He’s not my typical type. Not a doctor. Not a lawyer. Not a politician. And no, not a trust fund kid. He hasn’t even won the lottery (unless I count cause I’m the jackpot, baby).
Instead, he’s is in the service industry. Gross. Except, that can be pretty special. I didn’t realize it before, but being a waiter is hard. He works pretty damn hard and knows how to milk it for tips. I asked him if he’d wait on me but apparently I’m pretty needy.
It’s 2017, since when is it considered “needy” to want a hamburger at a restaurant? I don’t care that you’re a Greek Restaurant, we live in America. Girls, do not let boys boss you around and tell you what to eat. Listening to men will only shame spiral you into marrying a narcissist. Nothing’s worse than a man trying to get you near their balls. Despite telling Andres incessantly that I did not want his special “off-the menu” meatballs, he kept bringing me free wine and eventually I gave in. I tried his damn balls. Except, they were a lot different than I had expected.
While I had expected to be presented with the two sacks of his scrotum, his off-the-menu testicles actually referred to FDA regulated lamb-meat. It was tasty, and Andreas kept the restaurant open late for me to get drunk and inhale balls (though, the only thing that kept coming was the wine and food). Talking to him was so natural, I almost didn’t care that I was eating my weight in calories.
He was perfect. Greek. Tall. Dark. Handsome. For a moment, I didn’t care that he was in the fucking service industry. We clicked and all I wanted was for him to service me. We exchanged numbers and Andres added me on FB — where I swiftly figured out he was married.
That bastard didn’t even try to hide it. Were all Greek men this blasé about infidelity or had I found a gem? Either way, I never went near his balls again.