Dear Bar 8 and 9,
If you ever manage to extract your tongues out of each other's ears, maybe you can then explain to me your ease at publicly sharing your moments of emotional and physical intimacy. I mean, you're in a restaurant, for Pete's sake. And I, your humble bartender, am trapped behind the bar, where I can do my best to avert my eyes, but really can only get so far away from you and your nuzzling, groping, and goofy gazes.
Love, or lust, or hormonal surges-- whatever they are, they're all a part of being human. And they can be kinda nice. I get that. And more power to ya! But holy schmo. Wouldn't you rather play out your mating ritual at home? Or at least in a car parked in an alley-- where no one has to watch you?
Think of how much more you'd be able to accomplish if you were actually able to, say, take your clothes off and not just feel each other up, à la junior high school. (I will thank you for actually being able to draw that line.) Given how free and open you are in public, what with all that tongue wrestling, I can only imagine how much more fun you could have in the privacy of your own home.
Well, I can imagine, but I really don't want to. I've seen plenty already.
I'm sorry that I didn't check in to ask you how your pizza was and that I didn't keep your water glasses filled; sometimes the best service is leaving people alone, especially if when it means not interrupting their foreplay. And if there's one thing I'm committed to doing as your bartender it's not interrupting your foreplay.
But I hope the rest of your night went as well as it seemed to be going-- our pizza makes for good carbo-loading!
Your Bartender/Most Unwilling Voyeur