t worry about it… it’s an unusual name. I’m an unusual woman.”

Cal could see that, that was for sure. “Can I buy you a drink?” He said it before realizing she had her drink in her hand. His eyes were busy darting everywhere else on her body; his distaste for her trashiness was overwhelmed by the allure of her self-confidence.

Iowa City raised her glass, clicking the ice. “You can give me another orgasm,” she said before she tipped her head back and swallowed what was left in the glass.

“Why, yes, ma’a… why certainly. Don’t go nowhere, ya hear?”

“Oh, I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry back now.”

Cal did his best to hurry back. He threw a $20 at the bartender to get him to make the drink before pouring a line of beers for a group of bikers that had walked in. Drink in hand, he rushed back to where the girl, Iowa City, had been standing. She wasn’t where he left her.

Instead, she was over by the juke box, leaning over, forefinger extended and running up and down the glass cover. Four guys were surrounding her. One guy–a nasty looking dude with a scar on his left cheek–was rubbing his hands up and down her thigh. She didn’t seem one bit concerned by this.

Cal didn’t know what to do at first. He wasn’t afraid of a fight–a fair fight, anyway–but there were four of these guys, and they didn’t look like the type that would fight fair.

Cal parked himself a few tables away from the juke box. He sipped his beer while he watched in fascination as Iowa City–what a crazy name–teased the four guys around her. He realized his reaction to her was like when he saw car wreck on the road: horrified and mesmerized.

When he finished his beer, he looked at the syrupy sweet drink he’d purchased for the girl. With a shrug, he picked up the glass and took a sip. It was all he could do not to spit it out.

Just then, Iowa City sauntered up. She somehow managed to get the dogs in heat off her leg.

“Thought that was for me.”

“It was, but then, uh, you got a little preoccupied.”

“Don’t sulk. It’s not a good look on you.”

Cal didn’t hesitate, the spell suddenly broken. “Not sure yours is either.” He got up to leave, thankful for the course of events.

“What’s the story with your name?” he asked.

“I was born here. And my folks were huge fans of Paris Hilton. So, two and two makes five, I guess. Ain’t she just the hottest chick on the planet?”

Cal shook his head and smiled. “Uh, no.”

“Ain’t you sweet.”

“No, Iowa City. Not what I meant. But now that you mention it, that’s what I’m looking for in a woman: sweet.”

Iowa City feigned a yawn.

“Evenin’ miss,” Cal said, suddenly exhausted. He walked straight out of the bar. Before he got to his car, Iowa City was back at the juke box, surrounded by a half a dozen guys competing to give her her next orgasm.

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