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Post by Theresa Osbert on Apr 27, 2007 21:35:07 GMT 7
"Fucking dickward," Theresa Osbert cursed the insufferable fool of a taxi driver who had the nerve to even ask how much an hour was she worth loudly as she slammed the door to the yellow vehicle, not bothered if her impetuous act had attracted a few pairs of eyes onto her. Sub-consciously, her green gaze averted down to get a glimpse of her attire. A dark faux fur collared winter jacket which had a baby tee with the imprints 'I ♥ New York' in big bold letters underneath accompanied with a pair of old fading denim capris. With this sort of clothing and black Converses, it amused Theresa that she'd managed to pass off as a hooker for a mere cabby driver but surely she wouldn't let one mere horny pervert get the best of her moods.
'Maybe it's the out-of-bed hair.' Theresa thought to herself but kicking that thought out of her mind just as she realised she was letting the fat stocky balding schmaz get to her. She concluded that it must've been the cold late winter weather just as a strong gust of chilly wind blew right at her, tousling her already messy blonde locks. At times like these, she'd wish that she'd gone ahead and shaved her head bald to avoid nuisances like hair poking her eyeballs but then again, being bald would've been a horrendous idea knowing how men seemed to enjoy sleeping with women with a head of thick luscious hair and not to mention the slight fact that her head would be freezing if it weren't for her natural golden head warmer.
Quickening her pace, she made her way for the door which lead into one of the most well known clubs in New York, Coyote Ugly. As she entered the place, Theresa was overwhelmed with the strong smell of cigarette smoke, beer, wine, cocktails and other various smells you can find in places like these all mixed into one. This evening, Coyote Ugly was as packed as ever leaving only a few tables vacant, much to Theresa's pleasure. Looking around and about, she picked the table at the far corner and removed her jacket and scarf before sitting herself down comfortably on the chair. Her eyes scanned across the dimly lit room in search of anythingone which may capture her interest. Apparently other than the group of leg tossing showgirls at the dance floor, Theresa couldn't find any homosapien capable of amusing her... at least not yet.
Just as she was about to get up to the bar and order herself a drink, a waitress in a fairly short skirt approached her, placing a Long Island cocktail in front of her. Theresa cocked an eyebrow at the alcoholic drink before lifting her gaze up to the brunette who stood before her with a smile, "From the man in blue," she said, nodding at a man across the hall before walking away. From the distance they were currently in, Theresa could only pass him off as average but sadly enough, he wasn't the type of guy she was looking forward to sharing a bed with tonight. Even though she wasn't going to let him have some, Theresa lifted the glass and gave him curt nod, smiling before placing the glass between her lips and taking a sip. She closed her eyes as the sweet flavours of her complimentary drink ran down her throat, savouring every drop of it.
Mm, how very delectable indeed.
And for a moment there, Theresa had quite forgotten the reason why she was in the club in the first place. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that the man who'd so generously treated her to a Long Island had disappeared from his table. She thought to herself that he possibly needed the loo or something of the sort and switched her thoughts back to whatever it was on her mind a few short moments back.
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Post by Christen Emerson on May 19, 2007 3:24:17 GMT 7
[/b] James’s sardonic voice bellowed, resonating horrendously, atrociously in Christen’s lucid head, as his formidable brown eyes that greatly opposed to Christen’s pallid blue ones brazenly dissected the dancers’ supple curves as they walked on the black and white, whiskey covered bar, their rounded bodies and movements blatantly flirting with every man and woman watching. “I don’t see any poles,” replied Christen, momentarily coughing from the suffocating smells of smoke and perfumes, silently cursing his friend for letting him convince him to go to the infamous Coyote Ugly, which the rumors that he had too often heard about did it great justice, both in good and bad ways. The dancers, which Coyote Ugly was reputedly famed for, were impeccable, the word impeccable not even coming quite close to describing their skilled, but slightly slutty, movements, which were more than evidently the object of James’s attention – but who could blame him for that? It was quite possible that even homosexual guys would be awed by their beauty, their grace, their great magnetism. Christen could not as well help but notice, being the fanatic graphic designer that he was, that the place’s almost flawless interior design was more than simply beautiful: he could tell that good graphic and interior designers had worked hard to make the ambiance an absolute turn on, make it bring men to their knees and women to their back – or even the other way round. It was art nonetheless, in Christen’s eyes. “The poles are in your head,” said James with a mischievous smirk drawn on his lips, boldly eyeing the waitress that came to take their orders. “A sex on the beach for me and the guys, and Christen, a coke for you?” he said, chuckling lightly, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his blue Calvin Klein shirt. “He’ll have a beer,” he said, dodging Christen’s glares. “…and a Long Island for the girl in the back,” he added. ”Sure thing hun, anything else?” said the waitress, her black tank top showing most of her generous breasts. ”No, we’re fine,” said Christen quickly, before anyone else on the table had the chance to change their orders. Taking a fairly good look at the woman whom James had just ordered a drink to, Christen wondered whether he had had his eyes on her the whole night long, or if he had just noticed her: the odds were, she had not spent much time in there, as James would have surely ordered her a drink much earlier if that was the case. From her emerald eyes, which, in spite of the long distance that separated the lady’s table from theirs, still shone peculiarly, interestingly crosswise the room, to her muddled dirty blonde hair that gave her a subtly adventurous look, she did indeed blend with her neighboring, and yet, if one stared tentatively at the bigger picture, effortlessly noticed that she simply stood out. No wonder she caught James’s attention, that Don Juan. But then again, who did not catch his attention? He even felt aroused by that plain, beige looking waitress. His and Christen’s standards were far too dissimilar, after all. But something about her was just… captivating. Charming. Enchanting. ”I have to wake up at nine tomorrow, James,” Christen almost shouted to be heard. ”I have a meeting with Claire about her book. I need to leave before twelve,” he added, wishing to himself that he had, for once, refused to accompany his friends to the club. ”The author? She can wait, Cinderella, just kick back now, watch those beaut- heeey sexy,” he said, goosing a blonde, brown eyed waitress. ”Get your hands off me, jerk,” she shouted, violently grabbing James’s wrist, twisting it, thus spilling the drinks that she was holding on him. ”Tough love, eh?” he smirked, winking at the waitress who gave the finger, walking away. ”I know you love me, babe! Fuck, man, I need to clean this shit up, I’ll be right back” he said, getting up, heading towards the toilet. James was, as Christen always proudly stated, one of the main reasons why neither New York or Huntley were safe: he was a goddamn gigolo: even he knew it. The only reason Christen went out with him and some of their mutual friends was, as Christen also shamelessly stated, that James was a rich mama’s boy who had no problem paying for his friends, as well as his enemies’ drinks and foods. He was a peculiar, interestingly amusing bloke, that James, but he was also many other things, most of which were far too dreadful to be cited. ”Well, he had that coming,” Nicholas stated, shrugging. ”And now his chick is checking you out. The hell man, you lucky fucker.” he said, laughing, giving James a pat on the back, as if he was congratulating him. ”What?,” Christen replied, convinced that his friends were playing a bad joke on him. “ She’s not,” he said, refusing to look the stranger’s way. From the corner of his eye, however, Christen took yet another delightful, clandestine glance at the lady whom James offered a Long Island cocktail. Well… she was beautiful. She was simply beautiful.[/ul]
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