Chapter Five: The Fantasy Bar-Keep

“Oh, fuck me, please just fuck me,” Joan murmured under her breath directly at her extra dirty Stoli martini. I gave her a glance.

“If you’re going to hit on the bartender, you have to address those remarks directly to him, not to his cocktails,” I reminded her.

“But he’s so.... pretty! God, what eye candy!” Amanda Greek-chorused.

She was right. There was not a one of us who wouldn’t jump in the sack with Pete, the bartender who made by far the best mojitos in town. He had the deepest blue eyes, with the cutest crinkles, just below which lay crevices of plump dimples. He was beautiful.

“He doesn’t even have to spend the night...” Joan whined.

I was shocked. It was the avowed rule of the members of the Girls’ Night crowd that not spending the night was a no-no. There is little worse than feeling a man slip from your arms as you lie in a blissful half-sleep, listening to him fumble for fallen clothes in the dark, trying not to step on the cat or jangle his keys. Then come the excuses: “I have a barmitzphar to go to early tomorrow.” Or “There’s this business presentation I have to prepare for.” Or worse, “I just can’t sleep and I don’t want to keep you up.”

There must be some phrasebook for men somewhere, because they all use the same lines. None of them sound original or remotely sincere, and they are all repeated by rote like speeches in some horrible community theater production, where the actors aren’t quite bright enough to understand their roles.

Pete strolled over, and I watched him gently polish a glass, and wondered what those hands would feel like polishing me.

“Can I get you anything, ladies?” he asked.

We just beamed at him like lovesick pop fans, but in the next second I was astounded to hear Joan say, “Yes, as a matter of fact you can. How about getting me laid?”

Amanda and I were speechless. This was certainly against Sunday evening etiquette. The law was clear: no play for men. Further, it violated the divide and conquer rule: if more than one woman likes a guy, no one makes a play for him without prior consent of the other female parties. Surely she knew the game? Maybe she hadn’t read our secret manual, the female equivalent of the men’s one-liner booklet.

And Joan, of all people? This sort of daring move was much more up Amanda’s alley. Joan would more likely be the lookout at the well-lit entrance, peering around to make sure no one got caught.

Pete smiled flirtatiously, his dimples dancing in the half-light of the bar.

“Well,” he said slowly, the syllable extending on his beautiful tongue, “There’s my friend Stanley over there. I’m sure he’d love to meet you....”

The three of us followed his nod to three hundred pounds of Homosapien with glasses that must have added another few at least. He had dimples too, but on his elbows, and most every other place I saw. He saw us looking at him and lifted his glass as a toast. We numbly followed suit. Joan chugged her martini.

“I was thinking more along the lines of - “

“He knows what you were thinking, dear,” Amanda cut in before she could further humiliate herself. “Let’s call it a night, shall we?”

Joan sulkily got out her wallet and threw some money on the bar. We added our share, with an over-generous tip as befitting a fantasy stud-bartender, and wandered out onto the street.

“I can’t believe you!” Amanda exploded at Joan. “Could you be a little less subtle, maybe?”

Joan was nonplussed. She excelled at deflecting attention when she needed to. “So, Rebecca, when are YOU going to start dating again?”

The question caught me completely off-guard, which meant that my reply was defensive by default.

“You have to give me time.”

“Time?” she spluttered. “Honey, it’s been almost three years since whatshisname.”

“Yes, I know. It’s not as though I haven’t tried. I just haven’t been ready.”

“You haven’t had a date in three years?” gasped Amanda. “I had no idea things were that bad.”

“No, I have dated some. It’s just that no one was Him. Which is probably a good thing. Anyhow, now that I’m over him, I can move on with my life. OK. Dating. Where do I start?”

“Just try returning a few of the smiles you get when we’re out,” sniped Amanda.

I was floored. I had no idea I got smiles. She went on to tell me that she had thought I was an ice queen, when in fact I was just naive beyond belief. I never have been able to tell when men are hitting on me.

“The only men who ever tell me I’m fabulous go home with each other,” I moaned. “At least they’re not subtle, although I am sick of them being prettier than me.”

“Yeah, well,” Amanda said, “the use of the word ‘fabulous’ should be some indication.”

Joan had this marvelous idea to fix me up with her co-worker’s cousin, who was adorable, single, funny and rich. According to whom, I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was right. It was time to get out there. Wherever “there” was. It sounded like a remote and scary place.