D is for Drake

A biker dude walked into the bar.

He was tall, 6 foot 5, muscled (in all the right places, and then some), had tousled jet black hair, piercing grey eyes with eyelashes any woman would kill for and sinfully plump lips.

Conversation halted and all eyes (male and female) turned to look at him as he sauntered to the bar.  He had a small smile on his lips, aware of the attention he was getting but pretending that he didn’t.  Arrogant bastard.

Jan, the bartender, a curvy brunette stopped mid-way while polishing down the bar to appreciate his casual approach.

“What can I get ya, sweetcakes?” she asked as he sat his tight butt down on the barstool.

“Baileys, please.” His voice oozed honey.  He gave her his third-best smile which was still ten times more disarming than the average persons.  Dimples deep in both his cheeks.  Not his butt cheeks, you pervert.

Jan was mesmerised.  “Errr…Baileys, you say?” Odd drink for a biker dude she thought as she poured a glass and set it in front of him.

He sniffed the Baileys before taking a gulp, closed his eyes as he savoured the sensation of the sweet liquor and went “Mmmm…that hits the spot.” Jan melted at the Mmmm…imagining it being said to her in other saucy situations.  To hell with it, she thought “I’m Jan.  You are?”

He gave her a grin over the glass, expecting the question, his eyes twinkling mischievously “The name’s Drake…” Drake, Jan thought, what a manly man-name.  She imagined herself calling out his name over and over and over (well, you get the picture) again and sighed.

“…Drake Cula,” he continued and gave her his second-best bedroom eyes.

Jan started.  Everyone else who was unashamedly eavesdropping on the conversation were struck silent.

Then the entire bar erupted in laughter.  Jan snorted then guffawed holding her sides, “Drake Cula…hahaha!  That’s just so…Drake…Cu-la…hahaha! What a joker!”  The laughter must continued for all of five minutes before Jan finally took a deep breath and remembered why she was laughing in the first place, “Hey! For that, the Bailey’s on the house, Drake.  Drake?”  The barstool where seconds ago, Drake Cula – gorgeous biker dude sat was empty. “Hey, where did he go?” she looked towards the door and saw the doors shut.  “Oh well…Dr-ake Cu-la…hahahahah!” and her laughter continued.

Outside, Drake , pained for the umpteenth time and cursing his father Mr. Quack Cula, huffed and puffed all the way to where his bike was parked.  Beside it there was another bike and a blonde adonis was perching on it, smoking.  He saw Drake approaching, hearing strains of laughter when the door opened for a short while. “Hey dude.  You told them your name didn’t ya!  I told you, you gotta change it, it ain’t cool!” The blonde adonis took a last puff and threw the cigarette butt onto the ground and mounted his bike.  “Jeez, I can’t go anywhere without anyone laughing at you!”

“Lets just get out of here, man. This place is the pits!”  said Drake Cula.

“Yeah, yeah.  That’s what you said at the last bar.” replied the blonde.


Note: Drake isn’t an object, but he felt pain hence the story.  This is dedicated to a little boy in Bangsar, whose mum suggested I do D for Drake when in the middle of a work day I lamented, “I don’t know what to do about D!”  Then she said, “What about D for Drake ?  Ooo…Drake Cula!”  And a biker dude was born.