On the Rocks

Living alone has its perks. I can lounge around all day without showering, eat whatever I want, and toss my clothes on the floor without worrying about cleaning it up later. I was living the good life in my downtown apartment, only a bus ride from my University, and…say about 30 steps to my job. You see, I live in a flat above a café called On the Rocks; a trendy place where Toronto's finest sip on lattés and nibble on brownies, a la mode. I work as a waiter, catering these fine delicacies to composed men and gorgeous women, who lick their lips when I approach with my serving tray. The women alone are better than the tips I receive which, being an upscale establishment, are quite nice indeed.

I woke up from my snooze as I heard a sharp rap at my white wood door. A hoarse voice followed soon after.

"Mike! Eh, Mike! Your shift started 15 minutes ago, get down here!" said the angry voice of my boss, Joey Cardone. Joey had a voice that could make a grown man cry if he had wanted to, but working for him for the past year had lead me to realize that his bark is much worse than his bite.

"I'm coming Joe," I yawned in the general direction of the door. I stood up, and groggily shuffled towards the door. To make things perfectly clear, no one wants to wake up seeing Joey Cardone's face. His mid 40's face had dark bags under his eyes, and his teeth were yellowed from 30 years of smoking. His hair, though still black, was beginning to thin at the back, and the constant nurturing of a pot belly gave his jeans a real run for their money. Rootbeer and I have a running bet going on how many buttons he pops in a year. The count's at 44 on today, the first of June 2007. I still need another 76 to go before New Year's, or I'm out 300 clams. Oh that's right, I haven't introduced Rootbeer yet. Nick "Rootbeer" Racinette is the head chef at On the Rocks. Rootbeer has been working there since the place opened, and has won numerous awards for his amazing desserts. His most famous would have to be his ice-cream float, hence his nickname.


As I opened the door, Joey bumped passed me into my apartment.

"Holy shit, this place is a complete mess! Boy, didn't your mother ever teach you to clean? How fucking hard is it to pick up a god damn vacuum!" While this display of temper might have once shocked me, I now stared at my boss as if he was giving me a boring lecture on the mating habits of the Galapagos turtle. Even the most brutal of Joe Cardone's rants could make me yawn. He did have a point though. My room looked like a tornado had passed through it, and smelt of dirty laundry and decomposing pizza. Visitors wrinkled their noses, but I guess I had adapted to the smell.

"I'll clean it up tomorrow," I promised him. "Just let me find my work clothes." After fumbling around for a few minutes, I pulled on a black pair of Dockers work pants and a clean white t-shirt. I walked to the washroom and stared back at the figure in the mirror. I thought I was always a decent looking guy. Not the one that got laid at every party he went to, but still managed to date some pretty ladies. The face that stared back at me was a 5'10 clean shaven man of 20 with short brown hair and a skinny body. Don't get me wrong though, even though I was skinny I still worked out. I had rock solid abs, and some decent biceps and quads from playing hours and hours of hockey and soccer. Stepping on the scale I frowned at a measly 150 pounds. I swear, I have a non-existent metabolism. I don't even think the food digests; it just goes straight from my mouth out my ass. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see that it was almost 9:00 PM. I had slept through the whole day, and the night time rush was about to begin. I could already hear the door begin to chime as couples, hand in hand, came looking for a table. I quickly rushed out my front door, down the stairs until I came to the entrance of the restaurant. Walking in, the smell of ice cream and coffee hit me, and I realized why I loved this place. The atmosphere is incredible. Already the tables began to get packed. I nodded at Rootbeer who, standing at 6 feet tall, was already attracting the eyes of women everywhere. I couldn't blame them. Rootbeer was an incredibly handsome Greek god. His short black hair matched perfectly with his strong chin, and his hours at the gym could really be seen through his slim white t-shirt. I was already starting to get jealous as I tied on my apron. Rootbeer would be, as usual, driving home with a gorgeous stranger sitting in the passenger seat when the night has ended, while I would be moseying back upstairs to make myself a quick bite to eat before I watched the highlights of the Toronto Blue Jays game.

