The Wrong Bar

It was my first weekend away from home. A new town, in fact a whole big city. I knew it was probably a bit silly of me, but I didn't know anyone here, and I wanted to at least try and make a few friends. So I dolled myself up a bit, put on a bit of make up though not too much because I didn't want to look trashy, and "hit the town" - so to speak.

I was just eighteen at the time, but figured I could get away with it. I have long ginger hair that tends to frizz if I don't keep it under control, freckles, green eyes that tend to hide behind rather geeky looking glasses, full lips and a full figure. I would never go so far as to say I was fat, but I'm definitely on the curvy side.

So, with my hair braided so it didn't frizz everywhere, my DDD's encased in a sports bra that gave support and comfort without that nasty wire that jabs you at every opportunity, my hips and butt tucked into a pair of not <i>totally</i> unsexy underpants (Remember Bridget Jones Diary? NOT the granny pants!) and the whole lot covered with a light but hopefully attractive emerald green summer dress, I took a taxi from my apartment, and fond myself in the liveliest part of town.

I avoided a couple of bars because they had big male bouncers on the doors checking IDs, and the people going in were mostly couples and threes. I also avoided the rowdier places. I soon realised I was running out of options though. One place I noticed had a woman bouncer, and while she looked tough and was definitely turning away the rougher looking men, I at least one girl who looked younger than me go in without being challenged.

So I figured, what the hell, she can only turn me away. I walked up to the door, not looking at her, felt her eyes on me, and then I was in. The music was softer inside than I was expecting but still loud, the lights were dim and kept changing colour, making it difficult to see what was going on. I made my way to the bar, aware that I was being looked at - no, stared at - from multiple directions. The bartender was a woman who, I swear, looked more like a man that a lot of men I'd seen except for the chest that was definitely female and totally not disguised by the man's shirt she was wearing.

She asked me what I wanted and I offered a bank note, managed to call out "Er, Bacardi and Coke? With ice, please."

She took the note, inspected it, held it under one of those UV things that supposedly tell you if it's genuine, then rang up the drink on the cash register, slapped my change on the bar and a few seconds later placed a tall glass of black liquid that chinked slightly, beside it. I took the coins and put them in my purse, then sipped the cold, sweet yet slightly bitter drink. I was wondering what to do next when someone spoke to me.