(Quite a long, little story, but I wrote this for a challenge that has unfortunately ended already and was created by a friend. I hope you enjoy it.)

What happened in that hotel?

You went to a swanky hotel with your partner for your office Christmas party. Your office took fifty people, but it was one of those where lots of works take tables, so there's 300 people there. Your partner is jealous because you talk, laugh and dance with colleagues. He feels left out. Eventually he storms out and takes the 90-minute drive home. You have booked a room for the night and you are determined not to waste it. And to enjoy the party.... What happens next?

I’m sitting at the hotel bar, martini in hand, looking aimlessly at the multiple stacks of various alcohol placed on the shelves in front of me.

I throw back the rest of my drink and grab the olive pick and slowly set the olive into my mouth and engulf it entirely,

savoring its lovely saltiness and its soaked up gin.

I eye the bartender for another and he sends a small smile and nod my way.

He’s quite good-looking but definitely not my type.

Too boyish.

He places the drink in front of me and says, “on the house”.

I tell him a small thank you and immediately gulp down half the liquid in the glass.

“Something on your mind, miss?” he asks with a cute innocence to his voice, I have to say.

Oh, you, know, it’s just the man I’m seeing just fucking left me here and took the car and it’s a 90-fucking minute drive home.

“No, not at all, you just create very good martinis.”

He gives me a bright, little grin and replies “thank you very much, ma’am,” then saunters off to the other end of the bar to fulfill a gentleman’s order.

I’m about to devour the next olive when out of the corner of my eye,

I see a very familiar man stride over from across the room and has a seat next to me.

“You should slow down on those.”

I glance at him out of my peripheral and roll me eyes.

John Christiansen.

A fellow professor at the university I teach at.

I’ve seen him around campus,

making eye contact a couple of times,

and at a few faculty meetings and functions but,

overall, we’ve never spoken to one another face to face.

I’m not entirely sure if he even knows my name.

One word can be used to describe him though. Scratch that, three words:

Sexy. As. Hell.

His looks, voice, intelligence, even the way he walks, is all absolutely sexy.

“And why is that exactly?” I retort rather sarcastically, with a sly smile lifting from one side of my mouth.

Who does this guy think he is that he can tell me what to do?

“A young woman like you, sitting alone at a bar, intoxicated, is not a very good idea, Miss Grey.”

So, he did know my name.

That’s the second thing that registered in my mind when he opened his mouth to speak.

The first was “holy shit, his voice sounds like sex. I should’ve known”.

“And why is it not a very good idea, Mr. Christiansen?”

Of course, I knew why it wasn’t a very bright notion for me, but I wanted him to keep talking.

I needed to hear his voice some more.

“Because a man with not the most civilized of manners might try to take advantage of your state, Miss Grey.”

A glass of JD, neat, was placed in front of him and he took a long sip then continued.

“And to be candid, you are the antithesis of unattractive. Every man in here is heightened at your presence. Look around.”

I remove my lips from my glass and peer up from my lashes,

wiping away a drop of gin from the corner of my lip with one slim, well-manicured forefinger.

I rake my eyes around the large, but surprisingly intimate, bar,

and I’m met with multiple pairs of male eyes and a few focus back down at their drinks,

while the brave others, make eye contact with me and even a few hold their glasses up to me or send a wink.

I turn back around and sigh not so subtly and down the rest of my third, fourth, or fifth drink,

I can’t be bothered to remember.

My mind sways for a moment and against my better judgment, the filter in my mind collapses.

“At least one man here wants to fuck me.”

This catches him off guard and his right eyebrow arches up almost imperceptibly.

“And why do you say that, Karina?”

Might as well tell him, I thought. AND he’s referring to me now on first name basis?

Whatever.

“The man I’m seeing, and who I brought tonight as my guest, left me here. He took the fucking car and it’s a 90-minute drive home.”

I lift up the pick, no longer holding the emerald olive, and twirl it between my fingers.

“And I booked a room for the night, which, frankly, wasn’t cheap.”

Then, I snap the pick in half.

“Fucking asshole.”

The same, young bartender glances over at me, nonverbally inquiring if I’d like another round.

I shake my head, taking Mr. Christiansen’s advice. Might as well.

John sees my alcohol refusal and smiles approvingly, pleased I took his suggestion.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Karina. Truly.”

I look over at him. I really look at him, for the first time it seems.

I can sense he’s being truthful and his empathy and good looks combined has my head spinning a little harder and my underwear embarrassingly moistening.

I also suddenly notice he’s sitting a little closer than when he initially arrived next me.

For a second with the apologetic look he’s conveying and the thought of my boyfriend abandoning me here at this enigmatic hotel we’ve never even visited,

I begin to feel sorry for myself.

Then, it disappears, possibly due to the high level of alcohol flowing through my veins, and is replaced with unruliness, and lust.

“Thank you, John, but it’s all right.”

I deliberately swivel around in my chair and scan my brown orbs throughout the room, landing occasionally on a man sitting alone or with a group of friends.

Even a few gentlemen who’ve brought a woman with them glance my way and smirk, almost begging me to fuck them.

“The night’s still young.”

Faculty members, assistants, even our university’s dean is giving me the eye, and John sees it.

He sets his drink down hard onto the counter and faces me completely, surprising me a bit.

“So, that’s your plan huh? To let one of these random men fuck you for the night instead?” He spits out.

“Mhmmm," I mumble, inadvertently glancing around at my various options.

I spot a cliché good-looking guy (square jawline, perfectly coiffed brown hair, megawatt smile, and a Greek physique to match)

at the opposite end of the bar speaking with a male friend, who is equally as attractive, and they both look over and smile knowingly.

