For the Love of God, Do Not Fall for the 23 Year-Old Bartender

It’s 6PM – you go and meet your friends for happy hour because you’re broke, hungry and in need of sickly-sweet $5 well drinks and $3 tacos. The bar is dead because cool people don’t show up until 10PM. And they also eat dinner at places with larger menus. You sit at the bar and the bartender, who had been melting the ice chest with his ass for the past 1/2 hour, gets up and casually saunters over. He squints at you, even though it’s practically pitch-black in the bar, and gives you a careless once-over. “Hey.”
“Hi! What’s in a French Martini?”
“Vodka, Chambord, Pineapple.”
“Wow, that sounds super sweet. Is it good?”
He looks at you like you are retarded, then shakes his head and shows 1.5 dimples.
“The way I make it is good. Wanna little taste?”
He makes a mini version of the drink in a shot glass, replete with 1 raspberry. He brings it over, real casual-like, as your friends giggle and clap like he’s a baby who just said “goo.” But he’s only looking at you.
He leans over the bar and rests his chin in his hand, watching you as you struggle to lift the shot glass without spilling or dropping the raspberry. Panicked by his sudden scrutiny, you throw it back like a Kamakazie and promptly choke on the raspberry. He laughs.
“Martinis are meant to be sipped, not gulped, but hey, whatever works, right?” He hands you a napkin to wipe off your dribbling chin.
You try to laugh and cough instead.
“So, do you approve? Want a real drink this time?”
You silently nod, unable to speak due to embarrassment and a half of a raspberry lodged in your esophagus.
Your friends are nudging you now, saying “OMG he totally likes you!!! OMG you should totally give him your number!” And you immediately protest,”No! Shut up, he does that with everyone, he’s just trying to make some tips…” But the one shot of alcohol is already working its magic through your bloodstream and your hypothalamus.
He returns with a martini glass glistening with blue liquid and more fruit.
“Since you seem pretty adventurous I made you something a little more creative.”
“What is it?”
“Try it.”
You sip it and it tastes like a Pina Colada had sex with a watermelon. “It’s amazing.”
He smirks, giving you 3 dimples.
“What’s it called?”
“It’s my magic potion.”
One of your friends, who has daddy issues and is an attention whore, barges in. “Hey, I want one of those! Make me one!”
He gives her the squint/once-over. “Why should I?”
She gives her best Jonbenet Ramsey pout. “Cuz I said so.”
He gives her a grin. “OK.” And goes off to make her drink. Your frontal lobe tells you, “See, he does that with everyone. He’s a bartender for chrissakes, it’s his job.” Your hypothalamus mutters, “Pull that bitch’s chair out from under her.”

Cut to: 45 minutes later.  You’re on your third “magic potion” and your boobs are practically pulsating. The bartender stands directly in front of you, arms crossed, thoughtfully chewing on a plastic straw. Still squinting, giving you the once-over. Nervous and drunk, you start asking him questions.
“So, where are you from?”
“I’m a local boy.” He expertly tosses the straw in the trash, then grabs an olive and pops it in his mouth.
“Do you work here…often?”
“Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturday nights.”
“Are you an actor?”
“NO, I’m a bartender.”
“Oh, uh, like full-time?”
“I work at this one and Matadors on Fridays.”
“Is it good money?”
“Enough to surf and hang out with my buddies, yeah.”
He grabs another straw, puts it briefly in his mouth, then suddenly pulls it out and runs it along your arm. “You have a lot of freckles.”
Your vulva is pulsating to the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.” You stammer, “yeah, I guess? Irish…blood…I mean background….”
For 1.5 seconds, he follows the path of the straw with his index finger. “Cute.” Then saunters off as some customers walk in.
You are a goner.

Cut to: 10PM. The bar is starting to get busy. Your friends are drunk and bored and want to go to Joe’s because it’s closer to home. You are drunk and desperately in love. Your new boyfriend is helping other customers. This is your last chance.
You rush over and practically hurl yourself over the bar to yell in his ear, over the loud music that’s kicked in for the cool people. “What time do you get off?”
“2…but it’s usually closer to 3, by the time we clean up.”
He gives you 4 dimples and a grin. “You should stick around.”
“Uh…well, I have to leave, I mean my friends want to leave.”
“Well, if you’re still awake, and feeling adventurous, you should come by.”
“Uh, maybe?”
He smirks and kisses you lightly. “See you around, Freckles.”
You. Are. So. Fucked.



  1. L.A.

    May 15, 2012 at 8:29 pm

    I love this. Please send me his brother, and extra dimples.

  2. Ariel

    May 15, 2012 at 9:43 pm

    Haha-I’m on it! But he won’t get off work til 3am…

  3. Stephanie

    May 16, 2012 at 5:04 am

    If you meet him in a bar, you’ll lose him in a bar. Trust me on this. I speak from experience.

  4. Ariel

    May 16, 2012 at 3:29 pm

    Blog post, please Steph!

  5. Something She Dated

    June 25, 2012 at 3:20 pm

    Sometimes I want to write eloquent things in the comments so people think I’m smart and interesting. That being said this post has left me speechless (and in dire need of finding a bartender of my own, raspberry sold separately).

    Best. Ever. Freckles. I Die!

    • Ariel

      July 1, 2012 at 9:56 pm

      Girl, I bet your sleep-talking is eloquent, smart and interesting. That’s how cool you are, sugar! 🙂

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