The Hot Waiter

Misseducated

✨ I’ve missed writing for you! I think you’ll like this story… ✨

I will give my number to the hot waiter at this restaurant. But this dinner is not my typical Wednesday night, and it’s far from over.

The light in the restaurant is deep and gold. Low beams radiate out over the main dining area. Impeccably dressed people sit on wood-framed chairs and silently drag their spoons across plates of mole. My dark rouge lipstick stains the thin curve of my wine glass as I take a sip. After I put the glass down, I can’t help but run my hands over the hazelnut table, sturdy yet tantalizing. Five other glasses of various shapes, sizes, and colors sit there, waiting for me to work through them. I am sharing the wine pairing with my father. I had an early shot of tequila and a cocktail. I have the sneaking suspicion that I am a little too loose.

I am wearing all black. I wanted to look thin and be comfortable but also look hot. A short cashmere turtleneck dress and a blazer with gold buttons. High-laced boots. The top part of my hair is in a thin braid. I decorated myself with the trimmings of gold necklaces and rings, my fancy jewelry which I never wear in Mexico. But I am wearing them tonight and pulling out all the punches, because we are dining at Pujol, one of the fanciest and most expensive restaurants in the whole of Mexico City.

I called, emailed, and confirmed our reservation over a month ago. Along with my father, my mother and aunt are also here to celebrate my aunt’s retirement. Everything has gone perfectly on their trip. The sexagenarians (i.e., the people in their sixties, my family members, lol) are ecstatic, yet I’m dwindling with the exhaustion of a five-day chaperone. All I have to do is make it through this dinner. It’s the peak of their trip. It’s the height of indulgence. And it’s the perfect second off.

Yet, from the moment I walked into Pujol, what can I say? I was already on the prowl. My period finished last week, which means I am about to ovulate if I’m not ovulating already. As I sip my wine again, I shake my head silently to myself in knowing shame. I am drowning in the intensity of my baby fever. As we trundle over fond memories of summer holidays, I had to admit it to myself. I was not just hungry for the most delicious, exquisite meal in the city. I was hungry for the aftertaste of man. (Or woman).

I didn’t mean to get drunk. What happened was that my father wanted to order the wine pairing, but my mother insisted he can’t drink that much, or he will snore, and she won’t be able to sleep. My father passes me every half glass of wine he’s not allowed to finish. Across the pristine plates, well into the 6th course, my wine glasses look like the traffic jam we briefly got stuck in in the Uber on the way here. I sloppily joke with my aunt and my mother,

“K-Keep your eye out for any single men between the ages of 25 and 40.”

I guess my father pretends not to hear. My father places another thin glass of wine in my queue. The rain is pounding on the roof. I glance through the low, wide window at the lush, jungle-like garden beyond. The air is a balanced temperature. The trickling music, the elotes, and the lamb barbacoa melt together in front of me. I sit up straight. I try to keep it together.

I’m not sure when he first comes to my attention. I notice him holding a tray and standing by the wall, almost hidden in the shadowed corner of the room. He has black hair tucked behind his ears and crafted stubble on his chin. In the shadows, it is hard to tell if his hair is salt-and-pepper. But it is gelled, definitely.

The next moment, he is standing over me. He has brought me a gift. It is another plate of carefully manicured vegetables, this time with lush pink tuna, the catch of the day. The light salt of the fish. The creamy, spicy, lemony kick of yet another green sauce.

Well, that is his job, isn’t it? To explain the dishes. To serve us the food. Is it just my imagination, or is he serving me first? His hands are thin. His skin is tan, and his fingers are rounded and rough. He leans over me. Our shoulders are almost touching. I feel a short shiver at the base of my back. I prop up my chin, resting on my hand, pretending to be elegant and oblivious.

I’ve written about this before, but I can tell whether I want to have sex with a guy from the shape of his hands alone. And let me tell you: this waiter’s hands are incredibly f******e. There's no hair around the knuckles, but they look strong. He has the kind of hands that might lock me in the bathroom with him, I imagine. That might pour a 40-ingredient, 10-year-old warm, dark chocolate mole across the pale skin of my naked chest under the light of a single bulb. Before he pulls my hair back and f***s me, getting it everywhere. The ghost of my feigned innocence might lift out of my body. Because beneath all the pleasantries of the dinner table, I am a bad girl, and I know what I want.

