Your Local Hot Bartender 🫶🏼🍸

@abookandacoffee he was v sexy though, killin that facial hair

#BroCode http://bit.ly/1r5e3A9

The crowd was thick, heavy with the layers worn against the dreary cold of the Monday after a holiday. I was surprised at how busy the bar was on a Monday night, but then, I'd been away from New York for awhile -- I'd forgotten how much that city can drink. I stood with my cider at a makeshift table in the hallway before a stool at the bar opened up. After a few minutes, it became rather clear as to why the stool had been vacated -- the man next to me was an utter asshole. Drunk, ignorant and proud, he was the worst kind of guy to end up next to. Thankfully, my friend showed up, and after a few minutes of the asshole dropping unwelcome comments on our private conversation, he left, or rather, stumbled off. My friend and I both had stools now, and we were in prime position to scope out the bartenders. While everyone knows it is not a good idea to date bartenders, everyone also knows that it is a fantastic idea to check them out, particularly if you're at a hip bar - or hell, any bar - in Brooklyn. When I was younger, I'd go to bars just for the booze, but now that I'm older, I'd say it's fifty - fifty. There were two bartenders here, both young men, both more or less in their late twenties, white, and each probably have at least one ironic tattoo somewhere below their flannel shirts. Yes, they both wore flannel shirts. One was cleaner, skinnier, and somewhat strong featured. The other was a bit more filled out - though still looking good in those skinny jeans, of course - and a bit scruffier. His long hair was tucked into some kind of hat and his beard was bushy and a few inches long. He had a septum piercing and wore his red flannel unbuttoned a third of the way, exposing an impressive array of chest hair. "You should wear your shirts like that," I said to my friend, nodding at the bartender. "I would if I had any hair," my friend said. "It's pathetic, really, I have just a few here and there, and the ones that are there are so light." My friend shook his head, and I saw a genuine sadness in his eyes.  We both gazed somewhat longingly at the hair-blessed bartender. "You know," my friend continued, "Selma used to sleep with that guy."   I had recently met Selma, who was one of his roommates, and found her to be quite charming. In fact, knowing that the bartender had been with Selma made me like him a little bit more. But my friend wasn't finished. "One time, they went up to his cabin, or little house or whatever, upstate, and she said that there were two things about him that made her realize that he was not someone she could ever be with. First, he cut his foot in the creek and acted like a fucking baby. Her words. Second, one time when they were having sex, he pulled his hair back into a ponytail," my friend said.   While one may find these reasons to end a romance as petty, I sympathize with Selma's reasoning. I couldn't even look at the bartender without picturing him deftly arranging his hair at all the wrong moments. Chest hair or not, that'll kill any kind of mood worth hanging on to. This only confirms my belief that bartenders are great for pouring drinks, better still when they pour you free drinks, and that touching them, or interacting with them on any level where a bar does not stand between you and them, is not a good idea. Selma, for one, has learned her lesson.