Long before a hookup was possible from a naked Grnder photo sent via Smart phone, guys (and girls) actually met in the bars and shared a drink and some conversation before jumping into bed. I know it sounds crazy to the younger populace who a) probably can’t define populace and b) are accustomed to dropping their drawers in the road for the first piece online wiener that presents itself. Not to say that the younger generation was any more promiscuous than the one before, but they did seem to lack the ability to converse in order to get a feel for whom they might be dealing with, be it axe murderer or future husband.
There were a great couple of guys who for years would search the bar where I was serving to get a celebratory cocktail on their anniversary. They attributed their meeting, and subsequent marriage, to me having introduced them. Although I do not remember the exact circumstances, I do know that it was not the first or the last, love connection I made from behind the bar.
I am sure that some of the couplings lasted less time than it took for the lube to dry, but it still counts. Oh, I was terrific at playing Dolly Levi (Google it, children) for any Timid Timmy who could not muster the necessary courage to mutter “Hello”, to the hot guy he had already seduced in his fantasies.
After some encouraging for them to share shots with me, I would manipulate the introductions and stand back and guess if they would leave together. A shared kiss in the first half an hour was a definite. Exchanging numbers were sometimes promising, but as I knew from experience, it was also sometimes an easy way out.
If I had a Lego building block for every trick card, matchbook cover, and old Target receipt I ever hastily scribbled my name and number on, I could build reasonable facsimiles of any number of national monuments. In fairness, I have more than once arrived home, emptied my pockets, and immediately discarded several unlikely prospects either because I had no recollection of who they were or from the inability to decipher illegible, drunken chicken-scratch.
However, once in a while someone would take time to neatly pen his name and number and include a note, sometimes exotic, sometimes intriguing, and sometimes just downright nasty (my favorite!). One of the best repeat performances of butt-bumping came from a note slyly slipped in my pocket by a handsome, horny blonde as he left the bar with a group of friends.
The note read, “I love your hair. Wanna f*ck?” Yes. And yes! He included his name and number. I waited a full day before calling. I didn’t want to seem too eager. We began repeated “on and off” sexual sessions. On, when his live-in boyfriend was out of town, and well, you can guess the rest.
In my early experiences collecting numbers, I would hold on to them in stacks. I divided them into categories “must call”, “maybe, and “desperation.” The latter might surface, but only after a drunken night when the hormones, well, made this “whore moan!” From behind the bar I tried to keep the collecting of numbers to a minimum.
I discovered early on that guy working you to get your digits were often just interested in getting a heavy pour, or better yet, a free drink. Sometimes fell into the trap. But, after finding my number written down and left behind several times, I became savvy to the game. After that I would refuse to give my number or write it, excluding the last digit, forcing them, if serious, to try numbers until they hit it. I loved the chase.
Unfortunately, I had the habit of chasing the ones who had boyfriends, live-in lovers, and husbands. It made for excitement and often a sense of danger. It also gave me the upper hand. I knew that any of relationship would create its own limitations and I could effortlessly move on to the next unscathed. From behind the bar, I was able to flirt incessantly. A cute thing named Gary would tell the story of how, when he approached my bar for the first time, I repositioned a hanging light fixture to shine directly on him, telling him what a beauty he was.
Even though he was dating one of my fellow bartenders, he would always make his way to my bar to share shots of Jäger and stolen kisses. I became his shoulder to cry on when things were bad in his relationship, which was every time he and his boyfriend got drunk and fought like pit bulls. I would cradle him, wiping his tears while stroking his rock-hard backside. Harmless. Until it wasn’t.