The Wig

9pm on a weekday night. I leaned like a pillar of masculine detachment against the edge of the bar, blessing the peasantry with my royal aloofness. I sipped a gin and tonic, surprised with myself for agreeing with a buddy to go out on a slow night for some drinks. I doubly surprised myself for being an hour early. My buddy called. He would meet me later at a different bar. I now had an hour to kill at the chic lounge filled with young women and few men. A weekday night miracle!

I surveyed the room for potential sex partners. To my right were two girls, both mid 20s, both bouncing conversationally off each other with an effortlessness that revealed their BFFness. One of the girls was extremely tall (almost my height), foreign looking, and unattractive in the face, though her body was stimulating. The other girl was shorter, olive skinned, and very attractive. She had big Bette Davis eyes, huge tits, and moist, full lips, but her outstanding feature, the one that caught my gaze and held it, was her long thick mane of raven colored hair, highlighted with iridescent streaks of indigo. She talked animatedly with her tall friend, swinging her head around and lashing nearby patrons with streamers of her midnight hair. I wanted to glide my hand through her thatch and yank hard.

Indigo Girl glanced over in that way that showed she was trying to hide that she was glancing over. I had my opening.

“You guys are making everyone else feel uncomfortable for not having as much fun. Have some consideration.” I knitted my brow in faux disapproval.

“What are *you* doing out tonight, Mr. Cool Guy too cool to have fun?” Indigo Girl smiled to flaunt an impressive rack of pearly white teeth, then stood up on tippy toes and did a ballerina twirl for me. I felt movement in my pants.

“I’m waiting for a friend, but plans changed. Now I’m here to support local business.”

Tall Girl laughed. “That’s very noble of you.” She spoke with an exotic Eastern European accent, and I could tell from her first words that she was smarter than the average chick. It is something in the cadence, the articulation. She took a step toward me, presumably to ask me a question.

Indigo Girl dodged in front of her advancing friend and looked up adorably at my alpha nostrils. “We just got back from a show.”

The more I looked at her the more it dawned on me how sexy she was. “The way you’re dressed I’d guess you saw a show at [X].”

“Good guess! Do you hang out there? I’ve never seen you before. But take that as a good thing. I get bored of that clique-y scene over there.” Though she was a little tipsier than Tall Girl, Indigo Girl also spoke with the electric snap of someone sporting a big brain.

“I’m a clique of one. Very exclusive.”

The girls laughed. Well, technically Indigo Girl laughed, openly and without affect. Tall girl, clearly the level-headed one of the two, grinned demurely and circled the rim of her cocktail glass with a long spidery finger. We talked amongst ourselves for twenty minutes. In that time I was able to piece together the scenario unfolding before me, and to then use my new knowledge to properly game these two chicks.

Best friends. Indigo Girl is the classic Eternal Ingenue. She is accustomed to getting her way with men, and she fumes when she doesn’t. She will shamelessly clamblock her girl friends if she notices them enjoying male attention. She is whip smart and Machiavellian, given to breaking hearts and wallowing like a happy sexy sow in the ups and downs of her own heart. Tall Girl is the Amazonian Alpha (literally as well as figuratively). She is used to surrendering the spotlight to her more attractive friends, but this constant indignity doesn’t stop her from being a fiercely loyal friend. She would be a world class maneater if she were prettier. I think she knows this.

It would be very easy for me to play these two girls off each other into a jealousy triangle of the ages. And I did.

We bounced to a two floor social venue a block down the street. It was crowded. The girls bought me a drink and we chatted for a while. I made sure to divide my chat time equally between the two, addressing one and then the other in turn. Suddenly, like a butterfly with ADD, Indigo Girl rushed to greet one of the bartenders, a handsome hipster she knew from her social circle. The greet became a long-ish conversation. Stepping up to Tall Girl, I moved my body so that she was forced to reposition herself with her back to Indigo Girl and Hipster Bartender. I knew Indigo Girl would look over at us if she saw me talking intimately with her friend, and I wanted her to see my hand on her friend’s back and my mouth whispering in her friend’s ear.

It worked. Indigo girl hopped over after only five minutes of watching me talk with Tall Girl. Shit test passed. But I knew that with a girl like her the shit tests were only beginning. Tall Girl, for her part, suspected that my desire was focused on her friend, but my calculated conversation sharing probably nursed a belief in her that she could rob me from Indigo Girl.

It is a great thrill to have two women vie for your attention, but it is an exquisite pleasure to puppeteer two *smart* girls.

