I love my job even though most wouldn't. I wash dishes in an upscale restaurant, but it isn't so haughty that they have an iron chef or anything like that. The food is excellent; the tables have real linen napkins and there are bus-kids running around refilling water and stuff. Despite the refinement, they also offer take-out, even delivery to the attached motel.
Now, my job isn't hard, like in brain power, but it requires a lot of lifting and working with scalding hot water and some harsh detergents. Nothing but the most sanitary dishes are good enough for our customers, and sparkling pots for our chefs. We only have one chef plus some line and prep cooks, but I call them all "Chef" because then they treat me good, give me great food. Too, whenever there's a call for delivery, they get me to take it and that gives me opportunities to visit with lonely women needing some attention, but that's not the subject of this story.
I know how to talk to people, kiss their ass a little, so I get things I want. I practice on the chefs but really go to work on the serving staff, the waitresses in particular. In my mind, there's nothing like the successful conquest of a fresh piece of quiff. This is the perfect place for me because new staff are always being hired. After all, who looks for a long-term career in the serving business? For most, it's just a brief stop on the path to bigger and better. I like this because it puts me just inside a revolving door of pussy potential. Now, there's a career I can sink my teeth into, well, more like my tongue.
From this, you're probably thinking a lot higher about my lowly job spraying down dishes, but even such an illustrious occupation has its downsides. For me, the biggest one is that there is a large garbage can beside my station. It is necessary for my job, so it has to be there, but what bugs me is, no one realizes the lid is there for a reason. Don't they realize the container is full of wet, rotting food and that process causes it to stink? That makes me gag.
I empty the can several times each shift; it fills fast with everyone, bus-kids mostly, scraping leftovers into it before stacking the dishes for my attention. This is what they are supposed to do but, they are also supposed to replace the lid but most of them don't want to touch it with their hands because that would mean they need to take the time to wash those same hands. They are too interested in making sure the serving staff are happy with their work, so they get a bigger share of the tips. Tips are a big thing in this industry, in case you weren't aware. They often total more than wages.
What usually happens is, the bus-staff knocks the lid off with a foot, scrapes the plate, dumps the plate, rushes back into the dining room. Of course, this leaves those odours spewing out of the can and into my olfactory organ.
Anyway, what do these emanations have to do with getting laid? A lot. Everything in life has something to do with getting laid. At least from my perspective.
A couple of weeks ago, we had a new waitress start. I always sidle up to the fresh meat, try to make a good impression. I engage them in friendly conversation so I can find out if they qualify. Even a perv like me, always sniffing around for available women, has standards. First, they gotta be old enough, but not JUST old enough, which puts the bus-kids out of my target range. Even though some of them look like they're old enough, I don't trust that. I just brand them all off limits. At some point, they might become wait staff, and then they get another look.
Next, they can't be pregnant. Who wants to have sex THAT close to a baby? It would totally freak me out if I was servicing some fine lady and a tiny hand extended out and gripped my tongue or my dick. No preggies.
And, they can't be in a happy, committed relationship. Who wants to spoil something good just to get their rocks off? Not me.
That's pretty much my standard. No young stuff, no 'with childs', no happy couples. Everything else is fair game.
It didn't take me long to determine that the new lady was totally fuckable. Let's call her Sandra, because she might serve your table and I don't want to spoil your experience with any name-dropping. She told me she was twenty-one, fresh out of college and waiting for a genuine job in the business sector. "Even with my certificate, with no experience, it's hard to get a real job." Waitressing was good enough while she gained some working experience. I was glad the career fates brought her my way. She had a fine shape.
Being a more up-scale restaurant, the staff didn't have uniforms, but they had a dress code. They supplied pants for the guys and long skirts for the ladies. The pants were black, some silky material and had a contrasting blue stripe down the outside of one leg. The skirts were black, floor length, and had a similar blue stripe that extended from the right hip, down the front of the skirt to the hem, then across the front. Staff were free to wear whatever top they wanted, and supplied themselves, as long as it was white. Most just went with plain white shirts, but some had frills or even embroidery with little holes in the loops. I think they call that English embroidery or some French term I can't pronounce. I only mention it because sometimes you can get a nice peak at some cleavage or maybe a little nipple over a low bra through them.
Sandra wore a satiny button-up blouse with pockets that rode high on her chest. And she had a nice chest, not too large, but not tiny either. One shift she must have dressed quick because she hadn't buttoned it all the way up, had left a couple undone, leaving a savoury amount of cleavage exposed. I noticed and did some skilful maneuvering to get as good a peek as I could. Then one of the waiters came in, whispered something to Sandra and she blushed and did up two more buttons. I swear to god though; she snuck one or two peeks at me as she did this and she was smiling. That made me pretty certain she was aware of my gawking, and she'd liked it. Sha-wing, instant erection. I had to stay at my station until that bad boy settled down.
One thing I always say, staff need to be treated equal. That includes breaks. Now, the smokers got ten minutes each hour to head out back for a cigarette break. I think this was because the manager smoked, a lot. I don't smoke, too rich for my lungs, but I deserved the same break, so I would often go out and just hang with them while they breathed in their cancer air. This put me in the back alley a week ago when Sandra was out for a butt. I came out on the pretense of emptying the garbage into the dumpster.
