The Marlin Bartender
So anyway, I have this awesome husband that I love so much. But he's a little bit crazy at times.
And there's this tiny little taco bar called The Marlin Bar that we went to for a late supper when all we wanted was a little snack.
And it had this cute bartender.
So....... We've been back there several times. After I noticed him working there. And got caught staring.
Because my husband is so sweet, but a little bit crazy, as I said, in the sense that he likes it when guys look at me and even when they flirt with me. He actually REALLY likes that and even encourages me to flirt back, although I almost never do, because, well, I'm shy a little bit. Also, I could not bear to lose him.
So anyway, just to entertain my husband, I let it slip while we were having quinoa and kale salads with grilled salmon -- and of course blood orange margaritas, my favorite -- that the cute bartender and I had exchanged more than casual conversation. Just eye contact and meaningful smiles, you know, nothing really, except that in those few seconds, I confessed, we both knew there was mutual physical interest.
So my husband was very excited by my little vignette. So every chance he gets, he takes me back and sets me up to have little moments with the hot bartender. Did I mention he's much younger? And Hot?
He's got a great beard, trimmed very short, just like I like. In fact, he's slim and trim all over. Just like I like. With a nice butt. Still slim and trim, but it's, shall we say, very well developed. Muscular, even.
And well, he has a crush on me.
On my tits anyway. We've hardly spoken, but he enjoys looking at me. Especially my chest.
Guys do that a lot. It's one of my best features. So I don't mind. If they're not creepy with it. And
he's
not creepy. At all. But let's just say he doesn't maintain eye contact.
I mean, I do take a long time to decide what to order. <wink> I'm picky about what I like. And he's my bartender for the evening, so I ask lots of questions. About what I want to eat. And the cocktail I want.
I know, how can you fuck up a margarita, right? But I know what I like. Has to be strong and not too sweet. The margarita I mean. Also, I hate licking it and getting a salty taste. So, no salty rim for me.
You might be wondering where my husband is all this time, while I'm standing at the bar letting a very hot bartender glance at my chest while I flirt with him. Well, this bar has this strange system where you order directly from the cute bartender and then go sit down, and a waitress brings your drink to you.
Except this bartender brings
me
mine. I order, he makes mine special for me just the way I want it, then he comes from behind the bar to the tiny table and gives it to me.
Sometimes I'm at a high-top, so I'm perched on one of those tall chairs. I usually pick these when I'm wearing a miniskirt. Just to give him something to look at besides my tits all the time, you know?
Sometimes, though, I'll sit on a low lounge chair. So when he comes, I'm hunched over my menu. He and I always get the angle just right, so he can see that I'm not wearing a bra, which is rare for me given the size of my chest, but something I've started doing every time we go to this particular little bar. Again, I ask questions. He's a bartender, so of course he knows lots to tell me about my drink, -- which tequila, whether I want Grand Marnier or Cointreau, etc. I finally choose, but again, he isn't making eye contact.
I look into
his
eyes, though. He has kind eyes.
Ok so I encourage him to look at me, ok? It's just for fun. My husband's right there. Somewhere. In the store looking at golf shirts probably. And me. My awesome husband likes to watch men roam their eyes on me from a discreet distance, so they aren't inhibited, and I don't act shy. I pretend I don't see him.
One time, my husband was sitting right there at the café table when my bartender brought our drinks. He knew which one was mine and never even glanced at my husband while setting his whisky drink over his way. He's a respectful but bold type of a guy, this bartender, so he stared at my breasts enough that my husband had to notice, but politely enough to not make a scene.
Now, each week my husband always lets me go up to the bar and place my order with that same bartender. After we drink the first one, I usually go back and order more drinks and some guacamole or nachos. Again, the bartender is very patient while I stand there for him to enjoy me. Of course, he knows by now that I like him and that I like it that he looks at me. He's probably figured out that I dress for his eyes. It's a little game we started playing once a week.
He doesn't bring the food. He's a bartender not a waiter. However, I still go up there to order, and he always makes sure he's the guy who comes over and smiles patiently to hear what I want.
It got more intense this last time when my husband merely paused the car on the street in front of the café part of the bar. He told me he was dropping me off and going to park the car. He'd told me to go order my drink from the hot bartender and pick a table to display myself the best for when the bartender would bring my drink, so he and I could chat. My husband had made me agree to this to give the bartender some opportunity. He said that he would come later. "Just see what happens," he'd said.
"You sure, honey?"
"Go for it," he said and shifted into gear.
I exited our car on shaky legs. It was only twenty steps over to the bar, but my same hot bartender spotted me and arrived at the little ordering counter at the same time as I did. Of course, I leaned my stomach against the granite which extended my breasts out over the menu area, right above the plastic-coated card we were looking at. I took my usual excessive amount of time. Even though I was vibrating with excitement inside, I held still while he treated himself to a visual voyage down my cleavage.
There was another guy on a barstool to my left who was also checking out the lack of coverage of my blouse, and I caught the eye of the woman with him, and she rolled her eyes at me. I ignored them and ordered my usual but just one drink. The bartender looked behind me and over at the café tables.
"Where's your husband?"
"I'm by myself now." I got the feeling I needed to explain. "We sometimes come separately, meet here after work." Well, we could've done that. We never had, but I was nervous and had to think fast.
"I see." I could tell he knew I was lying, so I had to change the subject fast.
"What do you see?" I said in a ridiculous college-girl tone, shimmying my chest at him just a tiny bit.
"I see a pretty girl all alone at a bar." OK I did melt at that. He was even cuter up close.
"Oh, he's around somewhere, shopping in the golf shop, I think." Realizing I was talking too much, I twirled away fast and floated over to an empty table to sit down and wait.
In minutes the good-looking bartender brought me my drink and picked up the conversation right where he left off. "Didn't
think
he'd let you get very far away. Lotta guys'd take advantage of the opportunity."
"Oh, he's fine with me talking to other guys."
"I meant more than talk."
"Me, too. I mean... he's fine with -- Look, honestly? I like talking to you, but there's something interesting about you that's more than just talk."
"Like what?"
"You have a really nice beard."
"You like my beard?"
"Oh, I love facial hair."
"Husband has a beard."
Shit. He remembered. For some reason I really needed to get the conversation off my husband. I sucked on my margarita and said a little too loudly, "Wow, you do make a tasty cocktail." I winced and blushed.
He smirked as I realized he was looking down between my knees which were spread in a way nice girls don't do. I slowly closed them back, showing him that I didn't want to. He nodded wisely and said, "I have to get back to work."
"I know but thanks for bringing me my margarita." I smiled my girl-next-door smile. "I wish we had a bit more time and a lot more privacy, though." 'Jeez that was kinda forward,' I thought.
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Sounds fascinating," he said with a killer smile. I was watching that hard butt weave away through the tables when my cell phone signaled a text.
It was from my husband, of course.
How'd it go?
Fine. He's cute.
You said that before.
Still true
