Ladies' Night
22 Aug 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
A woman. Why did it have to be a woman? I've been flying for hours, I didn't have time for a shower, and I'm a little sleepy despite a quick line of blow.Women. Goddammit.
Not that I'm opposed to women, per se. I'm one myself, after all. It's just that they play by a whole different set of rules than men. Subtle rules. Unwritten rules.
Rules that mean I have to pay attention.
Men are easy, you see. They're direct. To the point. Even the ones that think they're being clever seldom stray from the business at hand for longer than it takes to glance at my tits. If I'm lucky, the right top under an unzipped jacket can give me a little bit of leverage. If I'm very lucky, the poor sod sweetens the deal right then and there.
And all because they think that if they're nice to the woman with the tits, then maybe they'll get to see said tits later. Like I said: sods.
Not so with women.
Suddenly, everything matters: your body language, your tone, the way you hold your drink, the way you look her in the eye, and especially how well you fake a laugh. Most laughs between women are fake, of course- but it's a matter of courtesy to make them believably fake. It's a communicative guerrilla war, waged on several levels that most men can't even comprehend, let alone perceive.
All this behind a polite smile and daintily sipped drink.
Not that it's all bad. The negotiation simply lacks a factor so basic and fundamental to men that it's both a comfort and a curse to do without.
The advantage of dealing with a women is: she probably doesn't want in my pants.
The disadvantage of dealing with a woman is: she probably doesn't want in my pants.
And this one is good. Very good. She knows exactly what to offer for me to haul a load of tagged holo-tablets into Alliance space. Strictly speaking, it's not a smuggle job because the cargo itself is perfectly legal. On the other hand it's not exactly legit, since the tablets can be tracked and controlled by her organization once they're sold. I counter-offer with a modest boost for myself, but she smiles with false sincerity and shuts me down by only going up a quarter of the increase I asked for. The bitch knows damn well that she's made a reasonable offer, and knows that I know it, too.
I smile as sweetly as I can and sip my drink. So much for the T & A bonus.
Reaching out to daintily shake her hand, I accept the job. Corrupted holo-tablets it is, then. With a little luck, her organization will reap several times the cost of acquiring, tagging, and moving them as soon as they start to harvest the personal information that will no doubt be loaded onto them.
But that isn't my concern. I'm just the truck driver.
We stand up, the steady throb of the nightclub bass filtering back into our awareness. Giving each other one last fake smile, we turn in opposite directions, our business concluded. I make a beeline towards the club exit to supervise the loading of the merchandise, whereas my contact-
I turn around one last time. She's leaned over a neon-lit stage, in front of a young, willowy woman with bony hips and a slim figure. Without hesitation, my contact pours a few ounces of her drink on the dancer's belly and lightly traces along the wet trail with her tongue, pulling down the front of her thong with her teeth and slipping a credit chip underneath it.
Satisfied with her "sip", my contact looks over her shoulder and shoots me a grin- a genuine one this time, finally allowing her eyes to travel up and down my body.
I smile a polite rejection and continue down the corridor to the docking bays. Reflecting on my earlier presumptions, I giggle to myself.
So much for no one wanting into my pants, huh?