Forgive the Gross Language

It's a direct quote

I was reminded today of a conversation I had back in Tacoma with a girl I worked with. It was a slow shift which meant she was going next door to the Tex-Mex place to get free shots from the bartender over there. I would've pumped her full of Cape Codders because I was nice to the wait staff, but the thrill of sneaking booze from the bar where you work isn't as great for some people as the thrill of sneaking out of the bar where you work to the bar next door to sneak booze.

After she took several trips and there was still no one in the restaurant, we started jibbajab about some banal topic straight opposite sexers get into when there isn't a lot going on romantically or otherwise between them. We probably talked about a show her cousin's band was playing that weekend and said some music preferences when a propos very little, she broke out with a line:

"Do you want me to suck your dick?"

It was known at my place of work that I hadn't been getting a lot of lady action, basically because I was honest about it when asked, so maybe this was a charitable suggestion, I couldn't tell, but whatever the case, it appeared by all rights an honest one.

I was too taken aback to utter an affirmative to this prop mainly because we had just been talking about the Misfits a little bit ago. This despite that in my imagination the beej had already taken place more than once. I'm sort of ashamed to admit this but not really too much.

The girl had done her best in her young life to destroy a body that to spite her had remained well put together. She had tattoos on her neck and wrists and wore big sunglasses like Marilyn Manson during the Mechanical Animals era. Nice by most accounts, she showed a self-absorb sitch in her efforts to get other waitresses to leave so she could make more money on busy nights or to get herself to leave on slow nights. Even if her proposal had been merely to pass the time, as her track record with the bars' patrons might have indicated, she still meant what she'd said, as much as was possible.

I admire honesty in people and vulnerability in women, and the forthrightness of this betrayed both. I'd nurtured feelings for this girl in spite of myself since I started working at the bar and this brash move only reinforced the thing.

But I couldn't act. Not for prudishness, but because that abrupt revelation of sexual appetite and peek at what might look to most as psychological dysfunction made me rare back.

I don't regret that I couldn't do a De Niro in Jackie Brown, but I'm seeing now that this kind of push-pull sexual dance may contain enough breakthroughs into gross overtures that I'll need much more toughening up before I can offer simple acquiescence.

There might also be moral obligations lurking somewhere in these occasions, I don't know.