The Bartender is Mine. And I Will Totally Have Him in English

When my nail polish is dry enough, they lose. Like scorpions in a fiery circle, they masochistically inject poison, honorably sentencing themselves to retreat.

After my last writing, the editor calls me and says: ‘Come on, girl, it’s all cool, San Francisco, madness and all that… But what did you get up to, that’s what I’m interested in… And I won’t tell anyone.’ They say that a shared secret is the best start to a female friendship. And sometimes those are secrets that are not hidden, but we call them secrets just to give weight to everything we confide in each other. We keep those secrets as much as we keep a calendar of last year’s ovulations. So, dear editor and all you curious ones, there’s nothing to hide here, but to exclaim: ‘It’s wonderful to be a girl in San Francisco!’ But let’s go in order. As is customary, my days start relatively late because they also end late. From my rrrrrrr-accent, Americans totally get goosebumps in all the right places. Especially when I ride my bike and throw something at them, and I love biking because I don’t have balls that can get squished, which is evolutionarily quite advanced and very practical – they are built-in, not hanging. I stuff a couple of hard breasts into my shirt and they are always at hand, accessible, and I always have my clitoris with me – the only organ in the anatomies and physiologies of both human sexes that serves exclusively for pleasure. Unfortunately, not only are men unaware of this fact, but many women are as well. I’m in my thirties, and that’s when a woman is most deeply a woman, so my orgasms last ten times longer than guys’.

Mandatory without a boyfriend
On the other hand, I won’t let anyone mess with me about certain things. For example, high heels. They were invented by guys so you can’t escape when they’re boring you, so I’m all about tanks. Furthermore, I don’t wear thongs because they were also invented by men. Which woman would ever think of shoving something so thin and flimsy between her buttocks! And most importantly, I won’t let anyone lie to me that I have to repay life. When it comes to that last one, the most beautiful memory I keep of my last lover is the night I cheated on him. And now I will exclaim once again: ‘It’s wonderful to be a girl… in San Francisco!’ Because if it’s true that the culture of a place is determined by its attitude towards women, I can, being as generous as I am, say that a very nice and cultured world lives here. We perceive large American cities through the stereotypes that define them. So while money reigns in New York, while power captivates in Washington, and fame is on a pedicure in Los Angeles, San Francisco modestly prides itself on freedom, a freedom as simple and ubiquitous as sipping cappuccino on the sidewalk.
Therefore, if you head to San Francisco, leave your boyfriend at home.

With a lot of grapefruit
And the first and best investment for a young lady in San Francisco is coffee in the bar you adopt as the domicile of your ritual start to the day. There is also the best harbinger of spring, for-everyone – the local bartender. He is serving me right now. A dark-skinned mixed-race man. His face shines with the whole world I want to applaud until my palms fall off. There’s something black-yellow-French about him. I order grapefruit juice. ‘Is that all you want, sweetie?’ He leans towards me, and my shirt rises like a white flag of surrender… ‘Is that all you want, sweetie?’ Mmmm, I think: ‘You will peel my grapefruit. You will squeeze my grapefruit. You will grapefruit my squeeze. You will rap with my grapefruit, grapefruit with my rap. Grapefruit in slices, in pieces, in liters. A lot of grapefruit. And sex. Sex in English. Sex with dreadlocks.’ At coffee with my bartender, no one who values themselves can feel like a stranger and isolated. But then you notice that others around you are also free, without partners, without children, almost even without ancestors, alike without any itches except the itches within themselves. They would also make sweet little babies and wouldn’t talk about fidelity. They would leave things behind when they wouldn’t be afraid that others would take them…
I tell the bartender: ‘Wrap me up with your hand!’

Hunting for Kairos
And the fish are around me. I watch them, they watch me, he watches them. And in San Francisco, as everywhere in the world, seven women throw themselves at one straight guy because they also obviously think it’s wonderful to be a girl… And especially in San Francisco. However, in the case of threatening competition, I follow my philosophical maxim that a woman is completely helpless only while her nail polish is drying. It’s true that this sometimes resembles a political advertising campaign, but the goal is not to split hairs. After all, those fish, when they get a little tipsy, forget the manners of the English queen, they preen, lurking for the opportunity for loud laughter, crossing their legs and letting their straps fall so they can lift them again… Let’s say it’s for the sake of photographing French nails… Practiced provocatively, pastel-sensual pantomime movements full of fingers are doing something to themselves and around them, as spontaneous as the seventeenth performance of buying popcorn in front of the cinema – they smooth out the opportunity, encourage the moment of conquest, await leaning, hope for a whisper. They are surprisingly charming as if they are touching me with my husband. Because of them, I start with the determination of a venomous snake. With total last intention, like a bell ringer, I pull Kairos by his penis, leaving the girls to tug at his poor tuft. Of course, as always when my nail polish is dry enough, they lose. Like scorpions in a fiery circle, they masochistically inject poison, honorably sentencing themselves to retreat. The bartender is mine. Completely mine. And I will totally have him in English.