When you’re sleeping with a bartender…

It’s just good sex. It’s just good sex. it’s just good sex.

GREAT SEX. Don’t take anything else seriously. It doesn’t mean anything else. It’s just good sex. Mostly great sex, but for all intensive purposes, we tend to down play the good ones. (And for the record this one is fantastic).

Don’t get jealous. They don’t mean anything. It’s all just a pay check at the end of night. Life of a bartender/server/ cocktail server/ etc. who cares anyways? It’s all fair games. when your drinks are free and your orgasms are multiple, right? None of this matters. Wait, until it does. Right? Until you get caught up and you find yourself jealous by some box-blonde bimbo who only drinks Chardonnay with ice in her glass and proudly boast about her ex husbands alimony payment throwing herself at YOUR man. Wait, YOUR bartender. (#cougar) because Ya’ll aren’t exclusive. He just serves you drinks and then serves you naked. It’s just about sex. REMEMBER? Then what happens? You freak out and show your meager age of 27? Or act more like a 22 year old disguised in a body of a 27 year old who resembles a 21 year old. Now you’re just drunk and confused.

In fact, it’s all too confusing at this point and you’re too inebriated to be consider anything but desperate. You can’t make another scene here with your sobbing hysterics, so you decide to hail a cab for yourself, alone, with the great anticipation of making a breakfast sandwich with a side of peanut butter at 4am and eating it all by yourself without any God damn judgement. Because let’s face it, you couldn’t possibly suck down another vodka soda (and the rest of your dignity) and wait around for closing time.



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