Women Bartender Parties

Women Bartender Parties Their eyes watched the bartender, like a tennis ball, volleying to each side, bouncing, soft like from side to side of the bar, filling drinks and old men's hearts with wet dreams, prompting the men on gathering closer to the campfire. She was hot. Their necks stretched, minds made pseudo claims, and mouths watered of her effect. She was young and new, and too studious. A librarian by day, layers of academia, flowing through her veins- you could see that she was smart, yet sassy. There was no hiding, though, the biker girl behind those glasses, hair in a bun, and brass demeanor. She made sashay look pedestrian. She could compete with a New York model with her providence, long arms and legs, and a longer neck, that likely sprung a gasket in her admirers. Would she lie? When she gained wind of whispering old men, poking the shortness of her denim shorts she tickled their fancies. "Is my vagina sticking out," as she checked her shorts, innocence oozing from her and sending old men's watering hole to rise. She was a frolicking horse that put all the other bar's bartenders to pasture. She continued pouring drinks, like how pouring rain- rescues drought stricken crops. She had that effect. When she saddled next to an old man, lucky one at that, her gray eyes boring into his browns, as they split the night air into little gifts, exchanging presents of knowledge of each other, you could see his horses neighing, too, nudging to get out of the stables. Did she say she was writing a book? He doesn't remember. He remembers seeing a moon flower. She continued serving rain, while the jukebox played and the patrons swayed, exchanging banter with each. Moments later she did the unthinkable-no it wasn't a red scarlet. Or connotative. She drank, which is taboo, matching shots of Royal, three, with the old man, while not missing a beat, holding her liquor well, and turning back his hands ............. of time. connie pachecho 4/20/17