by Shanna Germain
(07/31/02)

Ingredients:

1 oz. brandy
3 dashes curacao
3 dashes fernet branca
1 ice cube
iced champagne

Pour all liquor slowly into champagne glass. Add one ice cube, and then fill with iced champagne. Squeeze a lemon peel over the top, and drop it in. Drink. Sip slowly to lengthen the effect.

It's another slow night at the bar -- five or six of the regulars sitting at the countertop, smoking more than drinking, and a couple of couples making doe eyes at each other over the cocktail tables. I'm about to give my manager the "It's totally dead" speech -- to see if he'll let me go home early -- when I see her walk in. That long, straight hair you think only exists in those stupid hair-care commercials, and bare legs beneath a black mini-skirt. A T-shirt cut down to there, low enough to make all the old men at the bar sit up straighter in their chairs and wipe a hand through their thinning hair.

I give a sigh, knowing I'm going to have to ID this chick, and then debate whether to throw her out when she shows a fakey. On one hand, I've got my butt (and my job) to save. On the other, a hot chick in the bar means the regular penny-pinchers will start kicking down just to impress her, and I'll actually make some cash tonight.

But then she pulls her sunglasses off and pushes them up into that long hair, and you see the sunlines around her eyes, the ones that belie her well-toned body and her Old Navy outfit. I suddenly realize that not only is she old enough to drink, she's nearly old enough to be my mother. Looking from the back, you'd probably never realize that black mini-skirt was years and years too young for her. The guys around the bar realize it too -- Larry lets out a noise, something that's a cross between a grunt of excitement and a sigh of resignation.

I start hoping she'll sit in my section, and then hoping she won't. I'm tongue-tied around women in general, especially older women. And while women my age think that my shyness is cute and sweet, and all one big put-on, I know this woman's going to see right through it.

Plus, this is a family place. Kids lolling around, throwing fries at the next table over while their father escapes into the bar for a quick one, and the mother sits at the table scarfing the burgers that the kids don't eat. We never get any real action here, other than the occasional wife who's had a few too many and realizes she's been waiting around for twenty years for her husband to notice her, and who suddenly needs everyone in the bar to tell her that she's still really pretty.

The other reality is this: older, beautiful women are the ultimate bitches, especially when it comes to those of us who serve them. I've been waiting tables, mixing drinks, and scanning groceries long enough to be wary of anyone who walks in looking like that. She looks around, and I think, oh, duh, she's waiting for someone. But this woman doesn't look like the mommy type. And she's definitely not the poor-me type. Then she sees me, flips her long brown hair over her shoulder, and clicks my way on her pedal pushers.

"Where's your section?" she asks, loud enough to make the guys at the bar raise their eyebrows.

"O-over there," I say, pointing to the corner table. Of course, my section is bigger than that -- there's no one here but me, so I've got the whole damn place to myself -- but if she is going to treat me like her cabana boy, I suddenly don't want the whole damn world to know about it.

"Well, come get my order then," she says. Now, I hear statements like that all day long -- tough men who think they've got something to prove, women who think that anyone who works in the service industry pretty much amounts to their hired help. But the way the words purr out of her mouth, it's like an invitation I can't refuse. I'm the rat, and she's playing me like the pied piper.

"What can I get for you?" I ask, trying to look into her eyes and not into her shirt. She pulls a cigarette out of her pack, and I pull the Bic out of my pocket (it's a "uniform" requirement here, just like pants) and light it for her.

"Service." She says. It isn't a question. "I'll have a Sex on the Beach."

"Oh," I say. I rub my palms down my pants. I have a bad feeling about this already. "We can't actually serve that here."

She squints at me through a haze of cigarette smoke, and raises one perfect eyebrow. "You can't serve me Sex on the Beach?" she asks, and although it sounds like an innocent question, the absence of the word "a" is enough to make me dizzy.

Suddenly, more than anything, I want to say yes. But I can't. Instead I just nod.

She leans closer to me. "Is that a yes, you can serve me? Or a no, you're declining to serve me?"

"No," I say, not answering her question at all.

"But this is a bar, right? And you've got juice and alcohol, right?" I'm nodding like one of those dogs you see in the backs of cars with their heads on a spring. "Then mix them together and make me a Sex on the Beach. Please."

Oh God. "Um, I can make you a Fun on the Beach." My voice is barely a whisper, and I'm starting to wonder why I don't just throw Mr. Manager's stupid rules out the window and make her the damn drink.

"A. Fun. On. The. Beach." She says the words so slowly she seems to be tasting them.

"We're a family place," I say. I've had this drilled into me since day one. I know this line so well that it starts coming out, even when I don't want it to.

"I see," she says. She smiles, and I smile back, suddenly relieved. She's going to order something simple like a gin and tonic, and I'm going to make it for her, and everything's going to be fine. But, then she leans toward me, and there's this glint in her eye....

"So, can I get a Slippery Nipple?" she asks. I can feel my cheeks growing warm. I shake my head. "Probably not even a Satin Sheet," she says. Her voice is getting louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guys at the bar crane their heads around. "How about a Muff Diver?" she asks. Her fingers are toying with her lips, and there's the faintest smile playing across her features.

She leans in closer, until her lips are nearly nudging my ear. "Or maybe you could give me a..." she lingers, her breath resting against my skin. "...Screaming Orgasm?" My legs have begun to tremble, and the whole time she hasn't even touched me. I don't dare look down, but I'm suddenly glad that an apron is part of my uniform.

"No," I say. My voice is ragged. "Not that either."

"Well, I seem to remember something else on your menu," she draws back a little, seems to be mentally searching for something. I suddenly feel her calf against mine, and pray to God that the guys at the bar are staring at something on the TV. "A little concoction with Amaretto and raspberry liqueur. What was that drink, do you think?"

I'm zipping through the list of drinks in my mind, trying to remember all the ones with those ingredients.

"Wet Dream?" I say, stupidly. It's the first one that comes to mind. "Almost Heaven? Lobotomy?" I'm starting to think I might need one after all this is over.

Finally, she sighs and leans back against the chair. It's apparent that she's given up on both of us. "Oh, forget it," she says. "Just make me a strong cocktail."

It's only when I get back behind the bar that I realize what she had asked for. Duh. I can tell it's too late now, though, so I'll just mix her something simple, and forget about it. But then one of the guys at the bar leans forward, and gives me a wink that says go for it.

And suddenly, I realize that I want to. I pull the Amaretto and the raspberry liqueur from the shelf, mix the other ingredients in, and head over to her table. I slide in the chair across from her as I set her drink down.

"I think this is just what you asked for," I say.

She looks up, surprised, and then breaks into a wide smile.

"Yes," she says. "It is." She takes a sip of her Fuck Me Hard, and I head to the back to let my manager know that I'm no longer going to be serving.

At least, not here.

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