I’m a bikini barista. You think of me as just a skank in her underwear making money off her body. Whatever. I’ll take the $200 a day in tips while giving you your 7/11 quality coffee, a smile and a brush off.
I don’t mind taking your money and I don’t mind you looking at my boobs and ass and abs. Your eyes roam up and down my legs, and I don’t care because there’s absolutely positively no way any of you will ever touch any part of me. Plus, I’ll never spend more than a minute and a half with you getting you your shitty drink.
Except for one of you. You’re different. You could get more.
You have a little nicer car than the Bubba’s 4x4s. Your grooming and manners are nicer. Your tone and comments are a little more thoughtful. Your tips are generous but not blatant. Your glance at me is not a desperate leer but respecful. You make eye contact. Your order is not obnoxious.
Have you noticed with you I take longer than my usual 90 seconds? That my smile isn’t pasted on? Here’s something you don’t know: when I see you I take off my fake wedding ring and immediately put it back on when you leave.
You look at me, of course, (What man wouldn’t? I’m 90 percent naked) but I think you’d also like to see me dressed up for the evening.
So if you ask for my number you’ll get it. Hell, I may just give it to you next time anyway, without you asking.
And if you’re the type of guy I think you are, after a little while you’ll get to see the other 10 percent as well.