Jukebox Jamboree

Just when I've reached my limit of bad bourbon and whiskey shooters sent over by obese Indians and drunken gardeners, I start to feel the itch again.

The Jukebox is wearing down, and I've just begun to have some fun.

I dig in my pocket for loose change and feel a hole in the right pocket.

Fuck.

All the change must have fallen out on my way over to this shit hole.

I light a cigarette and wiggle toward this cowboy whose had his eye on me all night.

I do my best Marilyn in exchange for a few dollars.

Like every man, he falls for it twice.

I force the crumpled bills into the machine and scroll through the scarce selection.

I look over my shoulder and notice all eyes on me.

That's when I see you.

Near the end of the bar.

The only eyes not fucking me right now.

So I hit number 25.

Your favorite.

And wait.

The hard guitar begins to play and I can't control myself.

First the hips begin to sway, as I run my fingers down my frayed, holey jeans with grass stains on the knees.

I toss my head back, allowing my hair to fall down my lower back.

The bartender turns the song up and screams last call.

Patrons fire their drinks back.

Others stumble their way toward the exit.

There's a stand off between the cowboy who gave me money, and you.

My arms reach for the sky as I continue dancing and swaying to the song on the box.

I start to feel your eyes on me as I sweat, but continue to dance to my song.

Bar backs and waitresses tiptoe around me as the cowboy makes his move.

He takes me by the wrist and leads me toward the door, but I don't want to leave.

He begins to get aggressive, taking my other wrist and throwing me over his shoulder.

I try to resist but the drinks have made me weak, and I can't help but play the innocent victim.

You are now dead locked in my eyes, but continue sipping your lo-ball, scratching at your stubble.

None of the staff give a shit whether I'm taken home  and raped, so long as the bar is empty by 3:00 A.M.

I kick and scream, but it does no good because we're already outside and the music is now a muffled echo behind the red door of the bar.

The cowboy throws me on a blanket in the cab of his El Camino parked in the empty parking lot and pins me down with all his weight.

My pants are ripped to shreds, as is my snap buttoned shirt.

His rough lips slither across my neck.

He bites my earlobe and runs his scaly hands down my cold wet back.

I continue to fight, but it only excites him more.

The cowboy tugs my hair so hard my head tilts back.

He unzips his pants and scuffles a little before something hits him from behind and knocks him out.

Like a Marlboro man, you grasp a tire iron, offering an extended hand out to me.

I make sure to slap the cowboy as hard as I can and spit on his face before leaving with you.

You gentlemanly turn away as I try to dress myself with what little clothing is salvageable.

You offer me a brown leather jacket that smells of burnt wood and wet dog before waving down a cab.

I try to thank you and refuse the ride, but you insist.

Before I can hand you your jacket the cab door is slammed shut and the cab drives away.

I rattle off an address and watch out the back window.

The orange glow from your cigarette tip slowly extinguishes, before I'm all alone again.

Wondering if I'll ever know your name.