This car has a… nice ass.
Seriously, I’m an ass man. I like booty. That’s my one vice in a guy. I consider it a “vice” because liking ‘dat ass is something I’ve grown up only hearing straight men repulsively talking about. But it’s true: I love a guy who fills out nicely in the back of his jeans…
One time, some friends and I were at the Supper Club, and there was this amazingly handsome guy tending bar. He was really sweet, too. A good sport. Sometime during the night, Clara and I were completely wasted. We left our friends behind at some other part of the club to go back to the bar and refresh ourselves. There, we yukked it up with said handsome bartender, and when he went away to mix our drinks, I spotted a hand towel lying on the bar.
Well, I started giggling and snorting at Clara out of the blue. (Snorting happens when I get drunk. It’s really terrible and I kind of hate that I do it, but there it is, just expelling from my nose the first moment alcohol sets me free.) Clara’s laughing and all confused at first, so I demonstrate by poking at the towel, nudging it until it’s slid off the bar and fallen on the floor.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the bartender. “Your towel fell over!”
Clara gasps in astonishment as she finally starts to realize what I’ve done. We watch as the bartender walks to the towel and bends over to pick it up. We lean to the side in unison, mouths gaping, and then quickly jerk back into place when the bartender has retrieved the towel. To my great relief, rather than swinging the towel onto his shoulder, the bartender simply flings it back onto the bar.
Clara and I stare mischievously at each other. The bartender goes to retrieve our drinks, and then, this time without pretense, I shove the towel back onto the floor.
“Excuse me,” I exclaim through giggles so pronounced that I’m nearly choking. “The towel fell over again.”
And then, astonishingly, Clara one-ups me by boldly adding, “Would you bend over and get it?”
We collapse into each other, our faces red from alcohol and laughter, but to our amazement, the bartender is game. We can see him grinning as he goes to retrieve the towel and, we each wonder, is it just me or is he taking a special amount of extra time getting the towel?
“Thank you,” Clara and I chitter in unison when he slides over our drinks.
In return, we slide over our payment. Clara isn’t what you’d call a traditionally sexy woman, the kind who might get “on the house” treatment at a bar. And me, well, I’m clearly very gay in the Supper Club, which isn’t actually so gay. But we didn’t mind paying for our drinks. In fact, we even tossed in extra tip because the bartender was such a nice guy. And ‘dat ass was worth it.
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