I have an instant disdain for the seemingly ever present hot chick that rolls up to my bar and is interested only in a “Ketel club,” Michelob Ultra or Skinny Bitch Margaritas. Those drinks may occasionally be accompanied by a nutrient-rich and decadently filling share plate of Mixed Greens, drizzled with Balsamic and topped with 2 packets of Splenda – oh the yum. You’re an indulgent cokehead – incessantly concerned about any calories not on “today’s plan.” Your 5’9” frame has never once been three ounces over 108 pounds since your blackout partying days prior to (miraculously) graduating
sleeping through the Varsity chess team in return for finished papers at Dartmouth 4 years ago.
You’re one, who heaven forbid, can never be seen without wads of Kim K’ish cat-like black eyeliner, applied with unfathomable surgical precision, and perfectly hot-ironed hair. Under no circumstances will step foot out of your Riverside Drive pre-war solo with ugh – “tennis shoes.” Those are reserved only for the Columbus Circle Reebok center – twice a week spin class run by Serge, followed by Krishnam’s Bikram yoga session. No, you need you some proper four-inch Eye-Talian stilettos, or next season’s wedges at all times – ala Carrie Bradshaw. All the denim you own is only of the True Religion variety and is pressed bi-weekly by Uri at the cleaners up on Broadway.
The fact that you’re hot, your worthless Dartmouth embossed toilet paper has somehow managed to land you a six-figure Director of Marketing position at the international headquarters of a prestigious Madison Avenue liquor distributor. There, you “bust your ass” as cubicle grunt, vying for that Sr. V.P. promotion and corner office. Your main job responsibility revolves around promoting the brand showing up at parties worldwide to parade your hotness around and drink your ass off.
Every once in a blue moon during a shift, I become paralyzed with school-boy obsession and lust at another type of chick – yeah, you know her too – the one that can sip and shoot Whiskey. There is something innate and uncontrollable that takes over my, normally focused, level-headed common sense and reasoning… something that draws me to drool and babble, incoherently, over my love’s fondness of Jamesons – just like a NAMBLA Senior Vice President on the sidelines of St. Sebastian’s, 3rd grade, divisional soccer semi-finals.
I’m not referring to the middle-aged, New Balance, Wrangler, and Nike golf shirt wearing, salt-n-pepper crew-cut sporting, well bourbon and Bud Light loving, grotesque Grimace look-alike; who, coincidentally, loves her a mean 1999 Subaru Outback. I mean the sultry, petite, effervescent, going-places, music enclave loving hottie. She’s not originally from New York but rather, some little community in the Bay Area, Indianapolis or some rural organic farming, lakeside acreage upstate. It’s a spot with some fracking hipster music scene, natural burrito drive-thru, which still embraces free love like it’s 1972. They prolly market their own suds or bottle their own vino (e.g., Chico’s Sierra Nevada), on a small scale – from all local ingredients.
Unlike some, she’s ridonkulously attractive at any time of the day or night – no makeup, some makeup, dirty, wet, tired, hungover or whatever. She barely has to try. It’s astonishing that this wonderful and rarified nugglet is even MORE attractive sleeping – nekked and sprawled, or when a late autumn chill has slapped her with a seasonal respiratory infection and the resultant, uber sexy hoarse voice. She’s not yet completely or financially successful but perhaps owns, or aspires to own, her own little business. Or, she’s an artist, an aspiring un-godly singer - one who’s voice is as entrancing as her drinking whiskey at the bar. She maybe dabbles in guitar, but has yet to make the big-time. In the interim, she cocktail waitresses to make ends meet… I’m in fucking love!
This lovely woman has a seemingly never-fading and inexplicable glow of some sort, and a miraculously magical and mesmerizing strut (without trying). If she gazes at you, even for a moment, you’re fer sure doomed, paralyzed and focused on her insanely transmogrifying and spell-inducing stare, and ever so slight grin… those perfect little pinkish lips, that engaging little shoulder bobble, the L.E.S. funky coif that results in the uncontrollably attractive swath of hair barely hiding one eye, the sexy as all sin crossed leg lean and day-dreamy look-about… It’s all too much to keep a good boy down. You can forget about trying to serve your other customers.
Anywho, this object of perfection sips bourbon! …as if she could get any MORE attractive. WTF? How is this possible? What kind of devious, dastardly, evil person has sent this angelic but devilishly charming sorceress to my bar? A really, really evil person – that’s who. This is exactly why and how I wound up with two kids…
Well, my secret’s out. I have an inexplicable and instant love for a down-to-Earth, foxy, little, but voluptuous, pixie chick – or, a lusciously flowy, bodaciously curvy, and approachable fit woman, who enjoys a Makers and Ginger, can slam shots of Jamo, or who can sip on a couple of fingers of Old Granddad, two rocks. What can I say? Behind the bar, I’m a walking, breathing, phallic dog despite higher education, rules of engagement and political correctness. It’s my job dude.