As I scanned the restaurant for people who haven't been served yet, I caught the eye of Melinda, the only waiter at the place, other than me of course. Good ol' Joey had scared off the last 3 waiters, leaving the place (and the tips) for us to share. It also meant that we worked harder than ever, and Melinda barely gave me a second glance as she bent down to grab some menus for the customers that just walked in. At 5'5 Melinda was petite, but while she wore her gorgeous black leather pumps it could hardly be noticed. Her chestnut brown hair tumbled lightly onto her shoulders, falling just short of her amazing breasts, which on numerous occasions I would imagine squeezing gently, generously sized in my hands. Her body smelled of strong cinnamon, an allusion to the wild passion that undoubtedly ran through her veins. In short she could turn heads, and would as often as possible. As she bent down, rummaging through menus, I noticed a black Brazilian thong peaking out from her tight black skirt. I felt a light twinge in my pants, and stared for a few more seconds until I realized that a couple was ready to have their order taken. Composing myself, I approached the two and spoke a very well rehearsed line.

"Good Evening, Madame et Monsieur, and welcome to On the Rocks. Can I get you a drink to start your evening together?"

Corny, I know, and the French brings it over the top, but when you're exceptionally friendly with the customers, there's an exceptionally larger change that you're going to walk away with a larger tip. This guy looked like a big tipper. His wife sported Tiffany's diamonds in her lobes and a sexy Dolce and Gabbana purse. He himself wore an Armani jacket, and I noted the sparkle of a Rolex under his sleeve. Jackpot.

"Yes," he said importantly, as I imagined the tip that was going to be left on the table, "We'll start a bottle of your finest Chardonnay, and we'll both share an ice cream sundae."

"Sounds like a celebration," I said, feigning interest.

"It is," his wife exclaimed. "We're celebrating our second anniversary." That was the first time that I had given her a good look. The woman sitting across from her husband was absolutely gorgeous. Where he was an older gentleman, with a receding hairline and a belly filled with expensive caviar, she was at least 20 years his junior. Her blonde hair had a tinge of red, and it resembled liquid gold flowing off her head. Her breasts, though obviously fake for such a slender, fit woman, looked absolutely fantastic. Obviously Mr. Hubby could afford the best of plastic surgeons. Her nails were a shade of deep red, and her long, silky legs were covered by the thinnest of fishnet stockings. Her red dress pulled tight against her curvy body, and a gorgeous pink pearl necklace was the cherry on top. I even detected a light fragrance of vanilla radiating off her body. Thank God I was wearing an apron because if I didn't, I would have been trying to explain a massive hard-on to a disgusted wife and husband. I managed to stammer out an answer.


"Alright, just give me a minute, and I'll get you two your wine." I said, taking a few steps back and turning on my heel. I heard a quiet giggle which stopped rather abruptly. I walked rather quickly into the kitchen, where I saw Rootbeer passionately kissing a drunken brunette. She was evidently oblivious to the icing sugar marks that Rootbeer was leaving on her black silk dress.

"Rootbeer!" I hissed. He detached himself from his catch of the day and came over.

"What is it bud?" he said, as he put his arm around me. I motioned over at the table to where Mrs. Gorgeous was sitting, trying to engage her husband in conversation. Her husband seemed to be paying more attention to his Palm Pilot than to the sexy piece of meat sitting in front of him!

"You think I have a chance?" I asked, in a business-like voice.


"Dude, she's married." He told me, in his matter-of-fact voice. I looked over at her; she had obviously given up on trying to speak with her husband, who was now on the phone with some big-shot business buddy.

"But she's so unhappy! If I was over there, I would be making out with her already!" I protested.

"It doesn't change the fact that if you sleep with her, her husband will hire the mob to kill you."

I left Rootbeer to his bimbo as I went to our wine cellar, and pulled out a bottle of our oldest Chardonnay. I wiped the dusty bottle dry as I uncorked it, getting ready to bring it to their table. Walking back with two wine glasses and an expensive bottle of Chardonnay was dangerous at On the Rocks. There were always banana peels from splits tossed around the kitchens, spilt butterscotch, ice, and all sorts of objects that can trip a guy up. I really didn't want Joey on my case right now, screaming at me to replace that bottle immediately, if not sooner. As I walked up to their table and poured two glasses, I spoke only one word. Enjoy. Mrs. Gorgeous gave me a warm, inviting smile, but Mr. Business only gave a gorilla-like grunt. I bid a hasty retreat.

