My Cocktail Server Experiment

I was trying to put a fussy 6-month old down for a nap in a chic Williamsburg apartment that I will never be able to afford myself when I get a text from my manager.

Hey, wanna play cocktail server tonight? 
You can wear all black.
I hate my work uniform and the idea of getting to look good at work was exciting.
Our clientele like their cocktail servers just the way you’d expect. 
Young, thin, beautiful and dressed like sex on a stick.

I knew exactly what I was signing up for.
Time to break out that little black dress.
The one that’s just short enough. 
The one that’s tight in all the right places.
The one that says, “Look, I’m getting over you.”

Lucky for me that I had done my hair that morning. 
All I had to do was wash out the baby spit-up.
I always say my hair is my best feature.
I kept my makeup simple. 
Eyeliner, highlight, blush. 
I’d add my standard red lip right before service.
War paint.

I looked good. 
And I knew it.
When you know it, 
The world becomes a different place.

Hello, world.
It’s been a while.
I got to work and the heads start turning. 
Any woman who says she dresses for the approval of other women is lying to herself. 
We dress for men. 
Or at least my shiny, newly single ass does.

My coworkers were all seeing me in a new light.
They couldn’t stop staring.
It was like the way he looked at me that first time.
The night picked up steadily. 
We were well into service, 
When a group of 4 middle aged men find their way into my section.
The very first thing they say to me,
“Do we need to sign a permission slip for you to be serving us?” 
It takes me 3 seconds to size up these guys.
I determine that they are a non-threat.
Whatever that means.
I laughed off their stupid remark and threw it back in their goddamn faces. 
“I’m not telling you how old I am but wanna know what I’m dressing up as for Halloween?”
“Tell us!”
“Jailbait. So watch yourself.”
In that moment, I decided cocktail serving isn’t for me.

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