|
By JD Date: 2004 Jun 07 Comment on this Work [[2004.06.07.00.39.7285]] |
|
I love watching him as he takes his damp rag and moves it slowly across the wooden bar, and beads of sweat run down his forehead from the hot Caribbean sun. And on my perch, just beneath a bright yellow umbrella, my eyes would skim past the balding heads of sunburnt white men, already on their fifth beer at eleven in the morning, and lock eyes with him, the bartender. And as if he were magnetic North, I would be drawn to him, offering some paltry excuse to my friends about needing another pina colada, but it was him that I needed. I needed the attention; the lust; the orgasm I felt each time he licked his lips; and the constant flirting. I would ask him the same question each time I sat on his bar stool, pretending to pore over the plastic menu, placed haphazardly on the side of the bar. "Anything good on the menu?" And almost as if it was in his instincts to flirt, he would say "Well, I'm on the special today- but only for you." Does he know what that corny, cheese-ball, bullshit line does to me? I start to shake in my sarong and flipflops, and I'm forced to down a whole glass of pina colada just so he won't see the carnal lust engraved on my face. And each day, for exactly one week, I would sit at his bar, drink his special pina coladas and have little orgasms each time he looked at me. And each day, for exactly one week, he would tease me with his practiced lines mixed with vodka and orange juice. And each day, for exactly one week, I desperately wished I had brought my boyfriend along with me. |