A few years ago, when I was an international student in the US pursuing my masters degree, I finally got the chance to walk into a bar. Growing up in a conservative society, bars were this fascinating mystery to me... those dimly lit, effortlessly social spaces you see in movies, where people drink, flirt, and let loose. Back home, there’s nothing like that, and I’d always wondered what it would feel like to step into one. That night, I found out.
The bar was like something out of a film, a long counter lined with stools, low hanging lights casting a golden glow, a pool table in the corner, and the faint hum of music blending with murmured conversations. When I walked in, I knew immediately I stood out. I’m South Asian, with fair skin, and what people often call a 'baby face.' because of my youthful facial features. That night, I wore a tight black half sleeve polo t-shirt and white trousers that skimmed my legs. Simple, clean, but different, too different, maybe. The first thing people tend to notice about me is my arms, toned and firm, not bulky, like a bodybuilder but striking when paired with my youthful face.
As I stepped inside, I felt the weight of eyes on me, and it wasn’t the curious kind. Near the pool table, a rough looking woman in a scuffed leather jacket leaned against her cue, her sharp eyes cut through the room and landed right on me. She was striking in her own way. Lean and confident, with the kind of presence that demanded attention. Her smirk curled slowly as she whispered something to her friends, and they all turned to look at me, laughing softly. I swallowed hard, but I kept walking.
Before I could reach the bar, her voice rang out, sharp and mocking. "Hey, dollface!" she called, loud enough to turn heads. "You lost?"
I froze, heat rushing to my face. Her tone wasn’t playful, it felt condescending, sarcastic. I forced a polite smile and walked on, ignoring the low chuckles from her friends.
Sliding onto a stool at the bar, I ordered a mocktail, my voice quieter than usual. The bartender gave me a once-over, half curious, half amused before turning to make my drink. I could feel the biker woman’s eyes still on me, like a prickling heat against the back of my neck. The clack of her boots against the wooden floor was the only warning I got before she slid onto the stool next to me, her scent a mix of leather and cigarettes.
"Shit" she said, her voice low and rough. " Didn’t think princesses like you wandered into places like this. You here to slum it or what?"
I glanced at her, unsure how to respond, and she used the moment to rake her gaze over me, lingering on my arms. "Look at that," she said, her smirk growing wider. "Barbie with biceps. What are those for, huh? Carrying grocery bags? Your purse? Or do you think they’ll scare off the big bad wolves?"
My stomach twisted, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “I-I just work out,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the buzz of the bar.
Her laugh was sharp and full of disbelief. "Yeah? You proud of those guns?" She leaned in, resting her elbow on the counter and tilting her head. "Tell you what, sweetheart. Why don’t we see what they’re really worth? Arm wrestle me."
Behind her, her friends perked up, their laughter cutting through the air. "Oh, shit, Jackie’s gonna eat her alive!" one of them said, slapping the pool table.
"Look at her! She’s already scared," another added. "Probably thinks she’s gonna break a nail or some shit."
Jackie leaned even closer, her breath warm against my ear. "Come on, dollface," she whispered, her voice low and mocking. "You scared? Or are you just another pussy who looks tough but can’t back it up?"
My heart pounded, every instinct screaming at me to say no. But her smirk, her tone, the way her friends laughed, it all dug under my skin. "Fine," I said finally, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
She grinned like she’d already won, standing up and gesturing toward a nearby table. "Let’s see what you’ve got, princess."
The crowd around us grew as we sat across from each other, the low buzz of conversation replaced by murmurs of anticipation. Her hand was already on the table, her fingers slightly curled as she waited for me. When I placed mine in hers, the first thing I noticed was how rough her skin felt against mine. It was calloused, solid, strong. Her grip tightened just enough to make me swallow hard. "Hope you’re ready to get your ass handed to you," she muttered, loud enough for the growing crowd to hear. "Try not to cry when I slam you into the table, yeah?"
"Let’s go, Jackie!" someone shouted from the pool table. "Break her fucking arm!"
Another person shouted, "Go!" and the match began.
I pushed hard right out of the gate, managing to move her hand slightly, and for a fleeting second, I thought I had her. But then she steadied herself, her smirk never went away, and she pushed back hard. Her strength wasn’t explosive, it was relentless, slow, and methodical, like a weight that refused to budge. My muscles burned, my arm trembled, but she didn’t look like she was trying that hard.
The crowd was electric, their cheers and jeers filling the air. "Come on, Barbie! That all you got?"
"She’s gonna snap your fucking arm, sweet cheeks!"
"Put her down Jackie!"
"Is this it?" she hissed through her teeth, her eyes locking with mine. "All that effort, all those cute little flexes, and this is the best you’ve got? Fucking pathetic."
I gritted my teeth, refusing to give in, but the strain was unbearable. My arm shook violently, my strength slipping with every second. Slowly, painfully, she began to overpower me. "Jesus, you’re pathetic," she muttered, loud enough for the crowd to catch. "All show, no go. Bet your arms are just for selfies."
My hand tilted back, inch by inch, the crowd’s noise blurring into the background until finally with a loud crack, she slammed my hand onto the table. The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter as Jackie leaned back, stretching her arm like she’d just finished a warmup.
"Told ya,” she said, smirking at me with a smug look on her face. “Fucking useless."
Her friends chimed in, their voices sharp and cutting. "Nice try, Barbie!"
"Next time, maybe stick to yoga, sweetheart."
"She didn’t stand a chance. Fucking hilarious."
To add insult to injury, she leaned in one last time, her smirk unbearably smug. "Tell you what, dollface. Drinks for me and my friends, on you. Consider it a thank you for the lesson."
I didn’t argue. My pride was shattered, my wallet lighter, and my cheeks burning as I paid for their drinks and walked out into the night.