I look up from my plate and remember I am in the strange company of my family. I chuckle in silent shame as I narrow in on my goal. I want his attention. I want to chat him up. I’m not sure what is so hot about this. Yes, he is attractive in his long, tucked-in black shirt. But there is also something forbidden about it. Forbidden, because this is his place of work. Forbidden, because I am still presenting as a young girl, surrounded by the pomp of some of the wealthiest people in the world. Yet none of the tax loopholes or client contracts or ETF investment portfolios matter now. I still need sex. I still want sex. And I want to have sex with him.

For me, the power dynamic sharpens the chemistry. It is his job to serve me. Not that I believe I deserve to be served. But this is the game we are playing. The societal game. I walk near him on the way to the bathroom (to freshen myself up and make sure I don’t look terrible). He is taller than me. We speak in Spanish as he shows me the way. Always on hand. Always there to please. Once I am alone, I gaze into the bathroom mirror. I confirm that my makeup is still on my face. My eyes are dark. My lips are still red. I think to myself,

“You’re hot, too. You’ve got this.”

When he serves the next meat course of wild boar, I tell him,

“Conseguí mi residencia en Hidalgo.” (I got my Mexican residency in Hidalgo.)

We have a 20-second conversation about the unique wild boar dishes of various Mexican states before he quickly excuses himself. He resumes his position, holding the tray beside the wall and standing in the shadows. I glance at him repeatedly when I can.

As my family shares the last bites of the special cake they prepared for my aunt’s retirement, I say to her,

“Here’s a phrase you might like. Chingatelo. As you know, chingar means to f**k. So if I tell you, chingatelo, it means f*****g finish the last bit on the plate.”

The hot waiter happens to be hovering at that moment. He seems to giggle a bit.

“You’re teaching them the slang,” he says to me, and I smile at him. Of course, I didn’t have the guts to tell him I learned that phrase from my barista ex-noviocitio (lover), another man of incredible talent and taste.

The hot waiter serves me. He serves me again. And I watch as he leans over me and wipes away the tiny crumbs and drops of alcohol that I had spilled on the table in front of me. Of course, he wipes my area of the table first. I notice the thickness of his fingers. Is he enjoying this also? Does it excite him? I sit up straighter and look away as he loyally makes his way around the table, wiping the spaces in front of my aunt, my mother, and my father.

As we finish up dessert, and he returns to the corner of the room, I catch the intensity of his gaze. Was that a slight grin? My heart quickens, chest pounding. I bite my lip. I know what I need to do. I reach into my tiny leather purse. I pull out a small white square of paper and a pen. I take the square of paper out a bit too early because my aunt and my parents need to keep talking about how marvelous their trip has been. And what a wonderful time they had. And I sit there like a fool with a blank square of paper in front of me.

“I’ll order the Uber,” my father offers kindly. They stand up to leave at last.

“One minute,” I say. I snag the pen and paper and head to the bathroom again. I stand at the round mirror beside the flickering Jasmin candle and the box of perfectly rolled-up hand towels. My hair is quite blonde in this light. Blonde enough. My makeup is still on my face. I’m not quite 30 years old. I still have some collagen, or so I hope. In the dim light of the sink, I scratch my pen across the tiny page. I write,

Tash. [phone].

I fold the paper. I’m not sure how I am going to do this. I hesitate. Is this appropriate? Hitting on a man in his place of work? He’s not consenting to this. Am I just objectifying him, using him as my mental plaything? I am, aren’t I? Still, I’ve never been to Pujol before. I have no intention of ever coming back. This is my only chance.

I leave the bathroom. My family is nowhere to be seen, already outside. My eyes scan the room. He’s not at our table. I follow the light flow of people who are leaving and the waiters, who are standing by.

Now he is standing right in front of me. He has just finished serving another table when he turns around.

“Es para ti,” I say (It’s for you), handing him the folded white paper.

“Gracias,” he says again. His dark eyes are smiling.

I skip out of the restaurant, giddy like a child, far too terrified to look back. I wiggle on the sidewalk as I wait with my family for the Uber. I have left my number with a couple of people before. But this time it feels daring.

We get caught in the rain and traffic on the way home. I go for a wet, late-night walk with my aunt while chewing on the time. There was no wedding ring on his finger. But I begin to wonder. Maybe, like some of the more secretive Mexican men who have taken me to dinner, he has a secret girlfriend lurking in the shadows?

I try to brush off those thoughts.

I get home.

I am brushing my teeth when my phone buzzes.

It is a WhatsApp message from a number I haven't saved.

“Hola Tash. It’s Jorge. Como estas?”

💌 ✍️

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