Last Day Part 3

The resort has live shows every day starting about 930. I’d either be drunk or with Dorian. Admittedly, he’s kept me pretty wasted.

Given the lack of hang over in the morning, and how much I giggle over the idea of coming back despite everything else? Him keeping me balanced on that post of drunk isn’t bad. 

I huffed, puffed, finished my drink and found the waitress who has brought me drinks for the past week. Today she stopped, mouth opened and said, “He ordered you a Spanish coffee, but you are mojito!”

At least she knows me despite how much of a shitty tipper I am.

Spanish coffee equals coffee with alcohol. Oh my god, guilty pleasure.

Anyhow! 

I saw her and give her my drink as she frowned at me and motioned to the French family as if to ask what kind of fucking douchebag does that.

My raffle win? She shrugged and said whatever. But taking a table? 

Burn the witch!

I wanted that dress…

Any who. I gave her my glass instead of leaving it on the shelf or floor. I went to the bathroom (bladder the size of a pea and they have three, three public bathrooms, two in the lobby) and then walked downstairs as I almost cried because I’m plain and burned thanks to my time in the sun and no one feels anything but pity for me because I’m alone. 

Here’s the thing about that…

I get about three steps and my back goes straight and I go up on the balls of my feet, looking around for a predator to take anyone down who would dare see me as anything less than I am.

I went downstairs  (mind you, probably wobbling) and found the live music area. I ordered a drink and, as the bartender ignored me to check his messages, I objectified him. Mm, nice ass.

I’d like to see him under Dorian.

Which was about the point where he turned and handed me my drink and I squeaked. Dorian doesn’t do that, we’ve never discussed it and that’s not how objectification works.

So… apparently I’m about to take in a live show.

Updated: oh my god. My bartender is name Raphael. He can make a mean mojito and when he smiles?

Fuck me. I forget I’m paying his wage. I forget that he is only being nice for the tip. Oh god. Dear Raphael, 

If I knew how to say “Fuck me,” in Spanish, I would. 

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