Too Nice a Guy

The Street Hustle

I have never liked nicknames but I have yet another these days: the Spanking Man.  Two hours of Victorian corporal punishment and I’m marked for life, who knew?  Since my naming and Internet outing, I have had several dates, two of these ladies even granted me a second go around.  However, in the end, I was Googled and it was all over.  My fetish was simply too public, and perhaps, scary for these women. 

Sunday I met two chefs I worked with at the Park Avenue Café for a drink.  Arriving late, per usual, I found my two friends sitting at a round table pushed into a corner of the Upper East Side steakhouse where Mike was the Executive Chef.  A woman who seemed intent on getting an invitation to join their conversation was chatting up Mike and Joe. 

She had thick, curly dark hair with brown highlights.  Mike listened to her questions about being a chef patiently, occasionally raising his eyebrows over the lip of his pint glass when she asked something inane.  After a few minutes, Mike just tuned her out and talked to Joe on his left.

“I’m sorry,” she asked “am I annoying you?”

“Yes,” Mike replied and started to ignore her again.  I didn’t understand why, I thought Mike and Joe were crazy.  Here was a beautiful woman, with great hair who wanted to sit down and chat.  We were in a bar, a public house.  I thought we were supposed to be talking to strangers we found attractive.  However, I laughed as Mike and Joe tagged teamed her for alleged insanity. 

When Bob the barman came over to ask if we needed anything, Mike and Joe asked about the brunette.  “Dude, she’s been coming in here for three weeks now, having two margaritas every Sunday night.  She goes off and flirts with some guy and then sits down and talks to me,” Bob said.

“She has a thing for you brother,” Joe teased.

Bob mumbled something about crazy women always chasing his tattooed ass and stalked off to the kitchen.  The brunette went to the L shaped bar and sat slightly to the right of the beer taps, slowly turning her red wine glass in small circles.  “Dude, she should just jump over the bar and suck Bob’s cock,” Joe said and I laughed.  I didn’t want her to do that to Bob; I wanted her to jump on me.  If she played her cards correctly, I would definitely let this lovely woman have her way with me, as long as I could spank that ass, of course.  However, those thoughts were buried by the locker room conversation my friends kept pushing in my face.  Finally, I succumbed to the peer pressure and joined in the casual putdowns of this woman.  Of course, I kept glancing over to the bar to make sure I knew exactly where she was sitting.

An hour later the steakhouse closed.  Mike, Joe and I decided to take our snarky catching up to another bar.  Bob, grabbed my shoulder before I walked out the side door.  “Do me a favor, go over and talk to her,” Bob begged.  He actually asked if I would take her off his hands, which I found hard to resist as i protested I had no interest.  The hair, big brown eyes and the indeterminate accent, which I could swear was Israeli, made for an attractive package.  Then there was her bottom, small, firm and heart shaped – perfect for a few whacks or five minutes worth of abuse.  I had spent the last hour laughing with the boys as they put her down and called her crazy.  All the while I was looking over at the bar, hoping to get a chance to talk to her and perhaps even engage in my favorite fetish.

So I walked up to this attractive lady and introduced myself.  She is a Jewish girl from Tashkent, Uzbekistan, where the Old Man and my aunts waited out 1944 while on the run from the Nazis.  Excellent.  We discuss being Jewish, what the Soviets were like, her family and other sundry topics.  The conversation begins to falter a bit and then she mentions going to medical school.  Jewish, a spankable bottom and an Alpha female?  I have shot and scored, or so I think. 

Finally after a few minutes of my interrogation about her desired practice, OBGYN, Rachel got up to retrieve her coat.  I hear the phrase nice guy bandied between the two of them and she leaves without saying goodbye.  Bob comes over and pours me some more wine.  “I’m sorry man,” he tells me “she thinks you’re too nice of a guy.”

I’m too nice a guy?  Does she know whom she was talking too?  I’m the Spanking Man.  The man who will make sure your cheeks are so red you won’t be able to perch straight for a week.  I look at Bob’s arms; tattooed from wrist to shoulder and compare it to my black suit, pink shirt and white tie.  Perhaps it’s all in the packaging.


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