| (Dr. Barista or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Keep Starfuckin’ – Part 2)
Star*ucks @ Orenco Station
Hillsboro, OR 2002
Some guys say women have more than three holes in their body. Not me. I’m old fashioned. Three holes are good enough. I feel the same way about my coffee. Lots of cream. Lots of sugar. Damn the rest. The trick, of course, is finding new ways to drink such a boring cup of coffee, and, in this case, new ways to use those same three holes. Like any other modern consumer, I just try and get the most for my money.
The final day of class was great. Not only was everyone excited about finding which store they would be assigned to, but we would also be getting the exalted green aprons. All of the young caffeine heads were on pins and needles and I was tired as three broke down whores.
I hadn’t gotten any real sleep in nearly two days. The red head was wearing me thin. She could only escape during the early morning hours when she knew her boyfriend was out cold. Dealing with her was like teaching a baby how to walk. She had never been taken from behind, never received a facial, never had clothes pins clamped to her nipples. But, once she had discovered the glory of her own asshole, that shit-eating pig thought she had won the lottery.
The problem with this, obviously, is that I was on her time.
The final test covered service techniques, which was odd because most of my personal experiences at the Fucks had been met with rude behavior. Little did I know, it was a science all unto its own. The teacher paced the rows, waving a manual that was as thick as the yellow pages.
“My dear little baristas, this book is your Bible,” He said in his high, tiny voice. “This will give you everything you need to survive in the world of big time coffee.”
We all stared at the book with a detached sort of wonder. “This is better than the bible,” He continued. “That funny little Jesus man won’t be there to help you when there’s a line out the door and you’re low on Frap mix and your timers are beeping and every customer looks like they want to rip your heart out. No, not that funny Jesus. He won’t help.”
Even though his voice was enough to send me into fits of laughter, I was still having trouble staying awake. All the caffeine in the world couldn’t keep me focused entirely. I wasn’t sure why I had let the red head control the scenario, but I knew it couldn’t continue. A line had to be drawn.
“90 seconds, people. That’s all the time you have in the world!” The teacher screamed. “From the moment that customer hits the door, you have 90 seconds to take their order and form of payment, make the drink, put it in their hand, and use one snide remark!” He shook the manual again. “Without this book, you’re lost! Do you hear me?”
He had done a lot of talking about the book but not let us see it. I was preparing to mention this when I was called to join the red head at the front of the class for a bit of role-playing. He wouldn’t let us in on the manual’s infinite wisdom until we first proved ourselves worthy. At first I was nervous but then I realized I had it all under control. The test was not on the company’s techniques, but my own.
She approached me gingerly, running one finger over her bottom lip. She looked hungry, yet oddly subdued; like she was full but her appetite could not be contained. I wondered if the insides of her thighs were wet from the vaginal run-off. And instantly, the smell of sweat and visions of creased, overlapping skin filled my mind and made my pants scream.
“Hi there,” She said, her voice husky and inviting. “I’d like a grande hazel-nut breve with whip, please.”
I was stunned. Her performance was spectacular. Briefly, I turned to look for the machine so I could make the drink. But then I remembered what I had to do.
“So, how about it?” She asked again. “Can I get extra hazelnut?” She bit her bottom lip with that last part.
“Would you like to try a cranberry-cheese scone with that?” I think I said, half dazed.
She shook her head and shuffled her thighs.
“How about an extra shot? Would you like to upgrade to a venti for fifty cents extra?”
“All I want is the hazelnut. NOW.” She added sharply.
The class had all leaned forward in their chairs, watching very intently, if not confused, about our little exchange. The women especially, were extremely in tune with what appeared to be a power struggle of sorts. Even our high voiced teacher was curiously aroused. Not in the sexual sense. He was just extremely proud I was trying to up-sell.
“Please,” She said again, her voice starting to ache. “I need a hazel-nut breve so badly.”
“Really? What would you be willing to do for it?”
She tossed her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, the hands sliding over her breasts and down her sides, locking on her hips, her pelvis gyrating. She looked as if she was ready to be mounted by anyone or anything.
“I’ll do it all,” She moaned, gripping the insides of her thighs. “Please, I’ll buy a scone.”
“Would you buy a pound of Italian Roast?”
“Two pounds,” She said, her breath coming in small gasps. “I love Italian food.”
“If you like Italian Roast, than I’m sure you would enjoy the bold, intense flavor of our Sumatra Roast.”
“Oh My God!” She screamed, pulling at her shirt. “I need it, please. Please let me have it!” She pleaded, beginning to massage her nipples. “I’ll do anything you say.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Get down on all fours and suck me like the dirty bitch you are. Then I’ll make your drink.”
The teacher exploded into applause. “Bravo! I underestimated you, Whitecliff,” He said, smiling happily. “You two were marvelous. Did you see, class? Did you see the way he didn’t let the sale escape? His technique was relentless, exacting, and dirty. I loved it.” He turned to the red head. “Okay, honey. Do what he said.”
Her mood switched instantly. She went from pleasure seeker to failed seductress, her face drenched in dismay and her eyes welling with tears. She tried to protest, but the teacher would not hear it.
“Do want the apron, or not?” He taunted. She shamefully acknowledged that she did. “Then do it!”
The tears starting to flow now, she undressed slowly. She didn’t look attractive at all in the harsh fluorescents of the classroom. Every piece of clothing that hit floor carried with it a bit of her dignity, and I loved every second of it. Finally, she kneeled in front of me and unbuckled my pants. Looking up at me, her face begged for reprieve, but I couldn’t allow it. I was hard as a goddamn battleship…
The teacher slammed the manual on my desk and I came awake in a fit of confusion. Everyone was standing around watching me, bugged eyed, clad in the sacred green aprons. Our teacher was yelling something in his high voice, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Finally, he thrust a slip of paper at me. It had only two words on it: Orenco Station.
Everyone laughed.
“I’m sick of your shit!” He said. “To the doldrums for you!”
“Please, don’t send me way out there!”
“Shut up!” He hissed, and slammed the manual again. “You’re lucky you got to go there.”
He stormed off and the class dispersed, our education finally complete. The red head was leaving, too. But, just before she reached the door, she turned and smiled at me; a kind, thoughtful smile that made me feel as if our time together was something special after all. Then she gave me the finger and walked out of my life forever.
I thought I had failed, the class and myself. It was a horrible feeling. But then I looked down and discovered two things. One, there was a green apron sitting on my desk, neatly folded. And two, I had filled my pants with semen.
(To Be Continued)
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