“You want to try another?” she asks. “There’s a table of young guys you can have. They just sat down. Three of them. The younger ones are the better tippers.”
Glancing to the main floor, I watch them. Just a few college-aged buddies sitting down for lunch. One has his nose in his phone and the other two are laughing about something. They don’t look like ass-grabbers.
“Yeah. I’ll take it,” I offer, sucking up my pride and making my way to the guys. “Hi, I’m Halston. I’ll be taking care of you today.”
Two of the guys nudge each other, exchanging looks. I almost wonder if I have something in my teeth when I glance down and see my left breast is almost completely out of my top—half of my nipple is showing.
“Sorry. I was going to say something,” the guy on the left said.
Yeah, right.
“You’re gorgeous by the way,” the middle guy says. “I saw you when we walked in. Was hoping we’d get you. You’re new, aren’t you?”
I nod. “First day. Go easy on me.”
The guys smile and keep their eyes on mine for the time being, though I’m sure they have every intention of checking out my ass when I walk away.
“What are we drinking?” I ask, lifting my pad and pen.
The guys order two beers and an iced tea, and they seem more focused on the TVs above the bar area than scoping out all the beautiful, scantily-clad servers. Maybe it’s enough for them to be in the mere presence of half-naked women? Or they all have girlfriends, budding relationships, and this is the closest they’re going to get to a strip club until their respective bachelor parties.
Either way, I’m content with this table, and when they leave, they each tip me five dollars.
“What’d you get?” Courtney asks. “Damnnn. Fifteen bucks on a fifty-dollar table. That’s amazing. Told you the young ones tip the best.”
Courtney has bottle blonde hair with dark roots, rocks a spray tan, and smells like she showers in Sun Ripened Raspberry body spray, but she spends the rest of the afternoon encouraging me, distracting me from watching the clock.
When the next shift comes in, we head back to tally up our tips, and I walk away with almost a hundred dollars.
Courtney has two hundred and fifty.
“Will I see you back here tomorrow?” she asks.
Staring at her pile of cash, I nod.
I need to take my pride out of this equation and take a page from her book.
The hustle begins now.
Chapter 8
Ford
Absinthe: “Many years have passed since that night. The wall of the staircase up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which I imagined would last forever, and new ones have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are hard to understand.”
Kerouac: Good evening to you, too.
Absinthe: Reading Proust. Swann’s Way. That really spoke to me. Just wanted to share it.
Kerouac: Melancholy mood tonight?
Absinthe: Lost in thought kind of mood tonight.
Kerouac: Same difference. Either way, don’t linger there too long. It’s not good for you.
Absinthe: Tell me about your day. I need a distraction from mine.
Kerouac: Life isn’t half as bad as you think it is, Absinthe.
Absinthe: Easy for you to say.
Kerouac: How about you tell me about yours first?
Absinthe: Started a new job. Hate it.
Kerouac: What kind of job?
Absinthe: Customer service.
Kerouac: Vague, but okay.
Absinthe: There are customers. And I serve them.
Kerouac: You can say you’re a waitress. There’s no shame in that.
Absinthe: Server, Kerouac. The politically correct term is server.
Kerouac: My mistake. So you hate it?
Absinthe: So much.
Kerouac: So find something else.
Absinthe: That’s the plan. Just have to tough it out a little longer. The money’s not bad.
Kerouac: Christ, Absinthe, don’t do any job for the money. That’s the worst thing you could do.
Absinthe: Not everyone has a choice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon.
Kerouac: Silver spoons sometimes rust.
Absinthe: You speak from experience?
Kerouac: Perhaps.
Absinthe: You blow through Daddy’s trust fund?
Kerouac: No.
Absinthe: Then what happened? You can’t make a statement like that and leave me hanging.
Kerouac: It’s a story for another time. Wounds are still fresh.
Absinthe: Whatever. You going to tell me about your day or what?
Kerouac: I went to work. Held a meeting. That’s about it.
Absinthe: What do you do for a living?
Kerouac: That’s private information.
Absinthe: Okay, fine. So you’re the boss of wherever you work?
Kerouac: You could say that. I’m in charge, yes. I run the place.
Absinthe: You like being in control?
Kerouac: Very much.
Absinthe: What’s your favorite sexual position? Since you like being in control so much?
Kerouac: Doggy style. Terrible name. Fucking amazing position.
Absinthe: Ugh.
Kerouac: What?
Absinthe: That’s my least favorite. I don’t like being fucked like a dog.
Kerouac: You speak from experience?
Absinthe: I do.
Kerouac: Then you’ve never experienced it with the right man.
Absinthe: Okay, so how would it be with you? Since you’re apparently the authority on doggy-style sex.
Kerouac: I am. And I’d be glad to share that with you. First of all, I’d place you on your hands and knees, spreading your thighs before tonguing your pussy from behind to put you at ease. When you’re soft and wet, I’d take my position behind you, gripping your hips with one hand and teasing your clit with the tip of my cock before gliding myself deep inside you, one teasing inch at a time. Once your pussy is clenched around my cock, I’d control your hips, making them meet my cock thrust for thrust as you rub your clit. I won’t go fast, and I won’t go slow. I’ll take my time, ensuring you feel every inch of me filling you, rubbing against your g-spot. And when you get close to the most amazing orgasm you’ve ever had in your life, I’d gather your hair in my hand, guiding you closer to me, my body leaning over yours so you can taste yourself on my lips as you come all over my cock as your hips writhe against me.
Absinthe: Fuck. Um. Wow.
Kerouac: Deeper, hotter, harder.
Absinthe: Sold.
Kerouac: Your turn. What’s your favorite position?
Absinthe: Missionary. And before you make fun of me, know that I’m not sorry. That’s what I like. Not fucking apologizing for it.
Kerouac: You’re not very experienced, are you?
Absinthe: I’m experienced enough.
Kerouac: You’re a virgin.
Absinthe: Nope.
Kerouac: I think you are.
Absinthe: You can think that all you want. Doesn’t make you correct.
Kerouac: So what do you like about the missionary position then?
Absinthe: It feels … safe, I guess? You get to look each other in the eyes and kiss and your whole bodies are touching everywhere. It’s intimate. And sweet.
Kerouac: Typical woman. You just need to live a little. Erotic sex can be just as fulfilling as romantic sex.
Absinthe: I’d ask you to teach me some time, but …
Kerouac: Yeah. Not going to happen. Not anytime soon at least.
Congratulations! You’ve earned twenty Karma points! You may now access your Karma email addresses! Karma encourages its users to get to know one another on a deeper level, sending longer messages outside the chatroom setting. You may continue to use the chatroom, but utilizing the email feature will put you that much closer to the next step, which is accessing your Karma phone numbers!
Absinthe: Look at that. Now we can email each other.
Kerouac: I like chatting this way.
Absinthe: Me too. But I kind of want your phone number. What happens if you type it in?
Kerouac: Karma will block out the numbers. Like this: ***-***-****.
Absinthe: So we’re going to have to email each other. Ugh. Who designed this? An AOL developer from 1995? Nobody fucking emails anymore.