Monday, May 15, 2006

Waittresses and Barmaids are my weakness.

The last airstrip.
[The last airstrip.]

One of the thoughts that go through my mind whenever I see a waitress or barmaid is:

How many customers has she banged?

It's a simple and obvious mental game, meant to gauge my own chances of bedding the aforementioned waitress or barmaid. My tally of waitresses and barmaids bedded so far = 0; but, I feel that I have been pretty close, so the urge never quite goes away.

I was in a bar, earlier tonight. One that I have only gone to, a few times before. Normally my tastes in women slides toward brunette white women; as my mental slide show of exes confirms. I don't normally lust after Indian women and have never had one as a girlfriend, but this bar's got a cute young Indian chick waitressing there. So, naturally, I'm interested. I must admit, the same thing happened to me at the Bingo. There's a young, delicious-looking little Indian bit working the floor there, distracting the hell out of me while I'm trying to play my bonanza cards. There must be something about men being served by women that pushes some ancient mating buttons. It sure explains the ratio of waitresses versus waiters at bars. I've seen Bingo Girl at the bar, so she's at least nineteen (Ontario). You have to be at least eighteen to serve at a bar, so the waitress at my new haunt is legal, too. (Gotta keep my legal ducks in a row.)

Perhaps it's just because I've spent most of my sexual life in towns and circumstances where there were relatively few Indian women who were available that I find myself craving some of them, more, now.

Wait... There was the daughter of that Ojibway/Lakota playwright. And her sister. And that Aztec-punk runaway. And the daughter of the Lakota gallery owner.

And the Ojibway poet/scholar who helped me pity the pilgrims. And the cokeded-out Lakota painter whose beauty peeled off her in layers so fast and thick that you would swear that her shadow left men weeping when they stepped on it. And the Lakota author who went to New York to get famous and now made Indian fags swoon with her presence and swear to try again, in vain.

What about the redheaded Irish/Chippewa girl on the rendezvous circuit who had the friendliest tent on the Yellow River? And "Dammit!"; Irene Bedard is married. (I met her husband at the Shakopee Powwow after saying something slightly provocative about her. It was only then that he mentioned he was her husband. Ooops.) Oh, yeah: There were also a couple of coworkers at that Native-run shelter I used to work at. But, other than that, I don’t go for Indian women. Where was I?

Barmaids and waitresses are my fantasy weakness. Crazies, sluts and nurses are my reality.

No, wait!... I almost completely forgot; I lived with a girl that I met while she was a waitress, in Wisconsin. Hell, I was engaged to her. For a while.

Yes, I did bag a waitress; nearly cost me my fucking sanity.

http://Waiting on a train.
[Waiting on a train.]


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