Relationships and Bartending Don’t Mix: M.I.L.F. Edition

Salma Hayek

I’m a bad, bad man… or at least I fancy myself as such in my mucho misaligned cranium. I’m married. From time to time, I’m told by some woman that lives in my house, and incessantly by her nagging friends, that I’m not available to other women. In my book, that simply jive very well with my desires – and especially not in my chosen profession – bartending. But shit, I am a good boy, right? I behave – or at least, I do my damned best to. But sometimes, life alcohol gets in the way.

I’m the anti-stereotypical dude in many regards. To the chagrin just about every dude friend I have, I despise watching/following just about all kinds of sports – unless there’s something else going on. Although, I must admit I love going to live sporting events – but mostly for the camaraderie, atmosphere, Sodium Nitrite and mouse dropping-filled mystery meat in a natural shell casing. On a hot day, I also become a temporary fan severely over-priced, shiteous pisswater that passes for beer at those events – mostly, because there’s no other option. I happen to perform exceptionally at all sports should I choose to play them – and have done so growing up. I’m an O.C.D. neat freak as opposed to manic slob. I’m a typical gear head but I love off-beat and old cars/motorcycles. I loathe modern BMWs, Corvettes, Mercedes, Aston Martins, Italian Exotics and the douchebags who drive them. I wouldn’t buy any of these cars even with disposable cash in hand. I had kids first, then reluctantly got married years later at the dogged behest of my creators (and again, her friend’s peer pressure). I was raised Catholic but have graduated to care-free, pseudo-agnostic, scientific bliss. But I somehow still insist on clinging tightly to my Christian celebratory traditions. I’m not a fan of blonde bimbos. Don’t get me wrong – I won’t kick (err… would have never have kicked) a textbook, big-boobed, blonde stripper-type out of bed, but I’ve never wanted to seek them out or maintain a relationship with them. I’m more about intrigue and mystery in combination with hotness.

What’s not so stereotypical, is the dude’ish hormonal rage that courses through my veins day in and day out. Most friends my age are cubicle/office grunts and must abide by be beaten into submission, signing long-winded corporate human resource agreements the “office lifestyle” and requisite playbook. That entails things like “professional” dress codes, just about no intoxicants at work, and a fairly limited amount at off-site hoedowns. The display of their God-given libidos are on serious lock-down – not that what they’re feeling naturally is any different than what I feel. That environment kind of puts the kabosh on letting your hair down. I mean, how the hell are you supposed elevate your game, consume together an ungodly number of shots, and get a coworker or client naked without mind lubricant? Beats me…

Enter bartending. At larger/corporate establishments, there is just about always going to be a corporate playbook detailing a lot of the same stuff corporate America has to put their John Hancock on. The difference, is that it doesn’t fucking apply to nightlife culture. Nice-to-haves are one thing. Really nice-to-haves, or what people actually want, and often act upon, are something entirely different – especially at the bar. Every single night I work is a massive, internal, Napoleonic battle between my testosterone-pumping man-sac downstairs and some really annoying angel, endlessly whispering some annoying shit in my left ear.

I fucking love women. Scratch that. I love hot women – duh. I’m a dude. How do you think I wound up with a ring on my finger and two kids? Short answer: she was a waitress and I was a bartender… more on that later. I love odd women. By that I mean, drop-dead gorgeous, but peculiar. If you look at my dating history, 9 out of 10 chicks have been basket cases – severely distraught. I’m attracted to gorgeous, voluptuous, and petite women. I’m particularly drawn to those who (1) dress funky (2) have pixie-hairdos (3) have long, flowing, mysteriously covering one eye hairdos (4) artists (5) holders of unconventional jobs (6) alcoholics and (7) illicit substance abusers. No, I’ve never started my days out saying “Gee Freddy, tonight, let’s hookup with the hottest, most down-in-the dumps, broken, 24 year-old, Ambien and Xanax addict, with a bubbly smile and green eyes.” I simply sort of gravitate towards them – unknowingly. I’m usually embroiled in some kind of relationship drama by the time I figure out – “uh oh, this girl is trouble.” I’m only human, right?

There is a final kind of woman that in my book, trumps all of those described above. That is, the M.I.L.F. Can I still say that? I guess – as long as the wife doesn’t read this blog. If not, I’m fucked – and not in a good way.  Put a fine-as-wine, smiling, bubbly, 35, 40, or even 50 year old Mama in front of my bar who displays some of the above characteristics, and I’m fucking doomed. I heart me some lovely chicks. But, I have a peculiar affinity for “mature” Moms. Gross some would say – get over it. You always want what you can’t have, right? It’s not much different in this situation – except, again, for the alcohol and the inherent highly social nature of bar scenes. I’m infatuated, no addicted to, the likes of “shorty” Salma Hayek. I have been since the Desperado days. I have the hots for her more today, than I did fifteen years ago. If my wife never hears me utter her name again, as my eyes light up and glisten, it will be too soon.

So, on Friday night, an absolute stunner of a 40′ish year old woman plants her hot self directly in front of me. Now look, this is not unlike any other evening. I see, interact with, server, laugh, smile, and flirt with numerous women every night. It’s part of the job description and I do “it” with pride. However, this particular dove has those goddess-like, lusciously flowing, mysterious locks. Sometimes, a random lock finds it’s way to cover one eye – further adding to the shock and awe. She’s got her those perfectly moisturized, “pouty lips,” further enhanced by a muted, but lovely pink shade. She’s about 5′ 6″ but is boosted by perfectly delicious, cream-colored stilettos. She’s paired them with form-fitting cream colored, streth slacks and a boy’ish, weathered, one-size-too-small basic Tee. While it doesn’t show any skin really, it perfectly outlines her beyond stellar cleavage (my experience tells me 34C). A perfect number of tactful baubles (and a ring or two) adorn her perfect figure. Further complicating matters, she’s completely kind, approachable, grins incessantly, sashays like a catwalk princess, and does the requisite run-her-fingers-through-her-hair thing every few minutes.

None of this is fucking accidental, mind you. It’s a deliberate plot on her end, to mesmerize and throw me, and my fellow three-leggers, off my game.

She’s alone – awaiting a “friend.” So naturally, and as my responsibilities dictate, I serve her a couple of glasses of Moet and we get to chatting, laughing, and smiling. Clearly, we have a “moment.” I can barely contain myself. I’ve done this seemingly a million times. Yet, this time, I feel like a giddy 16 year old yet again. My two fellow barmen can’t keep from commenting amongst ourselves, what an utter knockout this fine woman happens to be – literally (to me) one of God’s gifts – whatever that means.

Her acquaintance finally arrives – to my dismay happily busting up my little party. Temptress walks away with all the attitude and well-rehearsed strut she could possibly muster – albeit, seemingly effortless charm and grace. But, not before dropping her digits and looking back at me over her shoulder, offering a delicious smile…

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