It was a private party in Midtown Manhattan, thrown by an acquaintance in the sex-party scene. Despite the fact that he's in his 60s and calls me "baby," I feel an almost familial fondness for this gentleman—he's like the sex grandpa I never had. My greatest concerns, then, were merely technical: Would my boobs get in the way of the business of bartending? Would they look unattractive when I bent over for ice? Early that morning, I spent a lot of time topless in front of the mirror trying out positions like "the ice bucket" and "the pour." I bought a sailor's hat, guessing it was near enough in keeping with the Independence Day theme—it cost $6, but I considered it an investment in my cuteness.
Since the bar was BYOB, my set-up consisted mostly of a bucket of ice, some graying lemons and limes, and individual bottles of mixers. It was clearly not my bartending skills that were on display. Helping set the patriotic mood was a projection screen to my right, on which an acrylic-nailed blonde celebrated our nation's birth by hungrily slurping on a massive boner. I set my tip jar prominently and taped a few dollar bills to the sides. "Happy Fourth!" I chirped to all comers.
The weird thing about doing a basic job without a shirt on is that nobody really mentions it. If my tits are hanging out, I want to be talking about them, not making small talk about what we do for a living. Several guys asked me if I was in college, making me wonder if bare boobs are the equivalent of frilly white socks in porno, with the ability to make men think a woman is younger than she is. Luckily, the women in attendance were more outspoken: "You have a great rack!" screeched one supportive girl upon entering.
Disappointed with my slow start on tips, I decided to try my hand at a little flirtation. "I'm just looking for a guy who can satiate me," I cooed to the next patron. "What's that mean, like cum on your face?" he asked thoughtfully, before dropping a gentlemanly $20 in my tip jar; that's two cocktails or four beers more than my brain had earned me this holiday evening. And I was thankful to be in such a great country.
The next guy gave me his business card and told me to get in touch if I wanted to be in a movie. Who knew that ancient trump card of sleazy agents everywhere was actually true—all you have to do to become a star is take your top off! I can feel my familiarity with the AP Style Guide taking a back seat to my budding career in porn. A line of dudes without dates began to form around my bar like the front row of a strip club. They just sat looking, as though my tits were a television set. They didn't order drinks, and they certainly didn't tip.
Couples tipped the best, making me wonder if my chest would be starring in some future monogamous fantasies. I also considered the relative merits of a two-income household. The more drinks I poured, the more my breasts came out from the background as the main event. My friend Mark showed up to look me over, and I told him quickly that a hug hello was out of the question. One guy said he planned to masturbate to me all week, and another approached on behalf of his friend, who in his absence apparently thought I looked like I "suck great cock." Who knew the extra cash would come with a side of old-fashioned holiday romance?
By the time I'm was back in my wife-beater, I'd made about $200 in tips, but I'm not sure when my boobs will see the view outside of my apartment again. For one night, sleazy come-ons are amusing, but I could see myself quickly getting in touch with the rage that turns strippers into lesbians. Plus, I've already wrecked my "topless diet" by chowing on free donuts and cheese and crackers.
It is nice to know, however, that me and my own "mountains majesty" have done our small part for America (God bless it).
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