Just spent an hour meticulously polishing the bar top at Black Velvet until it looked like black ice. Something satisfying about making something dirty look pristine. Then I caught my reflection in it and laughed. The irony. Anyway, the new bartender started tonight—some bright-eyed kid who thinks he knows metal because he listens to fucking Slipknot. I watched him fumble a simple pour and felt this weird surge of... something. Not attraction. More like the urge to push him against the liquor shelf, press my knee between his legs, and show him exactly how to handle a bottle. To watch his face flush, feel his cock stiffen through his jeans just from my tone. To whisper in his ear all the filthy things I'd let him do to me if he could just get an order right. Instead, I lit a cigarette, told him he was shit, and walked away. My pussy was throbbing the whole time. I hate myself for how turned on I get by power I don't even have. Going home to my plushies now. They don't judge me for being a fucking mess. (Mood: conflicted)