Karaoke - 1/3 (Patreon)

Contains: Breast Expansion

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Karaoke - 1/3

“Bad news,” my buddy says, “Someone did Creep earlier. You’ll have to pick something else.”

I don’t want to sing karaoke at all. We only came here to cheer my buddy on. But under the pressure of my peers, I’d agreed to do one of my few standards. Now that that option is off the table—I have a legitimate excuse for not embarrassing myself. My only other successful karaoke pick is Empire State of Mind, and this just doesn’t seem like the venue for it. I’ve only been to this particular gay bar once—back before I moved away—and I’m more than a little uneasy with the idea of being the middle-aged straight white guy attempting a Jay-Z rap. I’m exaggerating a little bit. Few would call thirty-seven “middle-aged,” and there are more than a few patrons who look my age or older at karaoke night. I stew with indecision for a while, then remember a song I once sang embarrassingly well on Rock Band a few years ago. I pick up the tablet at our table to search for it.

As I wait for my turn to come, I sip on some liquid courage and glance around the dark bar. A trio of young women sit at the table beside ours, and I have a good angle at a pretty redhead in glasses, but I try not to ogle. Once upon a time, chilling at my favorite bars in this college town was a regular pastime for me. But I’ve been gone almost a decade now, and though my friends and I agreed to come to cheer our friend on at karaoke, I’m starting to wish we were back at his place playing board games.

I feel her looking at me before I see her. That faint sensation people sometimes describe as “feeling someone walk over your grave.” I’ve never understood that expression, but when I glance over, I see a goddess looking back at me.

I’m exaggerating again. She’s very pretty, for sure, with wavy blonde curls, wearing a long skirt, a very tight white top, and definitely too young for me.

“Hi,” she says, “Do you wanna be friends?”

I can’t say I’ve never been approached by a woman at a bar, but never one this pretty. “Sure,” I say, leaning in to be heard over a curvy brunette’s rendition of Macy Gray’s I Try.

She tells me her name is Mary, and to our shared surprise, she is planning to sing the same song I am. I wonder how a girl her age even knows Alanis Morissette. But then, I picked it because it feels like a fairly timeless “angry breakup” anthem.

“Do you have a backup song?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Do you wanna do a duet?”

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve done karaoke, and aside from the MC’s backing vocals, I’ve definitely never done a duet, even in college choir. “What song?”

“Do you know A Whole New World?”

Another 90s track. But of course, who doesn’t know the hit song from Aladdin? I can still remember hearing the radio version constantly as a kid.

Nodding, I say, “Of course. I’m not sure I can pull that off, though.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, “You’re a tenor, right?”

Every time we speak, we have to lean in to make ourselves heard. Her eyes are bright blue, and I keep my focus there to avoid looking downward. She doesn’t have much in the way of curves, but as I said, her top is very tight. I nod again, surprised that she’s able to tell I’m a tenor. The MC is calling my name, so I take another gulp of whiskey and head for the mic.

It’s been a long time since I sang at all, and I’ve never sung much in public, but after a rough start finding my pitch, I belt out You Oughta Know with all the angst I can muster. The crowd, of course, sings along. It wasn’t quite the bizarre fugue state I once experienced singing Creep with a live band years ago, but I’m still a little giddy when I return to our table amidst high-fives from strangers.

Mary and her friends aren’t at their table, but I spot her talking to the MC. She’s taller than I first thought, which might explain her interest in me. I’m only six foot, but I know a lot of girls have a thing about tall guys, especially taller girls.

“Who’s your friend?” My buddy asks.

Shrugging, I say, “Too young is who she is.”

“She’s not that young,” his girlfriend adds. “I bet she’s at least twenty-five.”

“That’s pretty young,” I say.

“What’s your half-plus-seven?” He asks, “Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-five if you round down.”

He slaps me on the shoulder. “See, you’re good! Right on the line.”

Rolling my eyes, I push back from the table. “I’m going to the bar; anyone want another?”

We hang out for three more songs, and then it’s my buddy’s turn again. He croaks out Black Velvet to rousing applause. I’m just starting to think that, since I haven’t seen her again, I might be able to slip out with my friends and escape the awkwardness of singing a duet in front of a crowd with a total stranger. Then I feel a gentle hand on my arm, and she’s standing right there. As she leans down to speak into my ear, I can’t help but notice that she’s maybe a little more busty than I first thought.

“I put us on the list,” she says, “You’ll do it, right?”

No ‘Irish Goodbye’ for me. “Of course!”

***

Mary and I walk to the front of the bar. Standing together, she’s almost as tall as I am. Normally, I prefer short girls, but then, I never have much luck with girls, so I try not to be too picky in real life. Anyway, there’s nothing like that going on here, just two strangers singing a duet. The out-of-touch, nerdy gentleman that I am, I put a hand on Mary’s lower back to guide her toward the second mic. I feel her tremble slightly and think maybe she’s as nervous about this as I am, but when I meet her eyes, they’re shining in the multicolored stage lights. She really is beautiful, and with her standing so close, I have to tamp down my body’s caveman urges.