I will spare some of the details of the actual gaming. Suffice to say, it was my usual schtick, except smartened up in deference to the targets. By smartened up, I mean palm reading with an occasional three syllable word thrown in.

Two hours later, we walked to Tall Girl’s apartment. I had called my buddy earlier to tell him I would cut the night short to pursue a worthier goal than drinking with him. He understood and informed me he would call in the morning for details. Bro code, you see. At Tall Girl’s place, we all collapsed on her sofa and flipped through her collection of artsy posters. Indigo Girl got up and flounced to the bathroom. I had to be careful. The two of them had surely been signaling the whole night to decide who would be the one to tame this magnificent beast with a chest full of peach vellus. My worst move would be to accidentally insinuate that Tall Girl was the one I wanted to bang. I looked at Tall Girl sitting next to me on the couch, her eyelids sensuously hoisted at half mast. Uh oh. I sprang up from the couch and pretended to read some books on the mantle.

When I turned around, still musing facetiously about the book I was holding, I saw that Tall Girl was sliding languorously down the couch, her dress hiked up mid-thigh and her legs splayed open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes locked in on her shorn cunt, unable to tear away from the sight of labia and mons. It took an exceedingly strong dose of willpower to look away and up toward her homely face to remind myself that she wasn’t the one I wanted to bed. When I did, I saw that she was staring at me with sex in her eyes. Her mouth hung partly open. If she had been hotter, it would have counted as one of the sexiest motherfucking vignettes of my life.

As expected, her homely face jolted me back to reality. I put the prop book down and walked to the bathroom. Indigo Girl was rummaging through a box of ornamental scarves on Tall Girl’s bed. She was barking requests at Tall Girl from the bedroom. “I need a scarf that says professional, yet dangerous. What do you have, [Tall Girl]?”

I peered backward into the living room. Though my line of sight was partially obstructed, it looked to me that Tall Girl was stroking her pussy underneath her dress with her left hand. She arched her neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

I addressed Indigo Girl. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

Pause.

I continued. “Let’s go.”

It was a risky move. I had to get out of there before Tall Girl lunged at me and claimed me for herself. But I didn’t want to leave heavy-balled. There is always a point in the seduction when a bold move is required; when intentions must be demonstrated clearly and unambiguously. This time was no different.

Indigo Girl’s eyes glittered for a split second as she processed my words. Then she grabbed my hand and we headed out into the mild night.

We talked the whole time on the half hour walk to her place. Words flowed effortlessly. My boner never relaxed, not even when she did what I’m about to tell you.

“Hey, sexy boy I just met tonight, I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought please show me your incredible tits.

She reached a hand up to her head and pulled off her hair. Her beautiful, thick, lusciously long, raven colored hair, indigo highlights and all. Underneath was a head of matted, thin, mousy brown hair, cut short to just beyond the ears.

What the hell was this? Wig game? Was this her last ditch ultimate shit test to screen men just before she surrenders her body to them?

I managed the most poker-y face I could muster. “Wow, you had me fooled. Good thing you’re still sexy with short hair.”

I wasn’t lying. She was still sexy. Well, maybe not quite as sexy, but the drop in sexiness was only a half point. Nothing the god of gonadal stimulation wouldn’t let us into nirvana for.

“Yeah, I like to roleplay. Tonight was wig night. Wheee wigs!” She spun and jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my torso. My crotch bulged angrily. This was a girl going to NYU Stern for her MBA.

We made love… no, scratch that… we fucked four times through the night. Her tits were as stupendously squeezeable as I imagined. Her style of fucking was not out of character; creatively flexible, liberally lubed, risk-taking, and impassioned. Also a little slutty. Like purple saguaro girl, she had toys. Lots of them. And not some dimestore, brown paper over the windows low class shit. Her toys were the highest grade. She was a Type A++ personality and leapt out of bed at 8am for a spin class. I showed myself out the door, briefly greeting her gay roommate on the way out.

We dated… no, scratch that… we fucked for three months. The week before she left town, she called at 1am and invited me to her place. I walked over in the still night air instead of cabbing it. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation. Inside, she was stooped over on the bare concrete floor now stripped of furniture, snorting a line of coke with her gay roommate. She motioned for me to join them. The coke line laid out for me on the cold floor was mixed with dust and debris. I watched her be alive, though I was beset with a heaviness I knew would soon be alleviated.

Afterward, we laid on the floor like flower petals. She took my hand, held it, then let it go.

In the morning, on my way out, I noticed her wig was poking out of the kitchen trashcan. I walked silently over and gave it a quick stroke.