The next few hours passed by in a blur. The rush kicked in about 30 minutes after I served them their wine, and we were all caught totally unprepared. After the line piled up, for people to be served, Joey Cardone began to physically drag young couples, who had been making out at tables for hours, out of his café onto the street to make room for new ones. I had to lie to Joe numerous times that Mrs. Gorgeous and Mr. Business were regulars, and it wouldn't be good for our image if we hoofed them out. I certainly didn't want to leave Mrs. Gorgeous behind just yet, seeing as how I was serving them bottle after bottle of fine wine. Melinda and I were both red in the face, frantically scrambling for menus, wine and dessert. I felt sorriest for Rootbeer however who, on top of making a dessert every three minutes, was being screamed at by his blonde companion for 30 dollars to pay for her dry-cleaning. He looked like he was about to crack. About two hours later the restaurant was almost empty. Melinda had went to the back room to do inventory and Joey was sitting at a bar stool, pouring shots for Rootbeer and himself. If alcohol did anything for Joey Cardone, it calmed him down when his blood pressure was exceedingly high. When we still had many customers after last call…well, let's just say that the cops have given our restaurant enough warnings.

Mrs. Gorgeous was completely drunk. Her husband had gone to the bathroom, and she was slumped very low in her booth. I looked around for signs of Mr. Business. Summoning up all my courage, I sat down across from her. Her eyelids fluttered open, and gave me a piercing look. Praying to god that what I was about to do was a good sign, I spoke.

"You don't have to be treated like that," I said to her drunken figure.

"Yes I do," she replied simply. "He's my husband, and he's important."

"Husband or not, a man shouldn't treat a woman like how he treated you. He should have been paying more attention to you. And who cares if he's important? You should be the number one priority in his life."

She shuddered. "I guess you're right," she said, as a tear began to roll down her eye. Fuck. This isn't what was supposed to happen. I didn't try and make her cry, I was trying to cheer her up! My mind raced for something to say, but I drew a blank. This opportunity was going down the tube.

"I need to go freshen up," she said suddenly, and half rose, half stumbled out of the booth. I couldn't do anything but watch her shuffle away. Now it was my turn to slouch down into the booth, until Joey screamed at me to do some work. I grabbed a cloth from the kitchen and began to wipe down the empty tables, long deserted by couples who were certainly getting jiggy right about now. As I began to wipe my second table, I heard a piercing scream from the washrooms. I dropped the cloth and sprinted in the direction of the facilities. Joey and Rootbeer, both being closer, were ahead of me, but stopped in their tracks so quickly that I slammed into Rootbeer and crumpled to the ground. I got up hastily, and gaped at what I saw. Melinda and Mr. Business were hastily pulling up their undergarments and pulling on their shirts. Mrs. Gorgeous looked absolutely livid, but looked so good while she screamed at her husband.

"Why would you fuck this little whore, Harold, and not your own wife? I'm a hundred times sexier than this bitch is! She doesn't even have long legs!" she sobbed and screamed at the same time. Mr. Business (who I should be calling Harold) mumbled something under his breath, but couldn't say much before Mrs. Gorgeous began to yell again.

"I don't care that you were getting bored! We are fucking MARRIED!" she shrieked. Harold gently grasped her wrist, muttering something about leaving. She yanked her hand out of his grasp, and slapped him.

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I'll get home by myself!" she yelled, as he left as fast as he could. I saw him drop a hundred down on the table where they had sat, even though I remembered their tab to be more than 200 dollars. It looked as if I wouldn't be getting that tip after all. Joey fired Melinda on the spot, who walked out in a huff, and turned back on me and Rootbeer. He politely told us to "Get back to fucking work, before I rip off your fucking nuts," and so we did. I resumed cleaning off the tables, sweeping, and brining the dishes back for Rootbeer to wash, as Joey was serving Mrs. Gorgeous, whose name was Ariel, a piping hot cup of tea, which seemed to sober her up. As she saw that we were ready to close up, she picked up her purse and glanced at the hundred dollars Harold had left, alongside their bill. Staring at it for a few seconds, she looked up fearfully at Joey, knowing full well that she didn't have enough to pay for the rest of their meal. I flinched, anticipating Joey's primal rage to materialize, but oddly enough it didn't.

"You've been though enough tonight," he said kindly. "Go home and get some sleep." Rootbeer and I gaped at Joey until he turned on us, scowled, and told us to get the fuck out of his restaurant. I was taking off my apron as I watched Ariel walk out the front door into the warm summer night. I must have been staring at the door for several minutes, because Rootbeer told me that if I hurried, I could catch her before she got on the bus. I ran like the wind.

Out of breath, I caught sight of a red dress and tore after it. I yelled as loud as I could.

"Oi! Ariel!" That got her to turn around, as I jogged up to her.

"Where are you going to spend the night?" I asked kindly.

"At home," she replied. I was flabbergasted. How could this woman return home to a man who had just cheated on her? I asked her that question, and was surprised to hear her answer.


