The Applebee's Employee

As soon as I set foot in his room, Jon pinned me down to his bed. I love that. A guy that knows how to take control without being a creepy rapist = A+ work. Clothes came off, we were making out on his surprisingly comfortable white linen sheets, when he went down on me. Oh boy, it felt good. I had never really experienced someone eating me out successfully at 16 years young. Probably because he was 24. It seemed as if 20 minutes went by, when all of a sudden… BOOM BOOM BOOM!
There was a pounding at the door. Not a typical “Hey, are ya in there?” knock. But an “open the fucking door before I break it down” knock.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!! WHO IS THIS MOTHERFUCKING SLUT! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!” A woman’s voice shouted on the other side.

Jon’s face went white. It was as if he had seen fucking Casper.

“Cover up! Cover up!!” He yelled at me.

Without hesitation, I put on the first shirt I saw that had been thrown off less than an hour ago on his lint-covered floor, but of course, couldn’t find my God damned pants.
Jon had already put on his jeans… and looked at me, as he was about to turn the doorknob.

“Put on your fucking pants!” he loudly whispered to me.

He whispered as if the bitch on the other side of the door, was stupid enough to not know what was going on. It was dark! There wasn’t a chance I was going to find my pantalones… so what did I do? Rapidly Got under the sheets, and received a death stare from Jon. What was I supposed to do? I had never been a situation like this before.
I didn’t sign up for this shit. as I wondered how I even got into this predicament...

Flashback:
I had just returned from Cancun from a disastrous trip with my boyfriend at the time, Andrew, and his family. Both parents loathed me because I had popped their baby boy's proverbial virginal cherry. How I came out of Cancun alive? Astounds me.
The following day I had to drive from Chicago to Flint, Michigan (the armpit of America), for a tennis tournament with my tennis coach, Marco. Most tennis coach/tennis player relationships are incredibly dull. However, Marco and I were quite the contrary. You could say “unconventional.” We would binge on alcoholic beverages before and after tennis matches, talked an enormous amount of shit about fellow players, lunatic tennis parents, coaches, etc., chain smoked Marlboros, it was awesome.
How I received a full, 4-year scholarship to play tennis at a Division One school? It’s beyond me. Marco was the cool older brother that I never had. Would I trust him if I had kids? Not a chance.
Off to Flint we went. I hadn’t practiced one bit during my Cancun “vacation,” however, I decided to compete anyways. Thankfully enough, I ended up performing pretty fucking well… beating a higher ranked bitch that received a full scholarship to Marquette, and a few other tennis sluts that I couldn’t stand.
We were in this monstrosity of a “city” for three days, so when I got out of the tournament, Marco and I wanted to truck our asses out of Flint, stat. Sweaty and disgusting, I decided I didn’t care enough to shower in the locker room at the tennis facility, so we hopped on the road. About an hour into our ride… our tummies began to rumble.

Next exit?

Grand Rapids.

Applebee’s?

Here we come.

There is nothing I despise more than tacky chain restaurants where they force employees to wear unnecessary pins and knickknacks on their vests or suspenders. But when ya gotta eat, ya gotta eat.
We were chowing down at Applebee’s, and everything was completely ordinary. It was about noon, Marco was hitting on the waitress, we were slurping on margaritas, making fun of the stupid, annoying cunt that I played earlier that morning… when all of a sudden, I see a stunner. I nearly choked on my Fajita wrap.
Absolutely gorgeous, just my type… tall, dark, handsome, and resembled Joaquin Phoenix at his peak… before he got all creepy and homeless looking. The downfall?
He’s a waiter.

Where?

At Applebee’s.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

When you look like this guy, I have tendencies to look past occupation, creed, political affiliation, even the Fonz pins.
Once I finished unclogging my throat, I leaned over to Marco, and pointed the hot piece of ass out. Marco, being the instigating charmer he is, called the teeny waitress over and requested the Jaoquin-look-a-like waiter’s presence.

