The Bar-Tender

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2012 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

The clanging rattle of my windup alarm clock roused me, not gently, I must say, from a blissful sleep in which dreams of monstrous, firm-fleshed, and slippery brook trout succumbed to my talented and deftly executed presentations of just the right lure, enticing them to strike without hesitation in their eagerness to procure a fine meal. My trout laden dream was filled with trophy fish causing fellow fishermen to envy me, to shout cries of derision at me, condemning my skills as an angler extra-ordinary. Once fought and conquered, safely netted and cleaned, the savory trout would be the entrée for a breakfast with sides of eggs, hash brown potatoes, and toast; a feast which could only grace the table of a king, I thought.

I quickly rose from my bed, padded my way to the cabin kitchen, and set a pot of coffee on the stove to percolate. While it bubbled, bounced, dripped, and brewed away, I dressed and peeked out the window to view, what I anticipated to be a sunlit, bright, trout catching morning- not a fucking chance in hell boys and girls! The bubble, bubble, drip, drip of coffee brewing on the stove was replaced with the stark realization it wasn't the coffee pot making all the noise, but rain pounding on the cabin roof, cascading down, splashing off of the eves onto a wet, soggy ground. I viewed not a cheerful, bright, spring morning, but a wet, grey, morass of --yuck!

Drats and double drats! A careful scrutiny of the thermometer outside the window indicated a cold, and now wet, start of the opening of the trout-fishing season. My dreams of a pleasant morning fishing my favorite stream were slowly slipping from ecstasy to abysmal. Not to be deterred, I tuned in the local radio station for the weather report, hoping it would brighten my day and my attitude. Once given, I set my cup of coffee down on the table in disgust. A forecast of sunny skies with a high of sixty degrees was ludicrous. The thermometer outside my window registered forty-three degrees outside and any fool could see it was raining.

Was I about to let the doom and gloom of the morning prove ruinous for my greeting of the opening day of trout season with rod in hand (fishing rod- get your head back into the story, please)? Nay, nay, say I, I shall prevail.

Outfitting myself with extra layers of warm clothing, gloves, and rain gear, I ventured out to my truck. In anticipation of today's great event, I took care to pack my fishing gear and bait in the truck the night before. Without much more adieu, other than a "humph," I headed out to the trout stream.

Four miserable, wet, cold, and fish-less hours later, I removed myself from the stream, loaded my gear back into my truck, and with little foresight other than being hungry and thirsty, drove to one of the local woodland pubs I knew served sandwiches for lunch. However unappealing it may sound to some, a hot hamburger, residing on a stale bun, with a side of greasy French fried potatoes, washed down with a cold beer or two or three, were comfort foods to me and my arteries. My doctor, during my annual university physical, chided me concerning my dietary likes, concerned my arteries will have had enough and become clogged before I'm forty. Diminishing that thought from my mind, I rationalized the guzzling of more than one beer would not only replenish the liquid I was certain I lost in my frantic quest for trout, but, if my rationalization is as excellent as I assume, they would ease the pain and distress of being fish-less -- and cold, of course.

Arriving at the small pub and walking in the door, I immediately noticed, with some fond recognition, the stale, dank smell of old tobacco smoke, the lingering odors of sweaty, un-bathed bodies, punctuated with the fading hints of beer-farts, and a pervasive, greasy pungency emanating from a kitchen somewhere on the premises. Ah, what familiar and comforting aromas!

Greeting me, as I plodded my way up to the bar, was a young bartender, a stranger to me, asking rather cheerfully, "What's your pleasure, mister?"

I leaned over the bar a little further and scanned the young man from toe to crotch to head and back to crotch again. Presented before me was a slight young man, several years younger than I, but old enough to tend bar, lithe with slim hips and fingers, about five foot eight or nine, weighing perhaps a buck twenty-five or a buck thirty on a good day, hair a bit of a muss, eyes that twinkled with mischievousness, humor, perhaps a bit of temper, and full of warmness and compassion. With that smile of his, indicating he just might be capable of pulling someone's leg in jest, radiating his face, I wanted to respond, "You would be my pleasure, if I could get into your pants," but I refrained. Instead, I ordered a tap beer, hamburger with raw onions, and fries. He hollered my order over his shoulder, and received a muffled reply in return. What was said, I've no idea, but it must've been alright because the young man didn't have to repeat himself -- I mean, what can go wrong with frying a hamburger and dipping potatoes in a fryer full of hot grease?

