Eyeballing the Bar Flies

Chet lived creepily in the back of the tavern, hidden. No one bothered him. He lived vicariously through the others. The pretty barflies who flitted in chatting too loudly. Flipping their hair. He had a salacious appetite, saw them all naked. They sometimes waved to his corner when they were drunk. He did not think they knew he was perpetually eyeballing them. Unclothing them one piece of clothing at a time in his mind. Uncovering their secrets was easy; they shared way too much. His voyeuristic tendencies got him ostracized and secluded from family. His mixoscopia and scoptolagnia confusing the prissy Baptists he knew. He might go Catholic, he had heard they were more open. Nah! Religion was not for him. His religion was this bar and those bar flies. One of them was throwing her head back now, laughing loudly. He would dream of her tonight. He smirked at the eroticism she brought him. She turned and waved. If he was forty years younger, he would be over there. But he knew better so he stayed put, swigging back his beer.