Orange lights strung end-to-end, decorating rafters and trim, the venue pulses with an intense animal sexuality. Metal belts, feet shod in tanned, treated leather, and denim-clad asses sway in time with the rhythm of the ever-present music. Standing against the wooden railing, he peruses his surroundings, taking in the rows of inked lower backs and many pairs of bare legs raised 3 inches high. His prey is here, but who might she be? He tips his hat to target after target, yet each shot flies wide of its intended mark.
Much to his chagrin, with the events running counter to his plans, he finds himself quietly perched upon the four metal legs of a nearby stool. Deciding to bide his time and wait out this current run of bad luck, he begins to amass a substantial tab, satiating his thirst with glass upon glass of brewed hops and barley. Yet, as ceiling fans and records spun on into the night, he grows increasingly stoic, and draws within himself, once again resigned to his fate as the establishment’s elder statesman. His foot fails to tap in time with the tunes, his eyes cease their wandering, and his arm becomes locked into a singular perpetual motion – lift, pause, lower; lift, pause, lower.
From stallion to statue in a sad, short span…
UPDATE! This story can be now be found as the initial entry for Fourth Friday Fiction, the newest section of my friend Nathan’s website. Drop by & show him your appreciation for posting my little story.