I picked up my beer with one hand and, using the other to hide my growing tumescence, meandered my way back to a corner table. Not that I feared anyone would try to do me harm as in the old western gunfighter days and therefore behoove me to keep my back to the wall, but I am a nosey sort and want to see what's going on, as well as observing the young man behind the bar. "See" is a bit of a pejorative here, since the low level of light, perhaps to disguise the appearance of food and the cleanliness of the establishment, kept me in the shadow, but allowed the lights above the bar to focus on the young man behind it. He absolutely captivated me, causing me to fantasize what mystery was hidden by the zipper of his britches, hoping it wasn't of such size to cause me grief, but pleasure, and what bedding him might be like. I sighed, disappointingly, realizing it wouldn't be, since I was certain he was unobtainable, especially by someone as plain, averagely equipped as I and several years older with several university degrees plastering my walls and more educational credits than I cared to remember. No, this was not to be, but I could dream, couldn't I? I leaned my elbows on the dark, sticky table, surveyed the rest of my surroundings, and nodded my approval.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, give or take a few minutes, an aproned, chubby, unshaven, pot-gutted male cook stepped out of the kitchen and slid a plastic basket down the bar toward my downy-faced dispenser of alcoholic delights and growled, "Order up!" Before the lad could deliver my basket full of cholesterol, I held up my now empty class, clearly indicating there must've been a hole in it since it was now devoid of liquid. A pleasant, almost inviting smile, greeted me in return. He filled another glass with beer, delivered it and my meal, to my refuge in the corner. I drooled voraciously as I watched him walk back to the bar, the firm mounds of his buttocks, enclosed in a tight pair of jeans, flexing in rhythm as he moved. It was then I decided to attack the contents of the basket with lip-smacking, gut-wrenching gusto, hoping to transfer my fantasy to it.

I finished my epicurean delight and dabbed my lips with a paper napkin from the battered dispenser on the table to remove any leftover grease and assorted condiments which might be left clinging to my face. I was contemplating another beer when the opening and closing of the tavern entrance door diverted my attention from my continuing fantasy of the young man's hidden assets. What to my wondering eye should appear, not eight tiny reindeer, but a tottering, older, wrinkle-faced, gnarly looking, octogenarian entering the pub from the cold and wet. I hoped the wrinkles on his face weren't from being over-soaked from the rain, similar to a baby's butt after spending too long immersed in the bath, but from a life full of laughter and good times.

A huge grin, followed by a hearty laugh emanating from the old gentlemen, greeted the young bartender, confirming my hopes of a life of good times and laughter for the new patron. The grin widened, the eyes twinkled, and the old man laughed, "Hell, it's so wet outside I saw critters lining up two by two, except there was only one chipmunk since the two weasels behind it ate the other one."

The young bartender smiled politely, waited for the new customer to amble up to the bar, swing a leg over a stool, and ensconce himself in an upright position. The customer made himself comfortable, placed a small wooden box on the bar in front of the stool next to him, and commanded in an authoritative voice, but with a glimmer of mischievousness in his eyes,

"My dear, young fellow, would you be so kind as to draw a beer for me and my good friend? We're here to celebrate a great day."

Clearly, thought I, this is a man of considerable education and vast vocabulary since most folks up here consider "Hey, you" an appropriate greeting and a grunted "Huh?" a polite response. I often thought I could kick a pig in the ass and get more than a "huh."

The bartender drew a tap beer for the well-aged chap and looked at me for confirmation of my readiness for a refill. I shook my head "no" and he returned to his cleaning up behind the bar.

The old duffer looked quizzically at the solitary beer in front of him and then at the bartender. Clearing his throat, he reached over and tapped the lad on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, young man perhaps you didn't hear me correctly? I requested two beers, not one, and, if my eyes are not mistaking me, I only have one in front of me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," responded the object of my fantasies, "your buddy over there at the table shook his head and indicated to me he was good so I only drew one beer."

The elderly chap swung around on the stool, looked me over carefully as one would when buying a used car at a junkyard, and turned back to the bar.

"Why in hell would I want to buy him a beer? I never saw the man before in my life, which is a considerable span of time, I might add. Do I look that easy that I'd go out of my way to buy drinks for strange men? Come on, laddie, I can still get it up, but men and boys are not my choice. Give me a break!"

