At the Bar

The bar smells like motor oil and dry cum, a scent you’ve learned to associate with the low thrum of your own hopeless patterns. You see him before he sees you, already at a corner table, not nursing a drink but holding it like a prop. He’s wearing a jacket that costs more than your car, looking bored and superior, his eyes scanning the room like he’s pricing everything out. For a moment, your mind flashes to the stories, to the hyper-sexualized JC with his borrowed black cock, and you have to remind yourself this is just a man. Just CJ. The one you hate so much you want him to instruct you to wear his girlfriend's clothes.

He notices you, and the smirk he gives isn’t friendly; it’s an acknowledgment of an appointment he’d rather have skipped. "Hey, bud," he says, not even bothering to motion to the chair. "Grab a seat. Drink's on me."

You sit, the vinyl sticky against your skin. He flags down Julia with a snap of his fingers she pointedly ignores until she’s ready He orders something with a French name you don’t recognize.

"So," you say, trying to sound casual. "What's this about? Rosa—"

"Forget Rosa," CJ cuts in, his voice low but sharp, like he’s sharing a stock tip. "She’s not the point." He leans forward, the condescending smirk softening into something more conspiratorial. "I need to talk to you about that place. The fucking mansion"

Your blood runs cold. "What about it?"

"I went," he says, his gaze locking onto yours. "She took me there too. Before you, even. Said it’d be a trip." He scoffs, swirling his drink. "It’s a fucking head trip, bud. I only made it two rooms in before I bounced. But you… Rosa said you got much farther. That impresses me"

You lean in despite yourself. "What did you see?"

"Foyer first. That Llora bitch shows up, same as you probably, with some fucked-up tableau..."

He frowns, annoyed by the memory. "For me, it was Rosa on her knees in front of me. But I wasn't me. I was wearing a dress. A cheap fucking dress, like something Rainbow would wear. And I had tits. Saggy ones."

.He shudders with aesthetic disgust. "It wasn't right. It wasn't my fantasy. It felt… badly curated."

You nod slowly, remembering the shifting statues, the way the house seemed to know exactly what you wanted and feared

"Then the next room," he continues, his voice even lower. "The one with the plaque. ‘What Rosa does with her guy friends’."

"The animatronics," you breathe.

"Yeah." CJ nods, his eyes scanning the bar again. They land on Donna, the Christian girl you took on one awkward date, sitting alone and nursing a soda

. He watches her for a second too long. "I went in. Saw the whole show. Rosa sucking off Ugly Mike, jerking off Old Man Alex…". His lip curls in something that isn't jealousy. It's disdain. "But I didn't just stand there with my dick in my hand like some pussy. I touched them"

You don't answer. You just remember your hand hovering, your cock leaking, torn between shame and a desire you couldn't name

"I grabbed the Rosa doll," CJ says, a flicker of that arrogance returning. "Tried to move her. Pose her. Put her mouth on my doll's cock instead of Mike's. I wanted to fix the scene. Make it… better." He scoffs, downing the rest of his drink. "The dolls just went rigid. The lights flickered. And then this voice, Llora's voice, just says, 'We don't need another director.' The door unlocked and I fucking left. The place doesn't want you to be in control. It wants you to break."

He’s avoiding it. He’s talking about the mansion, but this isn't why he called you. This is just him sizing you up, seeing how fucked up you are before he makes his real play.

CJ's eyes drift back to Donna. She’s tapping at her phone, her hair catching the light. "She still go to that crazy church?" he asks, the smirk back in full for

"I guess," you mumble, remembering her saying "I suck" on her doorstep, a promise you were too dense to understand at the time but have replayed in your head a thousand times since

"Shame," CJ says, his gaze fixed on her now. "A girl like that, all wound up tight. Bet she comes apart like a cheap watch."

He stands up. Just like that. No hesitation. He walks over to her table, leans down, and says something you can't hear. You watch as Donna's face flushes. She laughs, a high, nervous sound. As he speaks, you see his hand dip into his jacket pocket, a subtle flash of a small plastic baggie, just for a second, before he tucks it back.

An offering. She nods. He points back at you and you quickly look down at your drink. When you look up, he's sitting at her table.

The jealousy is a physical thing, hot and acidic in your throat.You hate him. You hate how easy it is for him. You imagine him taking Donna home, and in your mind, you’re not you anymore. You’re Donna. You’re feeling CJ's hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. You’re the one he's whispering to, telling you that you’re better than any other girl, that you have a nice girlycock he wants to suck until you cry. The fantasy is so strong you can almost taste it. You want him to turn to you, to see you, and decide he'd rather take you home and dress you in Donna's clothes. You want to be his replacement, his better version.

You're so lost in the thought that you don't notice they're leaving until they're already at the door. CJ glances back at you over Donna's shoulder. He gives you a small, knowing wink. It's not malicious. It's something worse. It's a wink that says You might be weirder, but I still win.

And then they're gone.

He never even told you why he really wanted to meet

You're left alone at the table, the ghost of his words about the mansion mixing with the bitter taste of your own useless desire, the real conversation still hanging, unspoken, in the stale air of the bar.