"I have no where to go, no money, no relatives in Toronto, I'm all alone!" she sobbed. I knew that this was my chance, and I prayed to God, Allah, Satan, and whoever the fuck else would let me bring this girl home. After a few minutes of mumbling, I popped the question. She seemed very surprised.

"With you? Are you sure that's ok? I really wouldn't want to impose." She said.

"Please don't worry about it," I smiled. "You can have the bed; I'll sleep on the floor. It's the least I can do for such a horrible night." I wheedled. She finally nodded her head in agreement, and a marching band played inside my head in celebration, but oddly enough it had nothing to do with getting laid. I genuinely felt happy that I could help this poor girl in any way I could. It was such a wonderful feeling, I felt like her knight in shining armor. The feeling lasted until we arrived at my front door. Suddenly I realized what was behind this door. A sea of dirty laundry, empty bags of chips, pizza boxes, my TiVo recording the game, the list went on and on. She's either going to think that my house got sacked, or that I was the last living Neanderthal man. She however, breathed a sigh of relief when I opened the door. I must have had my mouth dropped to the floor, because she laughed.

"At our house, Harold always has everything neat and tidy, and the maids clean up everything. It's relaxing to know that you aren't a neat freak." She laughed.

"No, I'm just the slob next door," I replied gloomily. She saw that I was upset, and told me that she didn't mind at all. In fact, it got her mind off Harold. I invited her to take a seat on the couch and watch the game as I went into the bedroom to prepare it for a lady. I put all the clothes into a hamper, changed the sheets, and lit two lavender candles so she could relax in peace. When I came back into the living room to announce her room was ready, she was no longer there. For a few seconds I thought she had left, until I saw the light shining from under the bathroom door. I sat down on the couch, and watched the next few minutes of the game. Bottom of the 7^th with the Jays at bat, I didn't even notice Ariel crawl over the couch to sit beside me until I felt her leg brush against mine. I looked over at her, and saw that she had taken off her dress and put on one of my old t-shirts. I probed my mind, asking myself how long I had left that shirt in the bathroom, and while I was debating between 4 hours and 3 months, Ariel leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

I was completely shocked. The kiss itself wasn't passionate, but it was warm and long. Our lips were locked together for a good ten seconds, and I could feel the warm flush creeping across her face. As she pulled away, the look she gave me was one of pure horror.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," she whispered, mortified. I managed to stammer out a response.


"It's, its fine. You've just had a rough night." I replied, not being able to keep my eyes of her chest. Her nipples were almost popping out of her shirt. The fleeting smell of vanilla I had detected in the restaurant was now a heated mixture of human sweat and the former. It smelt of passion waiting to be unleashed onto the world.

"Maybe I should," It was all I managed to get out before she kissed me again. This time I felt her mouth open, and mine automatically did the same. I kissed her again and again, feeling her suck on my lower lip as I slid my tongue deep inside her mouth. Her tongue joined mine and we began a dance in our mouths that seemingly lasted for hours. Her hands flew to my chest and began to caress my body through my t-shirt, still kissing me wildly. I lifted my arms and my shirt was on the floor, instantly camouflaging itself with the rest of my dirty laundry. The close game didn't matter anymore as Ariel's mouth sucked on mine. As she fumbled with my belt buckle, I began to lift her shirt from the back. The cotton material slid up her sexy spine, revealing the tip of a pink satin thong. As I pulled it over her head, she finally managed to get my pants down, and quickly stripped me of my boxers. Wildly we attacked each other, embracing one another in a tight hug, still kissing. I could feel her body warmth on my skin. Her body was so soft and smooth, there wasn't a hair on her anywhere, it was akin to being rubbed with silk. I lay back onto the couch as she slid up onto my chest. I could feel the wetness of her sex on my body, as it oozed closer and closer to my mouth. Her lips were fully flowered, revealing her pink pussy to my hungry eyes. I couldn't wait any longer, and I grabbed the backside of her thighs and pushed her beautiful pussy right into my waiting tongue. Not to brag or anything, but I am an absolute master of cunnilingus. My tongue boldly goes where no tongue has gone before, and my girlfriends had loved me for it. Ariel was no different, and as I began to work her clit into a frenzy, she tossed her golden hair back and began to moan. It was the sexiest sound I had ever heard, which pushed my tongue harder and harder into her clit. Her moan grew louder and louder until her body began to erupt in violent spasms. She arched her hips as orgasm after orgasm took her, and her warm secretion flowed freely onto my face and neck. Her moans grew softer and softer until they became a low purr, and I noticed a fire in her eyes I had not seen before.