Fantasy: Used: The Fight

“Why don’t you keep your eyes to yourself, before I rearrange your face?”

Michael was getting tiresome. We were supposed to be celebrating his raise, and I wanted to give him a treat by wearing his favourite outfit: a simple black top, a miniskirt that shows off my sexy legs, and a pair of heels that were a bit too expensive, but what the hell, a girl needs to treat herself sometimes. He loves my legs – it’s one of the reasons we started dating in the first place – so he should have been enjoying the view, and maybe even resting his hand on my knee under the table. Instead, he was sending dirty looks toward any man in the bar who glanced in my direction. He was spending more time watching them than looking at me.

He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes his jealousy gets tiresome. I had been looking forward to a fun night out, then going back to his place where he could take this skirt down and have his way with me. And, sure, yes, I had also been looking forward to the glances I knew I’d be getting from other men. Nothing wrong with enjoying a bit of lascivious attention, before going home and slaking that lust on my boyfriend. But instead, I found myself trying to finish my drink as quickly as I could so we could get out of there, and he could stop glaring at every hetero male in the bar.

Unfortunately, he was too busy glaring to drink his drink, so it didn’t really matter how quickly I guzzled mine, we were going to be there for a while.

Before too long, most guys in the place realized what was going on, and just averted their gaze. It might be fun to look at a nice pair of legs, but not if it’s going to cause drama with a jealous boyfriend.

As anticipated, I finished my drink long before he finished his, and decided to go up to the bar for a refill. Probably not a smart idea – now the legs would be in motion! – but I was too pissed at him by this point to care. Let him growl all he wants, if I was going to put up with his nonsense, I needed alcohol in my system!

I was at the bar long enough to down a shot of J.D. and get a refill on my appletini, then I was heading back to the table. I was slightly unsteady on my heels, due to the fact that I was drinking faster than usual, but mostly OK.

And then I heard the voice behind me:

“Well I’ll be damned! Her ass is as fine as those sexy legs!” Apparently someone in the bar hadn’t gotten the message about the jealous boyfriend – or didn’t care. As I got back to the table I was blushing with embarrassment. (Mostly.)

Michael was immediately on his feet. “Who said that?” he barked. “You wanna go outside, asshole?”

“Let it drop, Mike,” I said, as I took my seat. “Let’s just finish our drinks and get the fuck out of here.”

“No,” he responded, “I want to know who’s perving on my girl!”

“‘Your girl.’ Right. Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “What a night.”

“Why don’t you just calm down and shut up, before someone gets hurt, kid?” It was the same voice that had praised my ass a few seconds ago, and when I got a look at him I was much less flattered at his compliment. The guy was a douchebag. No, not a douchebag; what’s the white trash equivalent of a douchebag? Redneck? He was one of those.

He was in a pair of dirty jeans, a white t-shirt, and, honest to god, had a pack of cigarettes in his sleeve! Whatever you’d call him, I didn’t like the idea of him ogling me the same way he’d beat if off to some cutrate pornstar in Jugs magazine.

Michael, however, was having none of it. “Let’s go outside, and see if your fists work as well as your eyes!” was his brilliant reply. I made one more attempt to calm things down by putting a hand on his arm, but when he shook it off I gave up caring what happened to him. If he went outside and got beat up, it was his own damned fault. Sure, I’d end up hearing about it for the rest of the night – maybe even tending his bruises – but maybe he’d learn to stop being a dick when we went out together. If you’re gonna have a hot girlfriend you should enjoy it, not spend every minute in public airing your lack of self confidence for the world to see.

To my surprise, the redneck decided that yes, he would like to go outside and teach Michael a lesson, and Michael was stupid enough to go through with it. I mean, he was in pretty good shape, but had he ever actually been in a fight? And were two men really going to go outside and fight, in this day and age, because one had “looked at the other’s girl”? I sighed, took a final gulp of my drink, and followed them out.

A crowd was already gathering, and to my surprise it didn’t seem like anyone was going to bother calling the police. I was tempted to glance at my phone, just to confirm we were still in the year 2017, but instead I tried to figure out how I was supposed to handle this situation. They were, after all, fighting over me – or at least the right to look at me – so should I have been supporting my man? Or playing it nonchalant, as if this happened all the time?

The only one who actually did seem nonchalant was the redneck who’d been looking at my ass. To look at him, you wouldn’t have assumed he was about to engage in fisticuffs on a public street; he was calm, cool, and collected, with just the hint of a wry smile on his face. And it didn’t help the situation that he was egging Michael on, either.

“So you don’t like guys looking at your girl, eh? What happens if I win? Do I get to keep her? Or do I just get to borrow her for a night, and send her back to you tomorrow, spent and broken?”

“Keep talking, asshole, because you’re about to get a lesson in manners.”

“Enough, Mike,” I said. “Leave it alone, and let’s go inside.” I was hoping that this would give him an excuse to stop the nonsense; maybe he could walk away if it was clear he was only doing it because “his girl” was making him. (The more I thought about it, the more that phrase “my girl” was really bothering me.)

It didn’t work.

“Shut up,” he said. “I’m handling this.”

In our years together he’d never told me to shut up. My irritation flared into full-blown anger.

“Well you’d better,” I said, “because if he kicks your ass, like it’s appearing he will, maybe I’ll go home with him tonight, instead of you.” It was an empty threat, there was no way I’d go home with this dickhole, but I wanted to say something that would bother Michael. Not that it worked; he knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to do any such thing. Besides, he was in full fight mode, now.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.

Michael waded in, getting ready to throw his first punch, but before he could even get one in, the asshole popped him one, square in the centre of his face, and Michael went down hard. Whack, plomp, and he was on the ground. The second “half” of the fight played out just like in a movie: Michael started to get up, and the asshole warned him to stay down; Michael didn’t listen, and as he was getting unsteadily to his feet, he received another shot to the face. The second time he went down, he went down for good: he was out cold.

“Well legs?” the asshole asked. “Ready to go back to my place and get that tight little skirt off?”

I heard laughter from the small crowd that had gathered. We weren’t living in the stone age; clearly I wasn’t going to go home with someone who had “won” me in a fight. However, I was seething at Michael’s behaviour, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to teach him a lesson.

“Let’s go,” I responded, as if I went home with strange rednecks all the time. I’d figure out a way to extricate myself from him later, but for now, I wanted a crowd of spectators eager to tell Michael (when he woke up) what he’d most feared: “his girl” had gone off with the guy who clocked him.

“My car’s this way,” he said, and led me through the alley.