Kallah Allen

I’m a bikini barista. You think of me as 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-Eleven quality coffee, a smile, and a brush-off. Your eyes roam up and down, and I don’t care because there’s absolutely 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 have a little nicer car than the Bubbas’ 4x4s. Your grooming and manners are better. Your comments are a little more thoughtful. Your tips are generous but not blatant. Your glances are respectful, not desperate. You make eye contact. Your order is not obnoxious. Have you noticed that 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, then 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. 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.