Like Sex and Chocolate – Exclusive Audio
a short story originally published on medium.com
Once upon a time, I made the mistake of falling in love…with the way a certain man made an Irish Coffee in a trendy local bar. That man inspired this story, and I like to think there’s a little piece of his personality in here. While the events of the story are made up, the man is not.
This story was a challenge. It took over a year to write. I never thought it was right until one day I said, ‘Now or never. Publish or perish.’ The result of that decision carries the full weight of my friendship with that certain man. I wrote it about him; I wrote it for him. There’s a lot of love here.
When you read ‘Like Sex and Chocolate,’ I suggest you have a stiff drink in hand. Might I suggest an Old Fashioned?
Stick around until the end. It gets good, I promise.
-Olive
I’ve sat across the bar from him for months, watching him make drink after drink. From Negronis to Old Fashioneds, Manhattans, and more, he pours some of himself into every glass. Every beverage he crafts is made with love, and every cocktail is a masterpiece. On Saturday nights, we chat while I watch his hands at work, fantasizing about the other ways his fingers might be skilled.
He’s always fascinated me. He carries an air of mystery beneath the brim of his wool cap, pulled down so his eyes are always cast in shadow. In the dim light of the busy bar, I have never seen the color of his eyes. They could be blue, green, or brown with gold flecks, and I’d never know. A crooked smile always tilts up the corner of his mouth, carrying into the creases of his eyes, and even then, I’ve never known what hue to call them. He’s beautiful in a manner that takes my breath away in the midnight hour when I fantasize about his fingers. He makes me laugh, and the sight of his lopsided grin shoots heat straight to my core. I picture him on Saturday nights when I come home late, stumbling through the door and giggling my way into bed.
When the rest of the house has long gone to sleep, I toss and turn, thinking of his voice, soft in my ear, as he leans over the bar to tell me a story. I think of his fingers brushing ever-so-gently against the back of my hand as he hands me a glass of whiskey, and I wonder if they’d be just as electric, stroking me from the inside. In the late hours of the night, when I pull out my vibrator and rock my hips to ecstasy, it’s his name, I whisper in the dark. When I close my eyes, it’s his face that I picture, his crooked smile reserved only for me. I wonder if his lips on my skin would be as smooth as the sound of my name, rolling off his tongue like a love song. I wonder how far up his arms his tattoos crawl and when was the last time anyone traced them with their tongue. When I fantasize, it’s about him. It’s always about him.
On this particular night, I already had two drinks when I wandered up to his bar. I greet him with extra exuberance, and he smiles, wipes down the bartop, and asks how I am. My head swims, and my core clenches while we catch up, listening to his butter-smooth voice roll over me in waves. He wears his usual hat and khakis combo, but tonight, there’s something different about him. Something deeper, darker, and more delicious than I’ve ever felt radiate from him. It draws me in like a moth to a flame, and I stare with rapt attention as he moves around the back of the bar.
He begins fixing my drink before I have to ask. He knows me better than I know myself, and I watch in awe as he works his strange magic behind the chalkboard-painted countertop. He reaches for a glass, and the spell is cast. Bippidi-boppidi-boo, this next one is especially for you.
For my audiophiles…