The Panty Perve

Exploitation at its finest

I knew a guy once, we’ll call him Paul. He was an overseas contractor, so after staying abroad for many months, he would come home for a few weeks and squander all of his earnings. This meant going from bar to bar, gambling obsessively, and usually ending his nights sleeping under his car. In all honesty, Paul was a fucking wreck, and I always wondered how he was able to hold down a job. He spent almost all of his time in and out of bars, and so surrounded himself with people in the industry. I’d see Paul with lots bartenders all the time and always women. Puzzling because Paul was a fat, sloppy pig. He had dark skin that always had a greasy shine to it. He’d leer at you while you worked, never breaking his stare. He’d say overtly sweet things to you as you walked by, complimenting you constantly. If you didn’t give him the attention he thought he deserved, he’d become petty and belittling. He was really a prick, but he was a prick with money, and if you have to serve one, those are the best kinds.

When I first met Paul, he just seemed eccentric. Men with money almost always behave as he does so it didn’t raise any immediate flags. That is until one day, when he was especially drunk, and hit a jackpot. Paul was always a good tipper but when he was winning, he was the best. On this day, he hands me back a nice, big tip and as I go to take it, he grabs my hand.

“I’ll give you another $100 for your panties”, he says smiling, oil gathering on his top lip.

I hesitated.

“Ok, $500,” he countered.

Well, now we were talking. $500 is a lot of money for not having to actually do anything. But the mental image of his fat greasy hand clutching my thong as he rolled around drunkenly, fumbling with his zipper, attempting to rub one out before he fell into a Jagermeister haze stopped me. I shook my head in disgust.

“Fine, what about your bra?” he posited.

And as he begins to name off other items, I wonder if maybe I can haggle him down to a scrunchy. I had a half eaten stick of gum in my pocket from my last shift. Or there was the chapstick I kept in the drawer that was whittled down past the plastic, saved only for emergencies. Nope, he wasn’t interested and so Paul decides to leave with his money, onto the next bar and next unsuspecting bartender.

The next time I see Paul, he dives in immediately, asking what color panties I’m wearing. This becomes his new ritual. He tells me how his father took him to a whore house when he was a child and stayed there for two weeks. He proceeds to tell me his infatuation for prostitutes and all his repulsive stories. Once he asked me for a hug, and I mistakenly obliged, only to find out that Paul was a perve in every sense of the word. Enveloped in his meaty arms, he would stick his fingers in my armpit or try to mouth kiss me. He would grab my ass or pinch a nipple. Shortly after I returned to work following surgery, he hugged me so hard I thought he popped my stitches. I don’t know exactly what his fetish was: to inflict pain, making you uncomfortable, or simply getting you to agree to do what you didn’t want to do, but it wasn’t long before I decided he was dangerous. He was the type of man to put drugs in your drink, to take advantage of you and lie about it, but mostly he struck me as the type to dump a body in the desert, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Easier said than done. Paul was persistent, and the more he felt rebuffed, the drunker and more abusive his visits became. After attempting to shove his entire arm down my pants, we weren’t even on serving terms. He’d still frequent the bar though. He’d flash me a $20 to see if I’d bite. When I didn’t, he’d turn limp dick and run.

Then one afternoon, having not seen him in many months and glad for it, he strutted in the front door. I was mortified, immediately wishing there was somewhere to hide, but I had nowhere to go. I served him his regular, a beer and a shot, and turned to another set of customers just a few feet away. The one was staring directly at Paul, his mouth hanging open. I could see there was fire in his eyes, the heat coming off of him like a stove. He seethed hate, and it was palpable.

“You let panty fucker in here?!” he exclaimed, loudly enough for the entire bar to hear.

I looked at him in surprise, a smile curling on my lips, but stayed silent as the man descended into a rant about what a slimy. piece of shit Paul was, how he was constantly harassing the dude’s girlfriend, and how he always wanted to buy her underwear. He’s ripping Paul a new asshole, calling him out for every single moment of indecency, and I’m reveling in the scene, unbridled amusement washing over me as Paul keeps his face down, not a glance or hint of acknowledgment. His visit was short, a $20 on the bar when I came back around, but no Paul to be seen.

I’d hear about him from time to time, bar hopping and panty swapping, using whatever means necessary to procure his lascivious requests. He still stops in, absolutely smashed and verbally abusive, but after being publicly outed for the pervert that he is, his power over me has diminished and now he’s just a fat fuck with a panty fetish.