To the bartender who assertively ignored my sugar daddy, and directly asked me if I did want another drink Yes sweetie I want another drink. I need another two just to touch his knee. I’ll need three to look him in his wrinkly lazy eyes for longer than a glance. I’ll need five to fake a smile when he tells me he’s already hard. I’ll need six to close my eyes and kiss his whisky neat covered lips. I’ll need six and half to tell him how to touch me there. I’ll need six and three fourths to moan and tell myself I like it. I’ll need six and five eighths to trail my fingers down his chest and pull at his pants buttons. That’s probably all I’ll need. But I might ask for more. He’ll yank his pants down at the first sign of my interest in them and my hands, my mouth, and every part of me will wrap myself around him. For a second I think, it’s not worth it. But I can’t afford not to. And sweetie, I could not do any of this if I did not have another. So please May I have another drink.
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