I West Side Walk It Out

So, yesterday, I noticed that the other bartender was wearing jeans, flats and a casual shirt.  If I don't have to dress sexy, I'm not going to.  Plus, bartending in heels?  No.  I think not.

I'm wearing a tee shirt, shorts and flip flops when I arrive at the bar Friday night.  Boss man (el jefe) says to me: "you bring something?" pointing to my bag, meaning: "did you bring a change of clothes?"

"No... I noticed yesterday that the other bartender was dressed casually, so I thought that's what I should wear," I answered.

He spoke to the cocktail waitress and told her to fix me.

We went in the bathroom and she pulled out a bra with a lace halter overlayed on top of it and a black knit mesh top with silver rhinestones.  "Which one you wanna wear, mama?"

Uh... is neither an option?

Both options were trashy, but under no circumstances will I ever do rhinestones or glitter on clothing, so bra-top it was.  

"You look like you're going to the beach.  That's fucked up.  Yesterday, you were good; what happened, mama?"

"Well, I saw how the other bartender was dressed..."

"No no.  You do you.  You saw she got less tips than you.  You gotta stay sexy."

She then did my makeup.  I looked vampy.  Not feelin it.

Everyone who knows me and how I usually dress knows that I have absolutely no problems showing skin, being sexy, wearing provocative clothing... however, there's always an element of the playful, cute, fashionable or classy to everything sexy I wear.  And it's always my choice how I present myself.  No one tells me when to "sex it up"; I do that myself.

After the cocktail waitress left the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the lacy bra and my shorts, my eyes loaded with lavender and black eyeshadow.  I shook my head at my reflection.

"Nope.  Nuh-uh.  Not comfortable.  I'm not doing this."

I wasn't going to spend from 9 pm to 4 am behind a bar wearing next to nothing in a room full of men I can barely understand as they ogle my ta-tas.  It would be one thing if I were working at a bikini bar where ALL the bartenders are scantily clad... but I wasn't about to be the only one.  Hell no.  And it just looked... trashy.

I took off the bra top, put my own clothes back on, and washed the makeup off.  

I went over to El Jefe and said, "I'm not comfortable like that.  I can't wear that."

He said he understood and told me to have a seat and wait for him to talk to me.  I took a seat, but he didn't come over for about 20 minutes, and then only to say, "I'll be with you in 2 minutes."

As I waited, I texted my sister and my friends about the bra.  I watched men's heads turn to look at me as I sat in the window: sans makeup and casually, comfortably clothed.  Man, I'm cute.  I don't need to be damn near naked and wearing pounds of makeup to attract appreciative stares.  And if my smile and conversation don't do enough to bring me tips, then I'm in the wrong profession-- which I know I'm not.  This isn't the place for me.  I thought all this as I was sitting there.

I looked at my watch.  I looked at El Jefe, who was tinkering around on his computer although there was no one at the bar.

"Fuck this shit," I said under my breath and walked out.

...And then I went home and listed my day behind the bar as "guest bartender" experience.

Hustle, baby, hustle.