Open Letter
Dear Bartender Who I’ve Secretly Pined For Over Three Years,
It has been three years. Four, actually, but let me hang on to my denial a little bit longer and let me try to convince myself that it really has not been that long. It makes me feel better to think that it’s only been three years since I began spending exorbitant amounts of money for alcohol and food and simultaneously staring at your fine ass - a lewd action but nonetheless a repeated one. I have never thought of a man's ass as an asset until you, but of course, your face adds to this package and perhaps heightens the overall sensation.
Sometimes, you look very old. A 21 year age difference is rather large, I think. You could be my father, except my father did not start having children until he was 30, so you do not really fit into that categorization. And let's admit, that tends far too close to the Freudian, so let's say instead that sometimes, you look very young. A lot more often ever since you shaved off that Van Dyke and cut your hair. I miss your curls, but the revealing of your face and malleability of appearance has done wonders for me. You're a work of art.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate you on many more levels than the superficial. I appreciate that you serve me alcohol. I believe it really improves our relationship. My whiskey always comes neat and my beer always comes dark, and not a lot of men know that. And let's not forget your specialty Long Islands. Excepting that one time you seemed to have a moment of amnesia, serving me a Stella, you have always been spot on. I appreciate that you ask me about men at the bar. "You okay?" you'll ask, nodding at the drunken man next to me, whose rubbing my leg and oblivious to everything else but his hard-on. "Of course," I'll say, flicking my eyes upwards, and then you'll take care of it. I appreciate that you drive me home at night, despite my odd behavior. Far too many times I've tried to make you come into my house to "meet the cat" and I wonder even now why you haven't shuddered and walked away brushing the creepiness off you. And last of all, I appreciate you. Just you and your presence, your quiet chuckle, and your fine, fine self.
I tried going to other bars. Really, I did. Ones with far more exotic names. But they just do not have you there, behind the bar, with your jaunty walk. Please do not worry. I will not bother you with these terrifying moments anymore. I don't even know your last name. I am just a silly girl, so no more wide eyes for you Mr. Bartender.
Hugs and Kisses that will never happen with you,
Me
It has been three years. Four, actually, but let me hang on to my denial a little bit longer and let me try to convince myself that it really has not been that long. It makes me feel better to think that it’s only been three years since I began spending exorbitant amounts of money for alcohol and food and simultaneously staring at your fine ass - a lewd action but nonetheless a repeated one. I have never thought of a man's ass as an asset until you, but of course, your face adds to this package and perhaps heightens the overall sensation.
Sometimes, you look very old. A 21 year age difference is rather large, I think. You could be my father, except my father did not start having children until he was 30, so you do not really fit into that categorization. And let's admit, that tends far too close to the Freudian, so let's say instead that sometimes, you look very young. A lot more often ever since you shaved off that Van Dyke and cut your hair. I miss your curls, but the revealing of your face and malleability of appearance has done wonders for me. You're a work of art.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate you on many more levels than the superficial. I appreciate that you serve me alcohol. I believe it really improves our relationship. My whiskey always comes neat and my beer always comes dark, and not a lot of men know that. And let's not forget your specialty Long Islands. Excepting that one time you seemed to have a moment of amnesia, serving me a Stella, you have always been spot on. I appreciate that you ask me about men at the bar. "You okay?" you'll ask, nodding at the drunken man next to me, whose rubbing my leg and oblivious to everything else but his hard-on. "Of course," I'll say, flicking my eyes upwards, and then you'll take care of it. I appreciate that you drive me home at night, despite my odd behavior. Far too many times I've tried to make you come into my house to "meet the cat" and I wonder even now why you haven't shuddered and walked away brushing the creepiness off you. And last of all, I appreciate you. Just you and your presence, your quiet chuckle, and your fine, fine self.
I tried going to other bars. Really, I did. Ones with far more exotic names. But they just do not have you there, behind the bar, with your jaunty walk. Please do not worry. I will not bother you with these terrifying moments anymore. I don't even know your last name. I am just a silly girl, so no more wide eyes for you Mr. Bartender.
Hugs and Kisses that will never happen with you,
Me
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