The Accountant

It was a cool fall night and I had just wrapped up my usual Friday night happy hour stint at Mad River. Jenny Saurs had consumed an entire bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea vodka during our ninety minute shift and was now hallucinating ants and pizza bagels. Annie Smalls had headed home for a date night and Jimmy Whisk was manning the bar until the last Bud Light-chugging, Jagermeister-slamming, former frat boy crawled out of the bar and headed home to drool himself to sleep.

That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.

I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.

Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.

The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.

We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.

We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.

Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.

But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.

“Oh my god!” I cried out.

The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.

“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.

“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.

After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.

“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.

“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.

“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.

“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.

“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.



Bacch-tionary

*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.