The New Improved Dialogical Saloon Wine And Cigar Bar

 I stood outside the structure called The New Improved Dialogical Saloon Wine and Cigar Bar

   I noticed it was all painted in lavender.

   I turned left and right and looked up and down the street.

   It looked a lot like Virginia City Nevada here.

   "If this is actually Virginia City this bar might be over a hundred years old. Maybe a hundred years ago lavender was not a color fraught with significance. Maybe it was just a color. Not an announcement."

   For me to talk, ruminate, and try to solve puzzles to myself aloud in a public place is not at all unusual.

   I stepped up the steps, and putting my hands in front of me, I pushed aside the flappy saloon doors of the Dialogue Saloon and sauntered inside.

   i made a point of acting like i owned the place. Naturally nobody gave a shit. Naturally i was ignored. Naturally i interpreted this as fear and respect. 

   i noticed first of all the lavender touches here and there throughout the decor, subtle and hard to detect: the lavender bar; the lavender floor; the lavender walls; the lavender ceiling; the lavender dishware; the lavender clothing  on the waiters and other male personnel. i wondered if maybe this was a gay establishment. 

   i went over to someone standing and talking to a hot chick at the same time leaning in her direction in an effort to be more personal.  i tapped him a little on one shoulder. He straightened back up, all defensive and annoyed but at least seemingly willing to see what the fuck was up.

   "Yeah?" he said, more or less with a edge but certainly civilized.

    I said "This a gay bar?" 

   He stared at me, a look of bewilderment mixed with some added bewilderment. 

   "Why the fuck would you ask that." he inquired in a not specifically rhetorical way. I think he was actually curious about the answer.

    "Well,  it's all lavender in here." i pointed out. 

    He considered this for a second and then said "What makes something gay is a dick in the mouth or up the ass when the mouth or the ass with a dick up it has a dick of its own. not lavender appointments." 

    "i would hardly call 'painting every fucking thing in sight lavender' an appointment." 

    He spat on the floor and said "This aint a gay bar. Ok?"

    i said "Sure. No need to get fucking hostile." 

    He said "The fact that you're still alive right now means i am not getting hostile. Trust me."

    i stepped slowly backwards away from him in a final gazing appraisal of his words before we parted company - which parting was now in progress -  and i wondered what exactly he meant. He may have been drunk. Its hard to decipher the meandering blather of an inebriate. But this was a bar after all. Finding a drunk inside it would not be out of the ordinary. 

   A hostess - in lavender - approached me with a tray and some empty glasses and inquired if i would like a drink. 

   i checked her out. She was something. I wont go into detail but just imagine a chick who was something. She was one of those. 

   She had on one of those French Maid things only with a lot less material. There were tits in there, certainly, as i could see, and there were two legs with most of them uncovered by the frilly bottom part. Still, there was all the fucking lavender in here so i decided to do some subtle detective work via a kind of round-about method i have of discerning the truth of things while seeming to be asking an innocent question.

    "You have a vagina do you, I presume?" 

    She - or it - looked right at me without changing expression and said "Yeah. I do." 

   "Were you born with it?" 

   "Yeah. I was. You want a drink?" 

    Wow. I had to admire her reserve. AND i assumed she was telling the truth. 

   Since she was so smoking hot i decided to advance the chit chat to a more meaningful level. 

   "You want me to fuck you at all at some point, maybe?"  

    She looked at me for what seemed a long time. Then she said "You have any idea how old i am?"  I said nope. Didnt see how it mattered but i didnt mentioned that. She said "i'm 19." 

    I said "Good for you. I'm 70. You're a piker at aging compared to me." 

    She said "I aint about to fuck a fucking grampa dilapidated saggy skinned, saggy faced, probably endentulate, fucking walking corpse."  

    "I presume you mean me," I said.

    "Yeah. I mean you." she said. 

     I said,  "Yeah well let me tell you a little something about the corpse you're not about to fuck.  In fact let me tell you something about old men in general since you seem to be oblivious to everything in general. It's a fact us old geezers might look like a shambling versions of Hell. But that thing you will be sucking on - which will my fucking cock - looks now just like it looked when i was 16: young, vibrant, hard, and smooth as talcum. And your eyes will be so closed-shut with euphoria and orgasmic helplessness from my fingerfucking magic you wont give a shit what the rest of me looks like. Bitch." 

   She looked at me for a very long time. This was not unusual for her to do since from way back at the start of the relationship she had been doing that a lot already. Well, she was doing it again and then after a while she said "That's got my attention, believe it or not. Your cock really looks a lot better than you do?"

   "Most things look better than I do, toots, but if you like cock at all you won't be able to tell mine - or any other old coot's cock with a boner - you wont be able to tell it from the cock of the Negro basketball player you fucked in college. Except for the color. And maybe the size. Assuming you fucked a Negro basketball player in college."

   "No, I never did," she said matter of factly.

   "When did you fuck a Negro. In high school?"

   "I never fucked a Negro ever. Listen," she said, "when do you want to do all this fucking with that smooth and slender sausage saber of semen sauce that you say comes out of a dick that looks like it's 19, same age as me."

   "I never said it was slender. I don't know why you would even assume that. The width of my cock never came up in the discussion. I don't know why you are making that assumption. Assuming it's unwarranted. And I said it looks 16. Not 19"

   "Do you want to fuck me or not."

    I said sure. Why not.

   I would describe the encounter which took place in the alley behind the dumpster on a mattress that may have been used previously by one or two persons at one time or another judging by its mostly liquid contents and it not being a waterbed. I would describe it as interesting. But I think a gentleman often chooses to hide the details of fallen virtue in the fairer sex from lechers such as, say, yourself. And I am, if nothing else, a gentleman. Be assured however that when it was done she was convinced that I had not been lying.

   "Yeah, you look like hell, alright, but your cock has not an age spot or wrinkle on it. Well, it does now, maybe - have some wrinkles - but it's flaccid. So….."

   I said, "I tole ya." 

   "Yeah, well, I guess I've learned something."

   "You'll learn more later, it has VD. Also just like a 16 year old's."

   "Hey," she said, "What cock doesnt." 

   We shook hands and I departed the premises of the Dialogical Saloon and went my way, a vagabond of love in a love-starved world. 

   Now, I know what you're saying: "Say, were there any pillows on that mattress?"

   There were, but they were not to my liking and while she wanted to cuddle and hug and sleep the night away in contented post-coital relaxation and happiness I said "No, you have to go back inside, you have customers waiting at the bar and at at least four tables."