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It’s Back to Work I Go … Diary of a Male Bartender Prostitute…

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LArry the Bartender

Bartender? … Prostitute?

… synonyms really …

You didn’t know that?

Well, I didn’t either until …

Hold on, I don’t want to confuse you, so let me retreat a bit here.

A few weeks back, for some fun and variety, I spent 4 hours each day, Monday to Friday, at Bartending School in Kelowna. Plunk down $400 tuition and a week later you finish with an official Bartender’s Diploma.

Hour after hour, I mixed and poured about 5 billion drinks of coloured water that looked like fancy cocktails into chilled martini glasses and shooter glasses and highball glasses. “Would you like that as a double?

Bartending Certificate

Then, the following week, with my official Bartender’s Certificate in hand, I went to a few local Penticton restaurants and dropped off my resume asking for a day or two a week of bartending work.

Within hours of leaving my resume behind, one of my very favourite restaurants, a local Greek culinary landmark, interviewed me and, in a moment of obvious weakness – or perhaps heat stroke – they offered me a shot at being one of their bartenders.

Hell yeah”, I said.

And now, looking like Sam Malone in Cheers, I’ve run and sweated and poured and mixed my way through 3 bartending shifts.

And despite feeling exhausted at the end of each stint, I kinda like this stuff.

Especially the Prostitution part. Yeah yeah, I’ll explain that in just a minute.

It’s a hot summer here in the Okanagan Valley, so I’ve dished up a ton of chilly Pinot Gris wine and foamy Cannery Brewery draft beers and spicy Caesars and even a few Mojitos and GreyHounds and Gin and Tonics.

I’m still waiting for my first requests for the candy-coloured fluffy drinks – a Red-Headed Slut or a Cosmopolitan or a Singapore Sling, but I can be patient. Manhattans weren’t built in a day.

red headed slut

OK… now let’s go back to the beginning of this story where I told you that bartenders and male prostitutes are kinda the same thing.

Prostitutes offer a desired service that makes their customer feel warm and fuzzy and light-headed, maybe even a bit flushed and elated (I won’t go into detail of the services offered right here if that’s alright, you can paint that libidinous picture according to your own desires and carnal proclivities).

And then the client hands them cash in appreciation for the service. Right? Am I right?

Well, I’ve just discovered, bartenders do the same thing.

I stand behind the bar, wiping the counter with a bar rag, looking so understanding and approachable. My warm eyes tell you that you could rip your heart out, hot blood pulsing onto the bar top, and hand it to me and I’d just nod in empathy, all ears for you.

Then I pour my client a shot of Ouzo or Baileys on the Rocks. I know I’m helping to make that individual feel warm and fuzzy and light-headed, maybe even a bit flushed and elated.

When they’ve finished their meal and drinks and reached their happy place, they slip a few appreciative dollars to the gaggle of (mostly) female servers (pimpettes).

At the close of the evening when it’s dark and the humid night air begins to cool – after the satisfied customers have all departed with a spent sense of inner serenity, the (mostly) female servers come to me one by one.

Quietly, they each slip me a few $5 or $10 bills in appreciation for the “happy” services I’ve rendered their clients throughout the evening.

I smile at them and flush a tiny bit as I accept the cash they call “tips”.

I feel a tiny bit dirty accepting payment this way, but I manage to quash my moral “inner voice”, rationalizing – perhaps fooling myself – that no one is actually being hurt because of the services I offer.

In my head I whisper soothing things like what I do is keeping the economy humming along.

gstring $$

It’s always said that Prostitution is the oldest profession.

I beg to differ.

Alcohol and bartending surely must have been precursors to sales of the flesh.

Who believes that alcohol wasn’t served as a soothing prequel to the idea of paid passionate pairing?

Just watch any movie about bawdy houses, brothels, whore houses… they all begin with “appetizer” drinks served liberally around before couples slip away to private quarters for the “main entree”.

Yes, bartenders have been prostituting themselves ever since Jurassic beasts abandoned our neighbourhoods and we humans rose up on our feet and discovered fermentation.

