People Who Serve Me Things Also Arouse Me

When  I say that people who serve me things also arouse me, I wish I weren’t being so literal. Last night at an undisclosed bar (this place will be very evident to anyone who follows me on Twitter), the bar tender was a manifestation of my lusts.  From head to toe, it was as if God had created a man just for me.

He had a baseball cap embroidered with horses, a deer pendant necklace, a beard, bedroom eyes, and the most soothing voice I’ve ever head (devotees of my own sweet caramel voice would approve). When he leaned into to go over his drink recommendations for me,  it took all of my fortitude from melting into my stool.

Now, this is not the first time this has happened to me (though this time was stronger than most).  I find myself most attracted to people that are supposed to be serving me in some way.

My first service worker crush has the bluest eyes, but not in a Toni Morrison kind of way. His preferred activity is bringing me poached eggs, refilling my coffee, looking bemused. But bringing me food, while appreciated (and paid for), isn't enough for me to become infatuated with you. Otherwise, I'd be the easiest to seduce man in San Francisco, which is not the case (am I right, sisters?)

You still have to make me silent (hard to do). There was that time that he was on a bike outside of my apartment, staring agape at me while I was on a Zombie-like quest for Fruit Punch Gatorade, the Hangover Quencher. By the time I realized it was him and returned his eye contact, he hopped onto his bike and rolled down into the Mission.

All I want is one night with a bartender, waiter, or aloof Barneys salesperson. Dreams, kids. Dreams.