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I have been gifted good looks, body and 'equipment' ever since I was fifteen but I was probably an arsehole with it. I say 'was', as I have now learnt that at the end of the day being an arrogant arsehole will get you in all sorts of trouble. What follows is how I learnt my lesson that looks aren't everything. I have always found that the girls flock to me, my Italian ancestry means I have the look of being tanned all year around. I work out at the gym for 2 hours nearly every day and spend almost as much time each morning smothering myself in creams and potions; ensuring my thick dark hair is perfect and my clothes look great. Anyway...
Two years back I was fresh out of college with rubbish grades and no job prospects. I had been first to mock the nerds, the same guys who were driving BMW's and LEXUS' with six figure salaries and real prospects. Three months out and I was still out of work and sponging off my then girlfriend, living out of her fridge and spending my days shuffling through 230 channels of cable TV in between my visits to the gym. I had a real stunner of a girlfriend, tall, thin pretty and blonde. We were a real poster couple but weren't really friends, more fuck buddies. That said she wasn't very adventurous, it was always either her on top, missionary or doggy. She didn't let me go down on her and said the idea of sucking on a penis was abnormal. The problem was that I needed somewhere to stay and so rode out all the crap whilst I looked for something better.
One evening I went out to a friends house and he suggested I get some bar work do some waiting on tables so I had my own money. I saw those jobs as below me but the desire to buy designer clothes and go clubbing required money, so I called the agency my buddy worked for. I was told to come into the office the next week for an interview, uplifted by the fact that I was told there was lots of work available.
I strode into the offices full of my usual confidence not caring that I had nothing to really offer in terms of experience or qualifications. I always got by with my charm and good looks. There were lots of vacancies and was offered loads of short term jobs over the next few weeks. I knew that they weren't great paying jobs, but £7 per hour was a pittance. That said, on the job they had me down for at the end of the week (Sunday) I was told there could be some good tips available. I signed the forms and gave them my details. All I needed was a black bow tie, white long sleeve shirt, polished black leather shoes and black trousers.
I turned up for each of the events, all in big local hotels and found myself as a nobody following the orders of trumped up managers full of their own importance. I hated it and was having to learn the bar terms as I went. I would have jacked it in but the final job of the week was near and that was going to be my decider of whether to keep this up or not. So Sunday arrived and I got the call from the agency of where and when. Unlike every other job I'd done this was a private job in somebody's home with just me and some girl who was a supervisor doing the job. Normally a high end job like this would go to someone with more experience but people just hated working Sunday nights. I arrived at the agency pick up point and instead of the mini-bus was collected by Dee, the supervisor, in a taxi. She was not especially great looking, only 5"4, bit of excess around the hips and tummy, long red hair and 'plain-Jane' features. She wasn't ugly but I would consider myself out of her league. She tried to talk to me about the Job and I just grunted responses in my arrogance.
We arrived and I was told what to do. It was a huge mansion of a place, modern and flashy with it. I was told the owner was an author who was living in a rough council estate five years ago then wrote two best sellers back-to-back. I went through from the kitchen to the room we'd be working in and it was huge, big enough for thirty or more comfortably. The décor was awful and you can tell it was somebody who recently had money. Pictures of motorbikes and women in leather, holding whips covered the walls, none of the furniture matched and there was a pool table that had been pushed to one side to make space for a small platform with lectern.
I set the bar up, cutting lemons, getting ice, finding reserve stocks and setting up the keg that was installed. The bar was small but well appointed and everything was to hand. The hostess came in and I vaguely recognised her as the author who wrote a series of books about a female biker who was a sort of a modern day Robin Hood, I think her pen name was something like Janet Screech or Screecher. She was loud, brash and a bit 'too' down to earth. She called me 'Sugar' and 'Honey' which really pissed me off but I bit my lip hoping for a big tip. The guests started to arrive and I did my thing on the bar serving drinks whilst Dee handed out canapés and collected glasses for me to wash.
After the initial bustle as people arrived it soon evened out at which point Dee came over and suggested a vodka shot for us both to keep us going. I was up for that and poured us both generous measures into our orange juices. As the night wore on I realised that the people there were obviously freeloaders there to feel celebrity and reluctantly give some of their money to a charity, the main purpose of the event. As midnight approached all and sundry were pretty drunk, including Dee and myself as we sneaked sly vodka shots on a regular basis. We were also getting time to chat and I found myself warming to Dee whom I'd seen as quite prim and proper but she was not averse to slipping a 'fuck' or 'twat' into the conversation.
Janet came over to me and said that the auction was to start soon and that she would tell people the bar was shut for 30 minutes to give us a break as we had worked so hard, making it sound like she was aware of our lowly stature and was showing pity. That said we both jumped at the chance of a break and as soon as Janet went onto the platform and announced it we were gone, leaving a half dozen bottles of champagne on the bar for people to help themselves.
Once in the kitchen I sat on the worktop and Dee sat nearby on a breakfast stool. I don't know if it was my beer goggles but I was seeing her in a new light, her persona bigging up her lack of beauty. She was dressed in a white blouse that showed off a big pair of tits, likely a D cup and her muscular legs fitted her hour-glass frame, clad in black tights moving up to what was actually quite a short black skirt. We chatted about the guests laughing about the things they said, mostly saying things to big up how much money they had. Dee actually made me laugh when she impersonated a lady guest in her plumy accent saying.
"When Bradley and I are on our yacht we like to drink Pimms!"
I noticed that she was actually quite drunk and was flirting with me quite a lot. I am used to girls coming on to me, but girls like Dee didn't normally see me as a realistic target in a bar or club, but without any competition she obviously had more fortitude. Her legs were getting wider and wider revealing the gusset of her tights and the white panties behind them to which I darted my eyes hoping I wouldn't get caught.
