He’s back. Your average John, Joe, Jim, pick any general white man’s name it doesn’t really matter.
“Shay, baby. Hit me one time with one of dem brews. I love you. When you gonna drop out of school and spend some time with Daddy?”
Ughhhhhh. I will never call you Daddy I don’t have an Oedipus complex even Freud himself agrees. He is itching to come back from his grave and dissect the soupy mush that is your brain.
Every time I walk by his table he tells me he loves me and the other customers are starting to stare and if this affects my tip percentage I’m gonna be pissed.
“Shay, baby. Come on over here. Take a seat.”
No. Again? No. One more time? No. Your selective hearing is beginning to get the best of my patience. Which was already dwindling before you came into the bar and now that you’re here is at an all time low.
They order Bloody Mary’s. Two apiece. No food.
“Hey,” he shouts.
Yes? I walk over to the table.
He reaches up his hand, strokes his fingers down the tattoos embroidered on my arm, starts all the way up at the skin that lines my shoulder, his fingers slipping up under the lining of my sleeve, trickling down the arm like water and coming to rest at my wrist.
“I like your tattoos.”
I’m sorry, but did I give you permission to touch me? To paw me? I’m not a dog I’m not property I’m starting to understand that whole thing with black girls and their hair. When someone thinks they can reach out and touch you, it equates to them thinking they have the right to do so, which means thinking they own some sort of claim over your body and let’s get something straight right off the bat: you don’t.
Keep your fingers wrapped around your Bloody Mary, not wrapped around me.
“Hey, you know that guy Jack? The one you were talking to at the bar? You should get to know him better. He has millions.”
So now you’re going to insult my integrity. I start to walk away but they call me back and one of them says something about his girlfriend and I’m shocked that either one of them could find a woman willing to put up with them.
I walk away only this time when they call me back I don’t return. I head back to the bar where the lonely guy is bitching about the TVs not working. I tell him to pick up a paper or talk to someone at the bar. He picks up his phone instead. “Look at this chick. I met her on this dating APP. Think she’s real? She says she’s an orphan from Canada and needs a man to take care of her. But she’s got great tits.”
I think you should find a better source of women–the Russian mail order brides never turn out well.
“I met her on Match.”
Why don’t you try searching in your age group? You’ll get better results.
And then there’s Matt. An old regular of mine who doesn’t come in as often because this isn’t the hot bar in town for meeting chicks thank god for that it’s bad enough as it is.
“I’ve got a new girl. We’ve been dating for a few weeks she’s a great chick but she’s kind of an ugly Betty. I’m still holding out for you.”
And my boyfriend is sitting a few seats down from him at the bar and he leans in real close, “Is that your boy?”
Yes it is.
“He’s in over his head. You’ll never last with a tight as like that. You need a real man.”
(By tight ass he means a man who actually puts effort into his appearance and doesn’t hang over the bartop, drooling at my backside).
Like you?
“Shay when we get married, the sky’s the limit.”
When we get married. Not if. When. Again, ownership.
And I’m thinking on the guy that spread the 100 dollar bills across the counter and offered them to me if I got under the table and sucked his dick.
I’m thinking on the kid who threw down a twenty if I fucked him. A twenty? Seriously? It’s going to cost way more than that. That’s just plain insulting.
I’m thinking on the guys who stay in the hotel across the street and slip their room keys on the lacquered surface of the bar.
Who leave me their phone number, ask what I’m doing later and if I want to get to know a real man.
This happens every day. You don’t understand I do not work a single shift without someone coming in and putting me through the ropes. These aren’t isolated events these are constant occurrences. And it has got to stop. I’m begging you at this point. Back off. For once just think with the head sitting on your shoulders and not the one beneath the napkin on your lap, not that any of you possess the manners to put a napkin there, I’m just making a point.
Go pitch your tent in someone else’s yard there’s no real estate for you here. I’m trying to work a job. Not a corner.