I arrived early, way before it was time for my bar back to load the tub.  I made a few minor adjustments: my tub position, cash register position, my bottle opener position – I was so ready.  When the bar back brought out his beer cases, I brought out my notepad and pen.

What are you doing?  he asked.  I’m writing down everything you’re putting into my tub,  I said.  Oh…okay, he responds.

From there, the night went about the same, it just seemed longer.

1. Wait.
2. Throw ice.
3. Wait.
4. Sell.
5. Wait.
6. Tip out.

As a beer was sold, I marked it down in my little notebook.  By the end of the night, I knew exactly what I had sold, subtracted from what I started with and that, miraculously, matched the dollar amount I had in my till.  Go figure.  In the manager’s office, I pulled out my handy-dandy notebook.  The manager and the bar back eyed it.  He looks over the notes and figures from the bar back.  Moments pass until he finally says – Alright you’re good to go, thanks.

He was so very welcome.  I walked out of the office and past some of the others.  They smiled at me.  I had a feeling they were all going to show up with notebooks the following night.  On the way out, ‘Hank’ walked me and Anna to our cars.  Again.  I wasn’t quite sure what Hank’s job was, but he seemed to always be bouncing around: moving speakers, chatting, flirting with everyone.  He didn’t seem to do much else but blow smoke up everyone’s ass.  I’m guessing he was the promoter for Wednesday’s Sink or Swim.  He was nice enough and seemingly harmless.  He was tall, Hispanic and skinny.  Maybe more on the stringy side than skinny, actually.  I almost felt sorry for him, like a bouncy, mangy puppy you want to take home but know he’ll just piss on everything.

He got me into a conversation about random stuff – don’t remember, but I appreciated the attention.  We said our good night’s until the following Wednesday.  Which went just about the same – I started to not like it so much.  The money just wasn’t making up for my time and the club was simply annoying.  The hippety-hop music was way too loud and with me being right in front of a large speaker, I knew I’d be deaf within months.  Hank noticed (aww) and came over to shift me over a bit.  I thought it was really sweet.  Throughout the night, he made quite a few more visits to my tub than usual, checking on me.  Whenever I was running low on something, he’d search for the bar back.  If I didn’t have any buyers at the moment, he’d strike up a conversation with guys nearby and encourage them to come get a beer from me.  It was cute: like a Pomeranian bouncing at your waist begging for praise.

So when he walked me out to my car and asked if I wanted to go somewhere for a drink, I suggested my place.  Really?  he squeaked.  Really.

We got back to my place and settled on the couch with some wine, chit-chatting about his life, my life: whatever popped into our heads.  I hadn’t decided if I was going to seduce him or not.  So I kept pushing the conversation while I further assessed the situation.  His wardrobe: forcibly trendy but it didn’t seem to suit him.  His hair: longer than average but it worked for him.  Any shorter and he’d be considered a nerd (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  His accent: slight, but just enough to add some sex appeal to his character.  I knew if I propositioned him, he’d take it.  I could tell he didn’t get this kind of attention from a girl very often.  What is he babbling about?  No idea and don’t care.  I decided he was doable.  So I scooted closer to him, feigning interest in whatever he was talking about.  I knew he noticed because his voice changed again – all high-pitched and squeaky.  The look in his eye gave him away.  Guys were so easy.

He kissed me: not bad.  I was actually turned on.  Either that or I was ovulating.  Either way, I was ready to go for it.  Why not?  I was bored.  I know, I was awful.  Here I go again.  I asked him to move to the bedroom…Are you sure?  Poor thing.  Yes, I said.

Fast-forward to the actual sex part.  Or what was supposed to be the sex part.  He was thrusting.  And thrusting.  His eyes were closed and he was grunting like he was doing something.  Then the oh yeah, that feels good, yeah…what was he feeling exactly?  He was so small, I felt absolutely nothing.  Nothing.  What was he having sex with?  If I couldn’t feel anything, doesn’t logic dictate that he couldn’t possibly feel anything either?  What was stimulating his penis?  The condom?  Was it the wind whistling past the tip?  I knew there was no way that I was ‘too big’ for his wee little penis.  My vagina saw very little action of that sort.  So I just stared in disbelief at his face, all twisted in the throes of ecstasy.  I was fighting laughter.  You gotta be kidding me.  Needless to say, he was done very quickly.  He kisses me, thanks me and asks if he could take a shower.  Sure.

Years later, you can imagine that once I saw those Sex and the City episodes with ‘little penis man’ and ‘the shower after sex guy’, I laughed my ass off, remembering this night all too well.

I didn’t move, laying there in what should have been shame, but I only felt pity.  He was awful and there was little chance of him ever getting bigger or better at sex.  Should I tell him how bad he is?  Or let him enjoy his moment?  I decided to let him enjoy it.  Let his future wife cry herself to sleep at night.

My little Pomeranian came back to bed, all proud of himself.  He kissed me some more, wrapped his arms around me and fell asleep.  At least he was a nice guy.  Good boy.