Warning: the following poem contains strong language and sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
© Jane Bled 2017
The bartender wants
To fuck me.
He hides it
For the art of making whisky,
Meant to impress
A teasing temptress.
So I raise an eyebrow —
Impart a winning smile
I’ll give him that…
But as for his being
A master in the sack?
I’ve had better —
I’m certain of that.
This poem is (teasingly) dedicated to that super-cute bartender. Thanks for the free drink! You’re sweet and adorable. And no, you weren’t so gauche as to openly leer at me, like some drunk people do (Guy in the parking lot: “Hey, pretty lady! Can I talk to you?” “No, thank you,” says I, with a sweet fuck-you smile).
Note to readers & self: in reality, the bartender was just buttering up a paying customer (me) and trying to pass the time with a non-drunk person as he waited for his shift to end. Understandable. And his charm worked — I left him a big tip. Haha.
The next time I see him, I’ll bring a friend.
Update: And I did. Received another comped quality whisky pour, as did my friend. She agrees that Mr. Bartender’s a sweetheart. I left him an even bigger tip. The wannabes should take note: the next time you’re in town, study his customer service techniques. He’s a pro.
Spontaneous toast: Cheers to my kindred, the un-pounded nails. Stick out and proud. Don’t let those homogenous hammers win!
Thank you all for watching reading. I may not be able to remember your names, but I can recall your faces as if it were only yesterday. 😉