Oregon Tavern Age: Blow Job (the drink)

Four OTA women sat at the bar of an OTA joint in the city. They were all drinking vodka cranberries and drinking them hard. It was a Sunday afternoon.

I sat ten feet away at a table near the only window with a craft malt liquor and my writing materials.

One topic dominated their loud conversation that easily drifted to every corner of this smallish rectangular joint. That topic was men, asshole men, asshole men to be divorced or cuckolded yet also to still be fucked while getting the divorce or being cuckolded.

Terrible music from the 80s played through the speakers. Toto must die!

Outside on the sidewalks, homeless men and women carrying bags like Santa Claus or pushing wheelbarrows and baby strollers full of returnable cans and bottles passed by on their way to the machines that provided their daily wage.

The conversation at the bar shifted to blow jobs—the drink, not the act of fellatio.

One of the OTA women ordered a blow job and the bartender concocted it in a flash. The woman then drank it like she was giving a blow job.

Readers, I must restate for the record: I never make up OTA stories. I have no need.

At some point, I must have chuckled and the bartender saw me smiling and laughed. Then the four OTAs all turned toward me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t help bu eavesdropping on you. How could I not?”

They roared with laughter and approval.

One of them, the blow job queen, asked if I was writing it down for a book.

I told them I was writing a letter.

It was a lie. I was writing about them. If they wanted to check for themselves, they were welcome to come over and peruse my writing. I wasn’t at all worried because no one can read my handwriting generated in an OTA joint. After a couple weeks, even I can’t!

I’ve used this ploy at least a half dozen times in 25 years of writing about OTA life in OTA country. Only once has anyone taken me up on my offer. It was inside the Triangle Tavern in Astoria. A crazed football fan and OTA degenerate wanted to see my notebook. He was sure I was writing vile things about him, which I was. I showed it to him. He “read” it. He approved of my writing a letter to an ex girlfriend.

The porter was kicking my ass.

The blow job queen ordered another blow job, but this time with extra whipping cream. The bartender fixed the drink in record time and topped it off with a swirl of whipping cream delivered with real panache.

The OTA woman gulped it on one great gulp. She really knew how to swallow!