I’ve never really been a big fan of Halloween. I don’t mind the dress up, but sometimes people take it so seriously. The move in my twenties was to just pretend it was a regular day, and it started out that way. I was at my bar with my people. There were fun folks, cute folks, even some sexy folks, but as the holiday night progressed, people just came and went. Bar hopping around — there may have been some kind of scavenger hunt happening.

I was kind of glad when it was time to close the bar. The few of us that were locals helped the bartender begin closing — putting chairs on tables, sweeping and mopping up. And then the front door opened. I can not believe we forgot to lock the front door! But when she walked in, I was glad. “Have you seen my friends?”

She was wearing a pirate outfit. Or at least that was how I’m sure her night started. She had a men’s white dress shirt on, with only two buttons done up top, the rest tied tightly around her adorable tummy. She had a black lace bra on, just to make sure you knew she knew you were staring. She had a short red plaid skirt on, over fishnet stockings, and chunky black heels that gave her confidence strutting up the steep broken streets. She had a plastic eye patch that was now up on her forehead, which must have come with the comically long plastic sword she had secured to her waist. There was a dark streak on her chin, suggesting that a few hours earlier she attempted a pirate beard. She was absolutely adorable.

I said yes, in fact, I think I did see her friends. They were in earlier, they might still be here. Which is sort of a dick thing to say because there were 5 male locals in the bar, the bartender, and an empty back room, but the music was still playing so hey. We could at least double check right?

I asked if she wanted a pint. She said yes. So I pour us both a pint, I hand her hers, smile, and lead her to the back room. She laughs the moment we make our way past the short hallway. There is obviously nobody in the bar but us, but maybe she’s flattered? She seemed to want some attention that night and here she was alone. Or at least she was. I suggested we put our pints down on the wooden ledge and really check everywhere. We went into a closet type room, and I held her close. I turned around, after observing that no, her group of friends were not in fact in this 4×4′ square closet. And that’s where I first kissed her.

She smiled and said we should keep looking. So we did. We made out behind the back bar. Over by the DJ booth. In the closet a second time. By our pints on the ledge. By the bathrooms. Soon there was no other place to make out, but I was sensing the bartender wanted to actually close, for real this time. So we walked up front, put our glasses in the sink, and walked outside.

Maybe they’re at my apartment, it’s just a block down that way. And so she followed. We made out in the alley. We made out next to my laundromat. My bodega. The stoop of my apartment as I was finding my key.

The issue with making out for an hour right before you get a new lover to your apartment is you want absolutely nothing to come between the sound of your front door opening and you fucking her. She walked directly toward the sofa in our living room, but I directed her my bed, just a few meters further. I closed the door, took a breath, and devoured her.

She started sliding her skirt down as I pulled off her boot-like heels. She untied her white dress shirt, but left it on, for effect. She was so happy to have her skirt off, smiled and pulled me in for another kiss. After a while I needed more of her, so I slid down lower, watching her knees lift and legs spread aside.

And that’s when I confronted my nemesis. These sexy little fishnet stockings were between me and what I most wanted in that moment. Her slick wet black panties could be pulled apart, but what about these stockings. I tried my best to tug them down, but her perfect Ass held them in place and they were stuck to her body after serving duty all night, collecting long willing looks from men and women alike.

“I need you!” — that’s all I needed to hear. I didn’t need to wait another moment, or try another sophisticated move to rid her of these fishnets.

I pushed my fingers into two holes in the stockings closest to her panties, curled my fingers up, and pulled. I ripped the crotch out of her fishnets, immediately pulled her wet panties apart, and had my whole mouth all over her gorgeous shaved Pussy.

The Sex was Hot, but also a bit of a blur. We were both very needy, and were grinding to get what we both needed. Sensing I was close, I knelt closer to her, brought her knees up to me, held her close, and fucked her deep. Just as I was about to cum, I looked up, hoping to hold on for just another minute, and there was her plastic pirate sword, leaning against my bedroom door. We locked eyes, her pirate patch having slid halfway down her forehead. And I came.

She was cute and I was smitten and so she stayed the night. I was somewhat surprised to have had such an incredible first date. The next morning, when I slowly opened one eye, trying to find out just how hungover I might be, I spotted it again. The sword. It wasn’t a dream! We laid together, made out for a while, and I was trying to game out how I might take her again.

But she spoke first. Hey want to go to breakfast? This is like, a relationship? Uhhhh sure. No sooner do I say yes, she tells me that she’s meeting her female boss for breakfast, and we should come up with a story about how we know each other. This is more chaotic than I like, but I’m in my twenties and even if this turns out terribly, I figure it’s good for a laugh. So sure, let’d do this.

Oh fuck, what am I gonna wear? She tries a few options of reconfiguring last nights costume into this mornings brunch attire, but it’s not working. My soggy brain has a dumb idea. My roommate is out of town this weekend, but surely she won’t mind if you borrow a sweatshirt! I grab something out of her closet, you change, and look gorgeous. One more issue — what to do with her sweaty outfit? I run back into the apartment, grab a plastic bag from under the sink, put her stuff in it, and we’re off to brunch.

It goes well! Some other guys on her team are there, so I mostly ply them with questions about their night out which takes up most of the time of our ridiculous meal together. While this has been a lovely long date, it’s time for us to go our methods for now. She says she likes to take the bus, so we walk over to the closest bus stop. We make small talk until the bus comes, and she gives me another kiss. Call me! And then she grabs for her bag. The one I got for her that has her costume in it. It’s a bag from my bodega. And it says, in bold red letters — Thank You, Come Again! We laugh too loudly for people at a bus stop. She gets on, and I walk home.

I realize later that day that I don’t have her number. Maybe she wondered she gave it to me? Maybe she was just blowing me off? I’m bummed I can not connect with her, but still glowing from the memories. I’m in that same local bar a dozen times over the next few weeks, hoping to see her again, but I never do. A few weeks after that I’m retelling a tame version of the story — basically up to the part where we leave together. And the bartender, a dear friend, goes OH RIGHT! THAT ONE! She had it out for you! What do you mean? Oh, she came in her like four times a week looking after you. She wondered you worked here. I told her I’d tell you she was here when you came in for your next shift. Little does she know you don’t have a shift.

WHAT! I wanted to see her again! Oh! Ooops. Sorry mate. Next time. Arrrgh!