Mary stares at me through the entire song. I won’t quote any of the lyrics because I’d rather not get sued by Big Mouse, but when I call her Princess, her smile broadens, lighting up her face. She stands a little straighter, and I realize she’s not quite as flat-chested as I guessed. Squeezed into that white top are a pair of decent handfuls, and I look away quickly so she doesn’t catch me staring. In addition to liking shorter girls, I have a small obsession with large boobs. Not that that matters—we’re just singing together.

During my solo song, I’d glanced out across the crowd between closing my eyes for the more wrathful lyrics. For the duet, I return Mary’s gaze as if we’re the only two people in the room. I concentrate on not letting my eyes wander, which isn’t too difficult with those eyes on me. I should be more self-conscious, but between the music and the beauty singing along with me, I forget to be nervous. We hit every note, nail the key change, and when the song ends, Mary leans in toward me. Her soft chest brushes against my mic arm as we whisper out the final line.

The crowd cheers, and Mary grabs my hand so we can take a bow. Walking back to our table, my friends are nowhere to be found. I check my phone and find a text from my buddy:

<We’re heading back. Call an Uber if you strike out. Good luck! 🤙>

Pocketing my phone, I see Mary is still standing very close. Even through the haze of perfume and booze in this bar, I can pick up hints of her scent. Clean and fresh, like soap with vanilla and lavender.

She asks, “Did your friends ditch you?”

I nod. “Yeah…”

“Mine too.” She hesitates, fidgeting her fingers together and glancing at the floor, then back up at me. “Are you gonna go?”

I’m more than a little obtuse, but even I can tell this is an invitation. Stepping out of character a bit, I ask, “Can I buy you a drink?”

I feel like a character in a movie. Is that really something people say in real life? I resist the urge to facepalm.

Mary’s grin is almost a smirk. “Jameson ginger.”

I look at her skeptically. Is this a trap? Some kind of trick? She picks the same song as me and asks for my usual drink? If my friends are playing a prank on me, I figure I might as well go along with it… for now. “I’ll be right back.”

As we sit and sip our drinks, I try to make small talk, but the karaoke is still too loud. And anyway, I can’t think of anything to say that’s worth leaning in close enough to be heard. Instead, we watch people take their turns and sometimes sing along. Every time I look over at Mary, I’m surprised again by how beautiful she is. Whenever I turn my head, she catches my glance, and her lips quirk into a smile. The angle must have been really weird when we met because this girl is seriously stacked. I have to amend my estimate from when we were singing. Those aren’t just handfuls—she’s at least a double-D.

Seeing me sip the last of my drink, Mary gulps the last of hers and leans in close. I put my ear near her face to hear her say, “If you like Irish whiskey, I have a bottle of Powers 12 Year back at my place…”

Too oblivious to recognize this as the come-on it is, I shrug. “Sure.”

It isn’t every day I get to sample a hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey, and if it means getting to hang out with a cute girl who doesn’t seem to mind me checking her out, it sure seems like a win-win situation.

***

As we walk from downtown into the residential area, Mary asks me questions. It makes chatting with her a little easier. I don’t have to come up with any questions to ask, which is good because all I really have is an intrusive “How old are you?” or a pathetic “Do you come to karaoke often?” So I answer her questions, telling her where I moved, why I’m back in town, and the simple version of what I do for a living. I wonder how far her place is from the bar, but before I can find a way to ask that doesn’t sound pathetic, Mary asks a more personal question.

“So, I don’t see a ring… do you have a girlfriend back home?”

My chest tightens, and I shake my head.

“Hmm… that’s kind of surprising.”

“Well, I’m pretty awkward with girls.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, proving my statement in real-time. Anxiety welling up, I try to think of something smooth to say.

“I’m uh… really glad you asked me to sing with you; that was fun.”

Pathetic. Here I am, the specter of 40 hanging over me, and no better at flirting than a high schooler. Wait, am I trying to flirt with her?

I look over to see Mary watching me. Her expression seems pleased, but I can’t be sure. I fight the urge to glance at her now very visible cleavage.

“I’m glad,” She says. “I had fun, too.”

She looks forward again, and we walk in silence for a while. Then I feel her knuckles brush against mine. I try to keep a polite distance between us, drawing my arms closer to my sides, but it happens again. I glance over at her. She has her eyes fixed forward, but her lips are quirked into a knowing grin. I think back to the time my buddy and his cousin got a girl to text me to come to the bar, acting like we’d met the night before. If Mary is part of another prank to humiliate me, I’m committed to playing along now. It’s either that or confront her about it, which I’d never live down if she’s for real. I let my hand drift over to brush the back of hers. In a moment, her hand is in mine—soft and warm, twisting until our fingers interlace.

I look over again, and Mary smiles at me. Heat blooms in my chest, and speaking of chests, I can see hers jiggling in the corner of my vision as we walk. There’s no way I missed those when we first met. I wonder if I’m hallucinating—did she slip something into my drink? Only one of my friends knows about my… predilection. Is it possible he not only got some girl to come on to me at the bar but also convinced her to wear an inflatable prosthesis to act out my deepest fantasy? I push my paranoid questions to the back of my head. Mary is either actually interested in me, or she’s pretty cool to play along with such a ridiculous prank. Either way, she seems like someone I want to know.