See Through Ways
I fell for her watching big league baseball on TV. She was the waitress for the exclusive corporate box seats just behind home plate. She looked Italian, Greek, Spanish, whatever…definitely Mediterranean in extraction. There was her petite hourglass figure, the little white blouse with her nameplate, a silver rectangle over her left breast. She was shapely and lithe, with long black hair that she swept back and forth like a fine horsetail. Oh goddess, and those knee-bends, pulling out and lifting sandwich trays! Great coiled youth, peak, prime grade A loveable, bouncing up against gravity.
I gotta admit it: I got a hard on watching her handing out the sweaty, cold beers, leaning over the big shots, her deft ringed fingers making quick change. Jesus, I was hooked when she bent over and her bare brown back was exposed, a crescent half moon of dark skin I wanted to caress and kiss as my hands stroked her weary body. God how much could she be making? Not much, plus tips.
A love item, I’d have more income, and could gallantly offer to take her away from all this humiliation (the latter diplomatically unstated of course).
When her male supervisor showed up near the 9th inning, he seemed to press too close, to engage her in conversation prolonged, too much personal agenda and forced laughter. The bastard was obviously abusing his position as he slowly counted out the money and bagged the take. One of those corporate caterer outfits, no doubt, had a lock on the food franchise.
Enough was enough. I was bound and determined to rescue that exotic hospitality divinity, that goddess from sun-bathed Old World countries. Sure as three strikes you’re out…I’d save her way before she was used goods, hard carnie and bored with men’s see-through ways.