Dehydrated from my tennis match, and already drunk from half of an Applebee’s signature margarita, I thought this was the best idea since vibrators. The waitress entered the kitchen…
A few moments later, I could see “Jaoquin” peaking through the streaky, poorly Windexed peephole from the kitchen door.
The door flung open… that was a good sign.

As he started to approach, Marco was giggling like a schoolgirl at this pathetic chain of events.
He was in front of me. I stared, and stuck out my balmy hand. He was even better looking up-close.
Before I knew it,

“Hi. I’m Stess.” Courageously escaped my lips.

He returned with a handshake and a smile, all while staring into my eyes. One of those handshakes, that you know, lasted a little too long…
“Hi… I’m Jon. Did you need anything?”
“Your number.” I responded.
Where I mustered up this confidence at 16 years old? God only knows. Blame it on the alcohol. Jon laughed, as he threw his head back and took his thumb to pull one of his suspenders. Hot at the time…. Now that I look at it? More like a Steve Erkel move.
We chitchatted about the usual bullshit. Jon was born and raised in Grand Rapids, 24, going to some shit community college close by… blah, blah, blah.
Of course, I lied. I told him I was 21… and single.

But, what’s new? Not Single, not a problem.


Steve Erkel, I mean…Jon ended up turning the tables, asking me for my number. Without thinking twice, I dutifully inked my digits on an Applebee’s paper drink napkin, stained with my chipotle ranch sauce from my wrap.
He tucked the crusty napkin in his polyester pocket and had to return to attend to his actual customers. Marco and I finished our meal, I gave Jon a little wave while heading out the door, and Marco and I went on our way, back to Chicago.
A few hours after arriving home, speaking to my boring boyfriend Andrew, and showering without the chance of getting a staph infection from a Flint hotel, I received a call from an Unknown number on my cell.

“Hmm.” I thought. “I wonder who this could be.”

Sure enough, it was Jon. He wanted to come to Chicago the following weekend.
Balls. Can’t deal with this shit. A 24-year-old, Applebee’s employee, from Grand Rapids, Michigan? My parents wouldn’t exactly be pleased housing this degenerate pedophile for a weekend. Especially, because my mom loved Andrew more than I did, or really even more than she loved me.
Naturally, I lied. I told him I had a tournament in Indianapolis, but I could drive back to good ol’ Grand Rapids, the following weekend. I needed time to plan the rendezvous out.

Jon said that seemed like a good idea… and that was that.
About two weeks rolled around, as I had meticulously planned how I was going to swing this lil weekend getaway, all the while keeping this under my parents’ and Andrew’s radar.
That Friday after school and tennis practice, I packed my bags, and told my parent’s I was staying at my friend Ariel’s house. I also purposely picked a fight with Andrew so I wouldn’t have to speak to him the rest of the night. I gave myself a pat on the back, while exiting my driveway.
So there I was, starting my first semi-long distance trip by myself, with a fresh license from the DMV…Four hours later, after sitting in nightmare-ish traffic, and managing to avoid any accidents, I pulled into an murky apartment complex in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
I suddenly became very nervous, I looked under my armpits to find pit stains. Fuck. Before I could rush to reapply my deodorant, Jon walked out of his apartment. Balls. He was lookin’ fine without the ever-exclusive Applebee’s wardrobe. He wore an Abercrombie t-hirt and slightly faded jeans. Everything was status quo, we hugged and chatted, he invited me into his place, we drank a few beers, and then Jon offered to take me to dinner. Hmm, I wondered what kind of delish places were nearby.
We got into his red Chevy sedan, with grey interior. It smelled like a fart in the bathtub. I almost gagged, so I squeezed my nostrils together, and began breathing through my mouth. After seven dreadful minutes, we pulled up to a TGI Fridays. Awesome. More Fonz pins and suspenders. Couldn’t wait.
To be honest, at this point I wasn’t feeling this guy. There weren’t any sparks or fireworks. Whatsoever. However, I was 16 and wanted a little thrill and a little strange. And I remember feeling empowered that at my age, I could attract someone that much older than I. I ordered a Vodka Tonic and Chicken Caesar Salad. Standard. Jon ordered a Captain and Coke and a quesadilla.
However, it’s nothing a little more booze can cure, right? I ordered another margarita, and slurped that shit down stat. With each sip, he looked a little more gorgeous, and became a little more interesting.
Blah, blah, blah. We returned back to his place around 11pm, and he immediately wanted to give me a tour of his room. Perfection. Things were going to heat up real quick.

