A Marine Corps Christmas Package
by Muffy Wilson
She walked into the lounge and looked exactly the way she felt: wet, mean and thirsty for a dirty martini. It was pouring rain outside, so she was soaked. Her long auburn locks were wet and plastered to her head but accentuated the beauty of her hazel eyes. Holiday traffic was a bitch and her boss just made a pass at her; she was pissed at him, and all men, at present. And she was thirsty because of both. On impulse, she pulled into the parking lot and parked. She opened the door to Luke’s Lounge and it was dark as night inside. Anya stood in the doorway, dripping wet, as her clothes hugged the curves of her body. The door closed while her vision adjusted. There were no seats at the bar open, which pissed her off some more. She walked over to the widest open spot in the crowd and leaned over the bar to order a drink from the bartender. A Marine, seated at the bar, stood up to offer her his stool. She was impressed by his kindness and chivalry. He waved at the bartender and let Anya settle in while the bartender took her order.
“A dirty martini - bone dry - up with olives,” she told the bartender.
“Merry Christmas. It’s ‘Ho-Ho-Ho-Happy Hour’: two for one,” he replied.
“Even better,” she told him. “Bring ‘em on and keep ‘em coming until I ask you to stop.”
Anya turned to the Marine and said, “Thank you for the stool. After tonight, I thought chivalry was dead,” while she fished for her wallet in her briefcase.
When the bartender brought her drinks, she put out a twenty-dollar bill and nodded at him. She closed her eyes and took her first sip, feeling the warmth of the drink fire on all fours through her body, inch by inch. She savored that very first sip luxuriously. It was like a lover’s hands sliding down her body, igniting every inch as they felt their way to her toes, leaving her in their molten path eager and hot for more.
She looked sublime, wet but sublime dressed in her Brooks Brother’s suit, silk blouse and matching red silk undies. She loved “dressing for success” because she always felt superior to all the other women and most of the men. It was like professional armor. Aware that people looked at her as if they wanted her made her feel better and gave her an intellectual, emotional edge. As she reveled in her first sip, she turned to the Marine.
“I’m sorry, I forgot my own manners. May I buy you a drink, Marine?”
He looked her full in the face, blushed slightly and said, “Dennis Johnson. My friends call me Dj. Yes, thank you. I am enjoying the smooth pleasures of Southern Comfort Manhattans.”