Funny stories in under 500 words.


He’d heard that things were usually hopping on Wednesday nights at Chez Moi. Since the bar was close to his new apartment, he decided to give it a try. He was nervous as usual going in without a wingman, but as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he slid onto a tipsy stool next to an even tipsier redhead who was swaying to an old Simon and Garfunkel song.

“Come here often?”

Jesus, Ted, talk about corny. You should just leave.

“Every single HUMP-day,” she replied with a wink. He could smell the Tabu, his favorite, wafting off of her.

Hmmm. Maybe I spoke too soon.

“Those your friends?” He nodded to the three boisterous blondes spinning quarters across their beer-sloshed table. They looked at him and tilted their heads in for a group giggle.

“Yeah, but I’m over twenty-one and free to do whatever.” Another wink.

“What ya having?”

“Martini,” she responded without hesitation.

“Can I buy you one?”

I hate friggin’ martinis, but what the hell.

“Sure, but I’d love to share.” Her leg nudged his. One stiletto heel dropped to the floor and her big toe snaked up his pant-leg before peeling his stocking down to the top of his shoe.

Larry said I don’t read social signals very well, but even I’m not so illiterate that I’d miss these.

“Barkeep! Martini, make it a double.” 

She drew the drink and his hand to her mouth. She sucked in his first two fingers for ten seconds and created a loud pop when the vacuum broke as she ejected them from her mouth. Her hand brushed his knee and headed north, way north. “Thanks. I’ve been wanting company.” She tonsil-hockeyed after his half-swallowed olive.

What a tongue. What is she, part anteater?

He surfaced for air. “Ahem. Wow.”

She threw back her head, yanked off the clip shackling her hair and shook out long auburn curls. “Wanna go to my place?” she cooed as she raised her eyebrows and waggled her tongue and the impaled olive up and down.

“Sure. Sounds like fun. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Hey, Buster!” She slapped his face. “Don’t get personal with me, you pervert.”

This story was written by R. Steven Heaps, author of The Rancid Walnut: An Ultrarunning Psychologist’s Journey with Prostate Cancer.


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