There’s a bar I frequent. Really, just one. Its primary virtue for me is that I often pass it, and have done for several years. There’s a male bartender I’ve befriended there (call him John), who’s tended bar there most of the time I’ve frequented the pace. He’s affable, intelligent, handsome. I like chatting with him, and he’s witnessed a few of my dates. He’s not my crush.
My crush is a striking blonde bartender, taller than I usually go for, bigger than I usually go for. But she’s smoking hot. Her lips – her most insane feature – are full, luscious, always perfectly painted a scarlet red, a striking contrast to her pale face. Her hair is lustrous and shoulder-length, lovely, but not especially striking. She has a full, round ass, and perfect C-cup breasts. She dresses sexy, but not trashy. Most recently, she was in black leggings/yoga pants and a nearly sheer (but not quite so) black top, with a black bra, the straps of which seductively emerged from her scoop neck. Enticingly, she wears a silver chain link choker, one that suggests, but doesn’t blare, “I like the sensation of (just a little?) pressure on my throat.”
Anyone looking at her would think her hot. But this isn’t what appeals to me about her. What I like is how friendly, accessible, genuine she is.
We haven’t had any substantive conversations, really – I know where she grew up, how she’s spending her Thanksgiving, a bit about her family structure, but not much more (and she knows the same about me).
We’ve made small talk two or three times as I’ve nursed a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. I’ve imagined telling her a bit more about me, who I am, what I do, what I might want from her, but honestly, our interactions have been so anodyne I haven’t dared.
Maybe one day….