The man I consider the love of my life is someone I never met. He's still 'the one' after 16 years.
It's funny how 'working' when you LOVE what you do isn't subject to how much you think you should be paid on a normal job.
Nothing ruins your meal at a steakhouse like an overcooked $90 porterhouse.
Can't/shouldn't put the whole story on Facebook: A John brought in his whore to my Ruby Tuesday, presumably to feed and water her before he umm...
rode her like a cowboy ahh...
got his fiddy sid worth of ho ... hmmm... paid her for her services. They couldn't look me in the eye (either one of them) and I guessed they were gonna be shitty tippers so I was in the kill them with kindness mode. I doted on those motherfuckers like they were my dying grandmother. Constant refills, annoying 'how's everything's. The whole nine.
It was glorious to walk up on them time after time when they were trying to get jiggy with it at my table, ShaL the cock-blocker at her finest. Walking up on her looking and preening at herself in his phone while he drooled (both his hands under the table on his wacker) was giggle worthy too. Getting him to laugh from telling her 'Gurrl stop it, you know you're pretty" when she was primping was probably the clincher and the one who raised her cattiness to new heights. In the end, I ended up with a $5 tip on a $70 bill but with a memory that will last a lifetime. No one can convince me that they were a couple. She was wearing an acid washed jean skirt, patterned pantyhose, hooker heels, painted and chipped press on nails and stunk of cheap body spray. Her weave was FABULOUS though. Big bitch, like easily 5'10". Spitting image of New York.
