As my one year friend-iversary passed with the Bartender this month, I started running back through my memoir notes about how I met him.
Now a lot of my friends have heard this story, because (1) it's awesome (or I like to think so) and (2) It always seems to come up every 3 or 4 months, but if I have a good story I can't keep it to myself.
So here's an excerpt of my unpublished memoir (because it's not finished, not because I haven't pedaled it around)..
It was a pretty marvelous night, or it had started that way. A group of my friends and I had gone out for the return of my dear friend N’s return from the land of pharaohs and pyramids, and for the bar we picked a crowd favorite, ten-minutes away from the metro stop. However, when we walked out of the metro rain began to pelt our faces, and our clothes began to cling to our chilled bodies. So instead, we dashed into the one right across the street.
We began with a round of drinks at the bar, some coronas, a few screwdrivers,...
Getting tipsy we head to the dance floor, sans our friend B who had been grabbed by a guy that met her through our school. Once dancing, two ass hole marines insult N and send her out the door packing. When N left, J and I sidled up to the bar and J whispers, can you order me a Buttery Nipple. Now let me describe to you my dear readers exactly how potent and delicious a buttery nipple can be. It’s Baileys and Butterscotch liqueur. This drink I’m pretty sure is the nectar of the gods, and J, and I, and all of our close friends have an affinity for a beautiful BN like no bodies business. To let you know how much we love a good BN, let’s just say we traveled all over DC searching for bottles of Bol’s Butterscotch one day to make these. Heaven.
So I make eye contact with the bartender who gives me a smile and leans in close to hear my order. The cologne or natural smell on this man’s neck literally almost made me swoon, and I can tell what he’s thinking as he leans in laughing, “what can I get ya honey? A cosmo? An apple-tini?” He continues listing off girly expensive ass drinks, so I know that he's (1) flirting and (2) trying to make me happy, because me happy equals bigger tip, and me happy equals happy patron, equals I go to the bar more often, equals more profit for him in the future, but my order catches him off guard.
“ YOU WANT TO WHAT MY NIPPLES?!” he shoots back like a man attacked by a pack of rabid hyenas. His voice loud enough for everyone in a 5 person radius to hear, and they all turn their heads towards my way and thoroughly judge me. He raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and walks away as I stand in shock and shame at the end of the bar trying to figure out how I can regain my composure and confidence, because seriously, everyone is still staring.
He walks towards me and smiles, the drink in his hand; he leans on the bar placing the drink by my elbow.
“You know what?” he croons.
“What?” I ask, still flustered.
He sighs, and takes in a long breath, maintaining eye contact, dropping it only briefly, probably to give him the air of a cute, awkward boy, but with nearly 6 feet of rugged man, it didn’t work that well.
“I want you to have my children,” he says, a tiny corner of his lip twitches with a smile.
I’m not sure if I gagged or laughed at this point in time, but I remember looking at him with shock, surprise, suspense...
He watches all these emotions and then says it again, "No seriously, I want you to have my children."
I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, this “I want you to have my babies” line is all too familiar to me, because I say it about nearly every guy I find appealing. That exact line... I want John Doe to have my babies, I want John Smith to have my babies, etc... There was a St. Patrick's Day when I was in college where I ran through the dorms screaming I want X to have my babies, only to find out he's on the exact floor I'm yelling on. And yes I realize John Doe can't have my babies, but I can dream right?
Well my shock now turns into curiosity, so I engage the conversation and before you know it, his statement turns into “I’m going to kiss you right now,” It was like that kiss in the 1993 Disney, Three Musketeers when Porthos grabs the bar wench (flattering comparison I know) and pulls her into him with passion and authority and a dash of humor.
Caught off guard, because I have been hitting the sauce, He pulls me over the top of the bar, his grip firm, and He kisses me. I stood there a bit flabbergasted afterwards, but as the move left me behind the bar and him still needing to work, he moseyed back to his station and kept pouring drinks.
A few minutes later he’s back in front of me, again, charm and smile included, and he’s pulling me back over the bar and going in for a second round of Kiss de Moi. The barback walks up and asks if I know Bartender, to which I say, "I guess I do now." I have literally been standing here for maybe 15 mins. I’ve talked to this bartender for maybe 5 or 8 of those and he’s already kissed me twice and asked me to bear his children, which I’m willing to bet will be the size of giant watermelons when born. But a man who knows what he wants and has a goal in view. I’m game. No really, I’m totally game to see where this goes.
He asks if he can buy me a drink, but I’m still halfway into a screwdriver bought by the ass hole marine, so I decline.
30 mins elapse, and I return, thirsty for water.
I sidle up to the bar, make eye contact with Bartender, and he leans towards me, practically crawling over the bar; our foreheads hit gently.
“So what’ll it be?”
“I’ll just have some water, I’m ready to sober up.”
“I’m not serving you water.”
“No, really I want water.”
“I’m not serving a gorgeous girl water at my bar when I’ve offered to buy her a drink.”
“Well then, can I have you buy me... a water.”
J whose standing right next to me spouts in, “Well if she doesn’t want the drink, then I’ll take another Buttery Nipple.”
He resorts to a hardy chuckle and makes her the drink, coming back to me, leaning in.
“So you would like a...”
He growls playfully and walks over to the nozzle and pulls out a glass, fills it up with water, and places it in front of me.
I look down, he looks down. I look up. He looks up.
“I would like something a little larger than a shot glass, please.”
“Finish her up! we’re not wasting our high quality DC water tonight.”
I take the shot of water.
He fills her up.
I take another.
After all the shots of water, a nasty cinnamon-y drink, and a snuck in shot of vodka later. I’ve got Bartender's phone number and have already sent him a snarky text. Because, I’m not pretending to be anyone I’m not, and hell if I’m not snarky.
And the rest as they say is history. So far a year in, there are no babies, and I don't plan on dating him any time soon, because now I know too much about him, but he's still a good friend and I'm going to keep him around. Because seriously, who doesn't need a large friend willing to fight for you at the drop of a hat in a sea of unsavories?