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BANGIN’ THE BARTENDER

I’m a writer living in Los Angeles, which really means I’m a bartender. Being someone’s slave for eight hours a day especially sucks when there’s the chance of cutting your fingers open while cutting limes, but somebody’s gotta get you drunk after a long day at the office. I used to bartend at a fancy Sunset strip hotel, and a ton of bands would come into my bar. They’d leave me two hundred dollar tips for staying open an extra half hour, and I’d reward them with free booze. Then they’d invite me up to their hotel room and I’d bring Coronas to earn my keep in their rockstar den. Keeping my job was not as important as befriending tattooed musicians in tight pants. One night a bunch of British musicians came in. They played jazz and were about fifteen years older than me, but a guy with a guitar is a guy with a guitar as far as my libido is concerned. Plus I had recently slept with an Australian and a New Zealander, so I wanted to keep crossing people off my Commonwealth bedpost. I gave the most promising bloke of the bunch free shots of whiskey all night, served with a wink. I don't remember his name, but I have a sneaking suspicion I may have never learned it to begin with. "When do you get off your shift?" he asked, a question oh-so charming when spoken with an accent. "2 am.” "Well, I'll meet you out front."

At 2:08, he was outside waiting for me. He took my arm, very gentlemanly, like a White Knight. Swoon. We walked around Sunset, trying to find something interesting and open after 2am, which was impossible. “Let’s just go back to my apartment, I have booze." We had maybe one sip of a jack and coke each before we hit my bed. When he started sloppily licking all over my face, I realized his British charm was only accent deep. This was gonna be a long, long night. "Did I mention I have a job interview tomorrow morning? I need to be up at 8am. I mean 7:30. Yup, 7am. Did I also mention I don’t sleep with guys on the first date?" None of this was true, but he didn’t need to know that. The rest of the night was a nightmare. Every time I shifted position he would turn to me and say, "Baby? You okay?" I couldn’t audibly breathe without him putting his arm over me and asking "Baby, you okay?" while groping my breast. All. Night. Long. I watched the clock, tightening my muscles.

At 6:45 I pushed him awake. "Sorry! Big interview today. Don’t you have a rehearsal in seven hours? Don’t wanna be late for it! Here are your boxers, I’m driving you back now." I sped back to the five star hotel, said cheers, drove back home and slept til 2:30 in the afternoon. So much for the British invasion of my pants.

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