St. Patrick’s Day is another one of those holidays, like New Year’s Eve where the ultimate goal is to get wasted and hit on people, except this time there’s not a midnight deadline. Oh, and everyone (and the liquor) is dolled up in green.

This St. Paddy’s Day, I hooked up with a few of my girlfriends and we paraded in our verdant splendor to our favorite Irish Pub, where the patrons are more likely to be natives rather than drunken college boys. Drunk sounds better with an Irish accent.

I’m not a fan of beer, and being green doesn’t make it any more appealing. But, give me a green martini and I’m your party girl.

When we arrived the band was on a break, and when they picked up their instruments and began to play, I wished they’d go back on break. I’m sure to someone, somewhere they’re a great band, but to me it was more noise than music. As if they were still three year-olds banging on mom’s roasting pan with a wooden spoon, but to give them credit, they hadn’t lost any of the child-like enthusiasm.

Then I noticed the bass player was Loverboy from Starbucks, and suddenly they sounded much better. Or perhaps it was the jolt of lust from my pussy to my brain that released enough endorphins to allow me to appreciate the subtle nuances of their art. Maybe I should have another martini.

After spending their next set playing the visual equivalent of “footsie” with Loverboy, he strolled over to where I was perched at the bar, positioning himself between me and my nearest girlfriend. It seemed to be a well practiced predatory move to separate the individual from the herd.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked.

While I can’t say I was enjoying the music, the show was certainly everything I’d hoped for. I’d been aroused by his finesse with a coffee cup, but his gyrating moves with his guitar were far more stimulating.

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” I answered.

He was wearing a green t-shirt sporting the image of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a caption that read: Magically Delicious. I really wanted to test out that theory.

I traced a fingertip along the leprechaun and asked, “Can I have a taste?”

His eyes locked on mine as he swiveled the barstool so that I was facing him. He put his hands on my knees spreading them apart and stepped in closer between my thighs. His hands slid up my thighs and circled my waist, his thumbs rubbing the sensitive exposed skin between my halter top and jeans.

I think I stopped breathing.

His lips touched mine, a light playful brush before sinking down to obliterate me with his kiss. My hands fisted into his hair, not to posses, but to hold on. I was drowning against a flood of emotions I couldn’t control. He was more intoxicating than the three martinis I’d had.

He didn’t back away after the kiss, and leaned his forehead against mine. He took in a shuddering breath, and I was relieved to see that he had been affected by our kiss as well.

I eloquently said, “Wow.”

He chuckled, but I didn’t hold it against him. It was hard to really think clearly with him standing so intimately between my thighs.

“Magically Delicious doesn’t come close.”

He played another set, and I had a feeling that there was going to be some bad bar music in my immediate future. Although, it was starting to grow on me. After another martini.

I left that night with a pot of gold: his phone number.