There is this little Jazz club around the block from my apartment. Musicians play there, improvising, swinging, hootin’ and hollerin’, creating a pleasant environment. And since I live nearby, and since I love drinking and since I appreciate the music, I became a regular. When you’re a regular of a bar, you get to know the people working there. They learn what you like to drink, they see your face and get to know your smile. You become acquainted.
Working at this Jazz club was a beautiful waitress (the plot thickens). She had smooth hazelnut skin, long curly hair and a body that seemed to boom louder than any kick drum on the planet. Bracelets jangled on her wrists, she wore gold around her neck and one got the impression she woke up early to apply her makeup precisely and tirelessly.
She was the type of girl one had fantasies about. The type of girl I had fantasies about.
For some reason, I always thought she was out of my league. I wouldn’t make regular eye contact with her, I didn’t chat her up, because, well, I didn’t want her to think I was hitting on her, because I thought I had no chance. Because she was the type EVERYONE hit on. But she was always in the corner of my eye.
One winter evening, to my surprise, she and a few other people who worked at the Jazz club came into the bar where I worked. It was their co-worker’s send off party. He was leaving Seattle, leaving the Jazz club, for a job as a photographer in San Francisco. The group came in, sat around one of our wood tables and ordered a couple rounds of beer. I served them, made eye contact with her, smiled, even bought her a round of pale ales. When they got the bill, they paid, and they walked out. She walked out with them, but less than a minute later, she came back inside and walked up to me.
“We’re going to another bar on 43rd,” she said. “You should come by after your shift.”
“I think I can do that,” I said with the smoothest tone of voice I could muster.
She held up her hand as if she wanted me to high-five, to seal the deal. I did and our hands touched and she held on to mine. Lingering. Then she turned and walked out. Her kick-drum body going boom, bada-boom. Somehow, just like that, I had a date for the late night.
I met them at the bar around midnight. I sat next to her. I love playing this game: the we-are-interested-but-let’s-pretend-not-to-be-interested-for-as-long-as-possible-until-the-very-end-of-the-night game. Side by side, our legs almost touched but never did. The tension between our knees excruciatingly sexual.
At the end of the evening she offered to drop the guy moving to San Francisco off at his apartment. She also offered to drop me off at my apartment. He lived further away but she – ta dah! – decided to drop him off first. When we got back to my place, she parked. “Want to come in?” I asked. She nodded.
I opened the door, turned the lights on, then put my arms around her. I couldn’t believe I was kissing her. I couldn’t believe she let me lay her on my bed. I couldn’t believe she let me take her dark nylons off. I couldn’t believe we were having sex!
But then she started farting. Uncontrollably. It was as if she didn’t even hear it. Had no idea the sounds coming from her ass. But they were clear as day to me. With each move, she would answer with a loud fart. I had no idea what to do so I just kept at it!
When we were finished, she sat up, letting out another fart as she rose from the bed, said nothing, and went to the bathroom to, I can only assume, freshen up. When she came back, naked and beautiful in the dim light of the bathroom, she got in bed. She left at about seven in the morning, kissing me once before going.
She quit working at the Jazz club not long after and for some reason – perhaps some weird Pavlovian fart response – I deleted her number from my phone. We had our one night, it would stay at that. Last I heard, she was selling jewelry in a shopping mall on commission, this beautiful waitress who farted during sex.
You can send me your story (and it will be anonymous!) to Kate@DatesWithKate.com!