“Or two,” I add to my previous sentence.

He follows my eyes and sees the pair.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Christiansen. It was lovely seeing and speaking with you tonight.”

I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and set it underneath my glass as a tip for the bartender that’s been nothing but charming and kind all night.

The youthful mixologist sees the dough and smiles cheekily and sends me a thankful nod.

Right when both of my heels touch the marble floor, I abruptly feel a hand tightly grip my elbow.

I turn and see the culprit- Mr. Christiansen.

"John, let go of me."

Attempting not to make a scene, I try to subtly wiggle my arm to rid my elbow of his hand’s grasp, until I look down and notice his hand and the arm connected to it.

Effortlessly tan containing surprisingly large digits which makes my breath catch in my throat and my knees lightly buckle.

His arms, on the other hand, resemble Michelangelo’s David, but contain much more muscle and veins, protruding and prominent, slithering over the entirety of his arms like the ribbons on the back of my favorite lace underwear.

I look at him, almost eyelevel, since I am nearly 6 foot in these heels and he’s 5’11”, at the least.

“I am not going to let one or even two of these strange men fuck you,” he virtually snarls.

“And why the fuck would I care what you think, Mr. Christiansen?”

He narrows his eyes and smirks, licking his bottom lip and ending with a sarcastic laugh.

He moves his mouth next to my left ear and the previous tight grasp of his hand begins to transform into a soft caress up and down my arm.

“I know you don’t want a random man here to fill tonight’s void. To fill the holes your boyfriend was supposed to, right upstairs.”

I feel my breath becoming ragged and my heartbeat quickening at an alarming rate.

“You want to fuck someone familiar, who knows exactly why you’re fucking him tonight and is more than willing to give it to you.”

His hand stroking my arms travels down to my waist and he lightly squeezes it.

“I’ve felt the heat coming from your pussy ever since you laid eyes on me taking a seat next to you. If you’ll let me, we can both find out exactly how wet you are down there.”

I gasp and he hears it, resulting in arrogant-like grin to form on his lips.

I barely realize the whole time he was speaking, one of my hands was gripping his bicep to steady myself.

He pulls away and takes a few steps in the direction of the door and holds out his hand.

“Come.”

I cross my arms, though soaking wet down there, and look at him, unsure.

“Please, Miss Grey? I even used the magic word.”

I release a small laugh and shake my head slightly, surprised that this man could make me laugh during a moment like this.

“The night’s still young,” he grins, repeating my line from earlier.

I gulp, a habit I usually only do when I’m nervous, and walk forward towards him and slide my hand into his.

"This could be dangerous, John."

"What's life without a little danger now and then?" He utters, ending with a wink.

I laugh softly, shake my head then shrug.

Beaming, I lock eyes with him.

“All right. Let’s have some fun.”

My eyebrows aren’t twins,

They are barely sisters,

My nose leans a little too much

To the left,

My forehead is too big

And my chin is too small,

My top lip is too small

For the bottom one,

But I’m working on

Being okay with myself

One would think depression is constant sadness.

There are times when happiness is genuine,

but most of the time there’s a hollow feeling in her chest.

Where her heart should beat,

no sounds echo.

Where she should feel warmth or cold,

she feels nothing.

Where she should be aware of the sounds surrounding her,

there is silence.

Where there should be sights all around,

she dazes.

The taste of a lover?

No feeling but flesh.

I have discovered this site recently. I am not a writer and English is not my first language. But my ex once asked me to try to make a story for him (we imagined it together). He said that even I didn’t do that before maybe I would like this experience. Plus he said that he doesn’t want something perfect; anything I write may help him. So when I started doing that, I got curious after a while and looked up the sites of writing to find Prose. When I found it, I got interested in the concept. Then I saw the challenges and many of them are good, fun, creative and more, so I participated in some and I loved that. I didn’t know that I like writing this much. So I am glad that I discovered this side in me. I know that I am a beginner but I enjoy writing from time to time for fun and I would continue doing this. I hope that I will get more into it maybe. For how I write, I just start and let ideas come. I don’t like making myself in a formal atmosphere or thinking a lot about if my way in writing is decent and appropriate or not. I just write and see what I would get.

Still, indeed I am here to read and enjoy other people’s creativity too. It is so nice, plus I can learn and get inspired by them.

Haha for the question about food, when I get hungry I go to eat but I only wrote one long story. All my writings are short ones, so I don’t know if I will continue like this if I write long stories and get into them. Sill last time I enjoyed writing a poem while eating some salty nuts and salty sunflower seeds.

They call you the fruits’ sultan

No wonder with your beautiful crown alike

Hopefully they didn’t call you the fruits’ satan

Because of your thorn or your shape that is a hand bomb alike

I am your everlasting fan

Because your taste is what I like

It is true that over eating you can be not fun

Still you are one of my favourites; yes “Hindi” is what I like

I suppose heartbreak came to me. But it didn't look like that.

No, not at all.

It looked like the promise of sandy blonde hair and smiling eyes. Late nights in parks and all the small things you can't describe how precious they are. Holding someone's hand, making them laugh until there are tears in their eyes. Running late to an appointment because you didn't want to leave them just yet. Hour long calls and inside jokes you never quite forget.

Heartbreak came to me like that. Wrapped up with a ribbon and a card, yet I didn't read the small print.

If I looked closer, it would probably have said something about keeping it away from irresponsible people or else it will be a hazard, maybe that it will break upon falling.

But I fell. And I broke.

Heartbreak doesn't come up to you holding a sign saying heartbreak. Heartbreak comes to you under the pretence of love.