Maybe it's time for a little reminder of who I am.
I've spent a decade and a half in Los Angeles trying to make a career as an artist. In the course of things, I've met many beautiful women from all spheres of life. I've been lucky enough to sleep with a lot of them.
You can call me Jack. This is my seventh story.
This is the story of Jess.
Right out of college, I worked a summer at a chain restaurant by a popular Los Angeles tourist attraction. The shine that college puts on life hadn't worn off yet, and I had that early-20s feeling deep in my bones that I didn't really have to do anything and everything would still work out exactly how I wanted. So while this restaurant was an objectively terrible place to work, it ranks as one of the best summers of my life because I didn't have one goddamn care in the world. I spent the days getting blitzed by tourist business, then the nights getting blitzed with my coworkers.
My coworkers were a ragtag group, a coterie of lost souls nursing broken dreams, ranging in age from their late teens to their mid-40s. I'm ashamed to admit that even though I loved letting loose with them, I actively judged all of them, thinking myself superior, that I was the only true artist of the bunch. And sitting here years later - much older, somewhat wiser - I think, no I know, that on a moral and spiritual level I couldn't have been more wrong. We're all cut from the same cloth, some people are handed decks more stacked than others, there is no one true lifestyle that makes you better than everyone else.
But on a fuckable level?
Yeah, I was above them.
I had my way with the young female wait staff that cycled through our restaurant, their varying levels of competence meaning some only lasted a couple weeks before moving onto the next summer job. Usually I'd stake my claim the first night they'd join us all for a post-shift drink, my other male coworkers trying their best but the girls always finding their way to me.
I have multiple stories to tell from this summer, but we're going to start with Jess.
Jess was a Filipino girl, 21-years-old, very petite, maybe 5'2", with the regal face of a beauty pageant winner. Her skin was the color of caramel, her hair a dark brown with gold highlights. She always had it pulled back in a ponytail, showing off her gorgeous face, her smiling brown eyes, her bright white teeth. Her tits and ass were small but still big for her frame, and always pushed provocatively against her clothing. I knew from the moment I saw her I could absolutely manhandle her, and I made it my mission to prove myself right.
Her first week on the job we encountered each other sparingly, but I sensed a not insignificant amount of mutual interest. Some lingering eye contact, a bright laugh when I made a lame joke. While my other coworkers actively fawned over her or made fun of her, like kindergarteners with a crush, I played it casual, always there with an easy smile, reassuring her with my quiet presence.
Crossing paths with her always made my shift slightly better. She was always smiling, was forever optimistic, never said a bad word about anybody. When she looked at you you felt like you were the only person in the world, and you glowed.
She also was very bad at her job, racking up an unprecedented three walkouts in her first week. Management didn't give a shit about her sunny disposition. All they saw was lost profit, and it wasn't clear if Jess would make it to week two. If I wanted to sleep with her, I knew I might have to act fast or miss my chance.
We were both working on a Friday night, the entire staff overwhelmed by chaotic families and rowdy teens and bad tippers. I was standing near Jess in the service station when one of the servers, a skeezy guy (who willingly went by the name Scumbag) tried to convince her to come out after her shift. We usually took over a local dive bar on Friday nights, probably treating that staff as poorly as our customers treated us.
Jess was equivocating about joining us, likely because Scumbag was the one asking. I was filling a few sodas and I looked over, catching her glancing at me when Scumbag was mid-pitch.
"Come on, Jess," I said, "it'll be fun."
"You'll be there?" she asked.
I smiled. "Unfortunately."
She smiled.
"Okay," she said. "One drink."
"YES!" Scumbag said. He fist pumped. "Fuck yes, Jess!" And he turned and left the station.
I sighed, stacking my sodas on a tray.
"Isn't he something?" I said.
Jess looked down and pushed a strand of hair behind an ear.
"He is. Maybe a little too much."
As I passed her, carrying my tray, I leaned in conspiratorially, whispering: "Way too much."
She smiled, looking into my eyes, our faces close, and then I left.
Our shifts ended around the same time, and we sat in a back hallway waiting to close out with our manager. We traded brief glances and small smiles.
"Excited for the bar?" I asked.
"Very," she said. "You?"
"Very."
When it was my turn to see the manager, I turned to her and asked.
"Do you want me to walk you there?"
She lit up, and nodded quickly.
"Great!" she said.
"Awesome," I said. "I'll wait for you outside."
As we walked the few blocks to the bar, I asked her more questions about her life. She still lived with her parents, was trying to save up money to move out, but hadn't been able to keep a job long enough to do so. She hoped this restaurant would be different. I didn't have the heart to tell her I didn't think so. I told her how I was trying to become a filmmaker, and she was very excited by that. She started looking at me slightly differently, like I'd passed a quality test. Up against the likes of Scumbag, it wasn't hard.