The bartender, somewhat taken aback by the gentleman's response, raised his eyebrows toward me as if to comment further, then lowered them, evidently thinking it'd be more appropriate if he didn't, especially if he wanted any type of tip. Old men, such as the crusty gentleman seated at the bar, rarely tipped much, unless the barkeep was a pretty, big-boobed female. The bartender was average looking, not big boobed or really big anything I hoped, and not female; no tip for him this day, unless I tipped him over a bar stool and rucked him properly.

Quickly drawing the beer so he could return to his work in order to escape any further diatribe from the customer, he tossed a glance at me and shrugged his shoulders. I, trying to remain on my best behavior by observing proper decorum, alternated my line of sight from the old man to the door and then back again, anticipating the arrival of someone else. I nursed my beer, trying to extend its presence on my table so I could satisfy my curiosity concerning the old chap's friend, but before I had so much to drink I'd be no longer curious about anything. The object of my curiosity, the old man, drank the beer in front of him, reached over and drank the other. Once it was consumed, he rapped on the bar with one of the empty glasses, belched not so delicately, adding,

"Another beer for me and one for my friend, please."

The young bartender turned around, saw the empty bar stool, and then scanned the room for someone else. He glanced in my direction and I, wanting to be as much help to him as possible and not miss anything, shook my head "no" and checked around myself to make certain.

As he filled the two new glasses, he tentatively asked the old gent, "Did your friend leave?"

"Oh, no," came the response.

Before the bartender could ask anything further, the customer continued,

"My friend and I have been coming here to this little tavern for over sixty years, stopping by for a beer or two and a sandwich after spending the morning fishing for trout. It wouldn't be a trout opener without a stop here. I can't think of any trout opener we've missed in all of those years."

Taking a sip of his beer, he continued addressing the young man behind the bar.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yeah; I just work weekends, holidays, and summer. My aunt and uncle bought the place last winter. They needed the help and I need the job to help pay for college costs so it worked out for all of us."

"What year?"

"My aunt and uncle bought the place in February of 2009."

"No, what year are you in college?" sputtered the old man.

"Oh, Junior."

"What's your major?"

"Middle School Education; if I finish, I'll be the first one in my family to go to college. My daddy only made it through the eighth grade."


"No, he's a logger and works on his own. There aren't too many mining jobs here in the north woods."

This time, I watched the young bartender more closely as he responded, catching a wink from him, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye. He was intentionally messing with the old guy's mind!

A snorted "Arrrgh" rose from the old man's throat as he slammed his glass down on the bar and very calmly, placing both hands on the bar, asked, with a very quiet, controlled voice, "What is your college minor?"

The tendons were protruding from his wrinkled neck, beginning to bulge, muscles in his shoulders tensing, as he awaited the answer.


"That figures."

"What figures?" chided the bartender.

The customer shook his head from side to side, sighing, "Just going to figure my bill is all."

"You don't need to do that, I have a calculator and I can do it in a jiff for you."

Changing the subject, noticing the one full glass of beer still remaining, my young chap behind the bar, looked about and commented, "It doesn't look as if your friend made it, does it?"

"No, he didn't, but he is still with me," the old man responded rather sadly, I thought.

Shaking his head in a knowing manner, the bartender acknowledged, "My dad always says that when he misses someone and pats his heart saying `they're here in my heart'," and began wiping down the bar, removing the condensation which dripped from the cold beer mugs.

"No, I mean here," the elderly customer said as he gently tapped the wooden box next to him on the bar.

This conversation was beginning to get interesting and, not wanting to miss a word of it, I leaned forward a bit more, not quite sprawling on the table, but far enough on it my crotch was dragging through the remains of my lunch in the plastic basket. Not, that I'm nosey, understand, just curious -- concerning the older fellow and that captivating bartender. I didn't think, at the time, how difficult catsup and mustard stains are to remove from the crotch of my pants or realize the stains would give the appearance I may've performed some medical procedure or circumcision, for religious or cultural reasons, on myself with a rusty pants zipper.

"You mean, like in here," the young man said with incredulity, looking at the man and then at the box. "in that smelly, wooden box on the bar?"

"Young man, that smell is the smell of the wood. It's sandalwood, a fragrant, aromatic wood. There are cultures in the world in which it is often used as incense -- a sort of a purification rite. It was Ray's favorite scent and he requested sandalwood be lighted at his funeral service and his urn, or this case, his box, be constructed of it."

"Scented wood it might be," responded the lad, "but it smells like that smelly, smoky stuff the priest waves around at Easter in church. I don't think it purifies as much as it makes me really sneeze like hell. So, what are you going to do with him -- his remains, I mean?"