Today, I’m proud to go to work in what truly is the world’s oldest profession…

And you can take those $$ to the bank.

bar tips

I Want To Be A Prostitute Too!

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Have you ever had the Prostitute dream?

WHOA, what a dream.

For a man (perhaps other than Brad Pitt, Bradley Cooper, or George Clooney) it’s great to be an object of sexual desire to women. To dream that people might actually want to pay you to get naked and live out the porno world lifestyle? Try as I might, it’s all very hard to imagine and absorb.

Forgive my laughter because PROSTITUTION just isn’t funny.

But the dreams I have about being a male prostitute are.

Fred Garvin Male Prostitute

Women have all the luck…they get to be prostitutes.

Men climb all over each other -so to speak – to pay women to satisfy their carnal needs. And on the plus side, use of prostitutes is an egalitarian sort of activity. Guys paying for sexual services is a class-free, stationless event where the lowest of the low and the highest of the high partake more or less equally. There is a sort of Gucci vs WalMart approach as the price points and quality of services rendered vary tremendously (I’m told!).

It’s a strange quirk of nature that men begin the vigorous hunt of sexual partners from the moment they nudge puberty, looking to sow their seed in any and every flower bed they can find. Most women are taught by their mothers (and maybe even more quizzically so, their fathers) to hold sex as a judicious tool in their quiver, only to be unleashed at rare moments, like Sasquatch or Loch Ness Monster sightings.

It takes a mature man to look at the unfortunate lives of others who shovel in the sexual sandbox to pay their monthly rent bill and still find empathy and deep respect.

In today’s post, I just don’t happen to be that mature man.

You see I’m a typical sort of guy who only sees the romantic shiny veneer of something as dark as prostitution. The ability or opportunity to have sex multiple times each night is like … well it’s like offering sex to a man multiple times each night. I can’t think of a simile/metaphor to top that.

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I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.”  Steve Martin
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Woman paying for sex

What a peculiar world we live in where women, who as often as not, would prefer to cuddle with a one-and-only and yet have the opportunity and saleability to erotically nosh with just about any mouthbreather going.

So, what is it really like to be a prostitute?

Pay-for-Sex is more often shown in the TV and movie genres as glorious, enjoyable, desirous activity.  Just a few tidbits of fictional examples of prostitutes like Dan Aykroyd’s Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute on Saturday Night Live or shows like Belle de Jour or Secret Diary of a Call Girl show us how remarkably fun and joyous playing with others in the buff can truly be. Just who wouldn’t want to drink champagne and cavort on crisp, clean hotel sheets with another well-toned, libidinous looker, AND get paid all at the same time. 

Secret Diary of A Call Girl

There’s never any thought given to possible pregnancy or brothel sprouts, it’s all just good pristine fun and games shared with a desirable stranger without any clothes or hangups or back stories.

I live a very sheltered existence and rarely if ever encounter someone who is or has used the services of a prostitute. Of course, I did have some teenage male friends who claimed to have regular rendezvous with the fairer (professional) sex in back alleys and massage parlours. But, just as many men enjoy reading sci-fi fantasy novels as adults, I suspect my teenaged buds were living a touch of lustful fantasy world inside their heads at the time … just sayin’ guys.

The only real life moments even remotely close to the concept of prostitution occurred in my early years living in Yellowknife in the far north. I was shocked that “good” girls could be so forthright and forward in asking for sexual partnering. For a young, naive kind of guy, this was simultaneously shocking and splendidly exciting.

Part of my personal self-esteem is tied to the thought that I might be physically desirable to someone… yeah, anyone! It’s nice to be respected and desired for intellect or personality, but there’s a lower base sort of idea inside that says my physical products could still make the sale in the personal section of Craigslist or Cowboys4Angels.

No woman has ever thought to pay me to be her bed buddy! And truthfully, I don’t think that one ever will. This, despite my ability to pose languorously, seductive-like, and lick my lips just like the most expensive seasoned sexual pro.

I guess that my Happy Ending doesn’t involve pay-for-service, except late at night in the private sanctity of my whoring dreams!

Cowboy4angel