Six months ago, I found coffee bitter and unappealing. This attitude was one of the last traces of my childhood Mormonism, which was becoming a distant memory with each day of my debaucherous big city lifestyle. I no longer saw caffeine consumption as sinful, of course; since moving to New York, I'd become an expert at holding eye contact with men at bars, on the subway, at the dog park, and promptly adding them to my list of men-I-fucked-then-never-saw-again. It was growing exponentially, this list. Anyway, I had lost any moral authority to judge other people's habits, and surely God was more forgiving of iced lattes than fucking your way through lower Manhattan. But coffee didn't taste good, and I didn't see the point of this seven-dollar ritual, and that was that.
But there was this cafe around the corner from my apartment. I went there a few times to get some work done and found myself extremely unproductive due to the hairy, tatted-up, grimy-looking barista. The first time I went to this place, I planned to get one of their fruity lemonade drinks with a ridiculously long name like orange mango dragon fruit lemony explosion. I stood in line, wallet in hand, mentally rehearsing my mouthful of an order. Then it was my turn, and I came face-to-face with that beautiful, grimy man.
"Hello," he said. It took only this most generic of greetings for my entire order to exit my brain. "What can I get for you today?" He looked at me, eyes bordered with thick lashes. I became very aware of the swell of muscles under his T-shirt, his almost-shoulder-length mop of curls that I wanted to bury my hands in. He had this big, hooked nose, and I imagined it pressed against my clit as he pulsed his tongue inside of me.
"Oh," I said, like an idiot. Like I wasn't expecting this question from a coffee shop barista. "Cappuccino. Small." The woman in front of me had ordered one, and it was the only thing I could think of.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face, summoned by the awkwardness of my stuttered order and my sudden-onset horniness. I avoided eye contact, paid wordlessly, and scurried off, cursing myself for being such an awkward fucking freak.
This is how I ended up ordering the first coffee of my life.
Subsequent visits to Cafe Cremini were unremarkable. I avoided it for a while out of sheer embarrassment; once that passed, I had some generic encounters with the barista wherein I'd tell him my order, all nonchalant, then sneak glances at him from my little table in the corner. This slutty New Yorker phase of mine had made me quite sexually forward, but I found myself holding back. I was content with our dynamic: him, largely unaware of my existence, and me, spicing up my remote work with visions of him ripping my clothes off and throwing me around. It was fun, not knowing him at all; he could be anything I wanted that way.
Then we reached a major relationship milestone: our first real conversation. It happened outside the cafe. I was walking by on my way to the grocery store and there he was, on his break, crouched on the curb and smoking. We locked eyes.
"I know you," he said; that simple recognition was enough to stir up the butterflies. "You coming in?"
"Oh hey!" I gave him a little wave. "No, I'm just passing by. Got some errands to run," I said, holding up my fistful of empty grocery bags. Then, I felt bold. "I've been meaning to confess something to you, actually."
He raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."
"This might come as a shock, and I'm sorry if I offend you because you seem cool. But I really hate coffee." He tossed his head back, laughing, and I thought about pressing my lips to his neck and sucking. "I've ordered a few cappuccinos from you but I can't do it anymore. I need to come clean." For some reason, I kept ordering the cappuccinos after that first stuttered interaction. Just seemed right.
"Aw shit. I thought you were cool too, but clearly I was wrong. I'm very passionate about coffee and my cafe career and such," he said, smirking. "Wanna sit?"
I did. Well, I crouched, mirroring his curbside squat. He handed me his cigarette, and I took a long drag. I felt this buzz swell inside me; not from the nicotine, but from the knowledge that this previously unknown target of my sexual fantasies was, in fact, funny and charismatic and attractive energetically as well as physically. He had this easy, soothing presence, and a deep voice. I decided then to summon my most confident self, mentally swatting away the anxiety like the useless pest it is. I turned to face him.
"You have really nice hair," I said, resting my gaze on the mop. "Mine is so flat and lifeless, I'm jealous."
He looked down, clearly pleased -- hell yeah -- and shook his head slowly. "Alright blondie. You know you have beautiful hair." He reached over and took a strand between his fingers, so gently. "Wow. Soft."
This is when I whipped out my signature move: eye contact. I made it extra probing and suggestive. He stared right back, and I felt this blaze of energy from head to toe. "You think my hair's beautiful? You should see the rest of me," I said in my low voice, eyes still locked. He grinned.
"I would love to see the rest of you," he said, and leaned forward, bringing his face inches from mine. I could see each sweeping eyelash. Then, so quietly: "How about we go somewhere and you can give me the tour?"
I nodded, finding words difficult to come by. My cheesy pickup line had worked fantastically well. He was wearing a tank top that day, I should mention, and his arms were so thick and hairy I could cry. I needed them wrapped around me. "Yes -- absolutely," I managed. "Let's go somewhere." I put out the cigarette on the sidewalk; I was ready.