"Ray requested, before he passed away, on opening day of trout season, I stop here, have a beer or two in his memory, then go to our favorite trout stream and sprinkle his ashes on the water. That's what I intend to do as soon as I pay my bill and leave here."

"That's neat! Won't some of the pieces just float and others sink to the bottom? What happens if a trout eats it?" jabbered the bartender.

"No, there's just very fine grey and white ash in the box," countered the old man quietly, "do you want to see?"

"You bet I do!" proclaimed the young chap on the other side of the bar, leaning forward as the old chap opened the box. In his youthful enthusiasm and over-riding curiosity, he leaned closer, peered into the box, then wrinkled up his nose, and sneezed! It was a big, windy, sneeze followed rapidly by two others.

The bar grew quiet, quiet as a tomb, so to speak. The old man's face turned from white with shock and horror to red with anger and vengeance as he surveyed the fine grey and white powder coating the bar around the sandalwood box.

"Oh, shit, mister. I'm so sorry," the bartender said apologetically, reaching for a bar cloth to wipe it up with.

I quickly stepped forward, after rolling off of the table, to intervene before murder or mayhem was committed in front of my very eyes.

"I have a Duster Buster in my truck I just dumped after cleaning the seats. Why don't I bring that in to make the clean-up easier and ensure all of the ashes are retrieved so they can be committed to the waters?"

It seemed to placate the old gentlemen and once I brought it in and began a fastidious and somewhat reverent gathering of the ashes, he seemed to have calmed down a bit. Once reasonably certain the ashes were gathered into the small vacuum cleaner, I handed it to the young man, along with the address of my cabin, saying, "Once you have emptied the cremains into the sandalwood box, return the vacuum, at your convenience, to me at my cabin."

Tossing a twenty dollar bill on the table to pay for my lunch and for a tip, I quickly left the establishment and returned to my cabin.

The half-light of dawn illuminated the cabin bedroom as I thrust slowly, sensuously into my half-awake, but willing bed companion. Acting with a growing desire himself, he pushed back, causing my stiff prick to massage his prostate and my sensitive glans as his love chute constricted and flexed around my hard flesh.

Appearing at my cabin door, after closing time at the bar, small vacuum in his hand, it didn't take us long to skip through the preliminaries and meander to my bedroom. Undressing him, he was all I imagined, nicely built, with a cock not much bigger than mine, foretelling a most pleasant night of oral and anal sexual pleasure, offering little pain, but a high degree of satisfaction. Laying on my bed, we tasted each other's stiffening response to our ardor, slowly sucking in each other's plump, sperm rich ball sacks, before moving to the less pliable, but very soft and stiff object of our desires.

Younger than I by several years, he was a most delicious lover, his talents and experience not at all indicative of his age, taking me several times during the night and allowing me to release myself in his chute as he had in me. As I finally grunted my release, pulling him tightly against my crotch, his firm buttocks pinching, closing, opening as I spurted into him, he continued to milk each last drop of my essence, allowing it to drip, drip, drip into his love tunnel, determined to make this night one of the best in both of our lives.

Slowly sliding out of him as I softened, I rolled to my opposite side, offering my own puckered orifice to him, making myself available for his release and pleasure. Sliding into my well-used hole, lubricated with his milky slickness from previous entries during our tryst, he leaned over my shoulder, kissing me softly behind my ear, and whispered, "Don't think this is the last time, the fun has just begun. I'm not going anywhere but here all summer."

I smiled contentedly as I hunched my warm, soft globes up tight to his crotch, feeling the soft, curly hairs surrounding his hard shaft tickle my cleft and the rim of my pucker, as he slipped his arms under my armpits and over my shoulders, bringing me tightly into his loving embrace. His chin extended over my shoulder, his soft lips nuzzled my neck, and his warm breath tickled the inside of my ear, as he filled me, not stuffed me mind you, and began a rhythmic, erotic pumping. Although fish-less during the opener of trout season, snug in my warm, undulating creel, was a tender, succulent trouser-trout, capable of lasting more than one meal, a Phoenix rising up each time to begin life anew, wriggling, bucking, bringing giggles and moans of excitement and pleasure to both of us. His breathing became faster, his probing deeper, with more haste, his whimpers of impending release more frequent, until I felt his throbbing, thumping shower of delight coat my inner creel. I can live with that, couldn't you?


The End.


Posted: 12/13/19