I work with some pretty attractive people at my bar. I can honestly say that no one there is not nice to look at. More often than not, this also applies to our clientèle, so I have a whole bar full of pretty things to look at. It’s pretty awesome. But far and away, our most attractive bartender is OHB (Obscenely Hot Bartender). He is 24 and tall and Italian and beautiful with an easy smile and a metric fuckton of charm. When I first started working at the bar, the first thing the other waitresses told me was, “Don’t sleep with OHB.”
What a bummer. The man is a wet dream for anyone with a functioning sex drive and an appreciation for penis.
Anyway, OHB was called in to work last night, and then when the post-Cubs game crowed died off, he clocked out, but hung around to have a drink with some of the regulars that were sitting in my section. Apparently OHB is headed to Vegas next week, so I asked him about it:
Me: So are you gonna make some money?
OHB: Hopefully.
Me: Hookers?
OHB: Hopefully not. The plan is to find some innocent girls from like Idaho or some shit.
Me: You gonna talk potatoes with ‘em?
OHB: Nah. It’ll be more like, “I hate potatoes. Take off your clothes.”
At some point, OHB ran out of whatever type of alcohol he was drinking and yelled across the bar at me, “HEY TRIXIE! GET ME A DRINK!” I was all set to yell at him that I do NOT live in Lincoln Park and I do NOT drive a Jetta/Audi/BMW 325i – but then I remembered that I own about 40 purses. If the (designer) shoe fits…
Haha, you’re a Trixie.