_________________________
And now here I was, lying pantless in an unfamiliar bed, with Jon's bitch about ram through the floodgates.

The door swung open, pushing Jon behind it… Here we go.

When the 5’3, approximately 200 pound, short-haired, blonde woman stormed into the room, I was awkwardly posed with solely a bare, white sheet covering my half naked body.

Fuck, I felt like a little girl who was staring into the soul of the Boogie Man. Once, her eyes darted at me, I thought smoke was going to blow from her ears. Thankfully, I didn’t shit my pants… or the bed for that matter.

“What da fuck Jon! We are fucking done! Ya piece o’ shit!” the tubby blonde yelped as she was tugging a ring from her chubby sausage fingers from her left hand.

Great. The Applebee’s loser is engaged. I bet they would have the crème-de-la-crème of offspring.

“Baby!! I’m fucking sorry!! Please… don’t…FUCK… baby! Please?!” Jon pleaded.

“Go fuck this little fucking slut!” Jon’s “baby” retorted as she pointed at me.

My mouth stayed shut like a steel trap. What was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? Defend myself? Nah. Was I supposed to get up, try to find my pants, with my huge ass in the fiancé’s face? I was frozen.

Just like a scene from a fucking soap opera, she took her engagement ring and threw it on the bed with all of her might. I think she tried to aim the ring at me, but maybe her blubbery triceps got in the way.

Shamu stormed out of the room in a fuss, yelling random obscenities like “asshole,” “piece of shit,” and “loser” on her way. Jon followed like a lost puppy behind her… and out the door the front door they went…

Footsteps lingered in the distance. I tentatively peered around the bedpost, and into the hallway… Phew…The coast was clear. I deemed this was a good time to find my pants and skedaddle out of Grand Rapids. I drove drunk and high on adrenaline, back to Chicago, and thankfully arrived safely at Ariel’s home at 3:30am.

That would be the first and last time I made a trip for dick.

Love Me or Leave Me.

I love fucking men. I really do. But, I have a perversion of sorts, because as much as I love a great romp, I enjoy fucking with their heads more. I don’t know what it is. I doubt it’s a birth defect, but I find personal pleasure in knowing that I end up on top (you can decide if the pun is or is not intended).

As far as being in competition with other women for a prized piece, I don’t play that game. I have far too much pride to participate in something so juvenile. Either a guy wants you, or he doesn’t. Case closed.

I am not a 10 or even a 9, but I have a sort of charisma and confidence that many other women simply do not covet. And many a time, I walk out of a bar, restaurant, wherever, with some sweet eye-candy, leaving the 9 and 10s scratching the foundation off their foreheads.

I’ve woken up in a plethora of beds. I’ve been tangled in Egyptian cotton, imported Indian silk, and strangely knitted cum-stained sheets. I’ve woken up next to multi-millionaires, drug dealers, supermodels, stockbrokers, pro athletes, a fugitive, and an Applebee’s employee. I’ve woken up in presidential suites, penthouse apartments, cozy lofts, and a trailer park. (I assure you, not one of my finest moments). I’ve had hours and hours of elongated romps, quickies, and pre-ejaculators. I’ve slept with great men, assholes, and those who were just there to pass the time. I would be lying if I said I haven’t regretted anyone that I have slept with. Trust me, I’ve fucked some serious losers.

Now, I am not a prostitute, nor a slut. I wasn’t raped or abused. And I sure as hell don’t have mommy or daddy issues. I have received proposals, private jets, diamond jewelry, love notes, and one too many mixed cheesy c.d.’s. I simply enjoy sex, and to be honest… I’m just fucking great at what I do in the sack.