Why I Need A Sex Robot

I’m wiping down the bar just before close, ready for this twelve hour shift to end already. There are still a few stragglers left: a couple of lottery players, a smoker on the back porch, and a shaggy guy my age at the bar watching me in that way that makes me roll my eyes and gag a little. I traipse back to the kitchen and take my time washing the night’s dishes. Hopefully he finishes his beer and leaves before I am done back here.

No such luck. When I go back out front one of the lottery players is gone, and from the video feed it looks like the smoker is too, but Shaggy’s still here, past last call, his beer glass clearly empty. I start flicking off the neons. Most people get the hint at that point. The last lottery player leaves.

“Alright buddy, time to go,” I say when it’s obvious he hasn’t figured it out.

“Yeah I know,” he sighs. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

Ugh. I know what’s coming. Every female bartender knows what’s coming. Probably every female everywhere knows what’s coming . . .

“Can I take you out sometime?”

I just stare at him. Blank. Poker face.

“A couple drinks or something?”

“I gotta lock up so if you could leave now that would be great.”

“So is that a no?”

“Uh, yeah that’s definitely a no.”

“C’mon, what do you have to lose?”

If I wasn’t somewhat homicidal myself I might think my life, I could lose my life. I pay attention to the headlines. I read Jezebel. I know the risk women take when they go out with strange men. Any men really. Plenty of predators are already familiar with their victims.

But no, that wouldn’t be a fair answer because, let’s be quite honest, I wouldn’t hesitate to shank this guy with his own screwdriver if I needed to. Besides, it isn’t fear at all that motivates me to reject Shaggy. Instead it’s a been there done that, learned my lesson too many times kind of thing. You see, no matter how cute this boy may be with his hair hanging in his bright blue eyes, no matter how good he may or may not be in bed, no matter how convincing he is that that isn’t or is all he wants depending on what I want, it’s still the same old, same old. Tired. Game.

And more than anything guess what? I don’t owe this guy an explanation! He is not entitled to a date with me UNLESS I can come up with an explanation that meets whatever his litmus test is for a reasonable reason to reject him.

“Bye,” I wave, not bothering to fake a smile.

“Really?” he whines. “You really won’t even give me a shot?’

Since when did this shit become a negotiation? Since when did “No” come to mean badger me until I say yes to shut you up? “Good. Bye.”

I’m pretty sure I hear him mutter “Bitch” under his breath as he stomps away. Then, after he opens the door to leave, he turns back to me and says, loud and clear, “You’re a fucking man hater.”

Oh wow. Oh wow oh wow oh wow. I laugh. I laugh so hard I almost cry. He said man-hater like it’s MY fault HE is a douchebag.

And that, my friends, is exactly why I don’t date men.

Ok, for now. I have. I may in the future. I’d rather not but needs are needs and I’m like a nympho trying to walk in asexual shoes.

You see, it’s not the sex I hate. And, despite recent accusations, I don’t actually hate men. Like most women, I’m just sick of the bullshit. Sick of the joblessness; sick of the thirty-somethings living at home with Mommy; sick of female best friends not so secretly in love with him (or him with her); sick of guys inviting us out only to think that it means either A. we’re going Dutch or B. if they pay we better put out (which even if I wanted to the fuck if I’m going to feel obligated); sick of booty calls who play mind games and make love when they’re supposed to fuck; sick of cheaters; sick of guys so addicted to their video games that we are forced to cheat; sick of messy motherfuckers who expect us to clean up after them; sick of bringing home half the income and doing all the housework; sick, sick, sick . . .

And that, my friends, is why I need a Sex Robot.

A whaaaat? A sex robot!

Ok, ok, it’s not a real thing. Yet! But come on, if there was ever a good use for artificial intelligence this is it! And come on ladies, admit it, we’d get a lot more done if we weren’t so frustrated, if we didn’t waste so much time on men who either can’t perform or break our hearts without a second thought. We could even, dare I say, finally take over the world?

Imagine it. All the sex you want without any of that bullshit. No losers to wade through. No bitches to compete with. No egos to stroke. No dirty boxers to pick up off the floor.

No diseases to worry about.

And you could custom order him. No more trying to determine if those are pecs or man boobs under baggy t-shirts. No more trying to guess the size of his penis by how big his hands and feet are.

No more settling.

Exactly what you want. In a box. There when you need him, put away in the closet when you don’t.  He’ll never embarrass you in public with his flatulent outbursts or try to sleep with your friends. If you want to make love, he’ll make love to you. If you want to fuck, he’ll fuck.

He’ll learn what you like. He’ll learn where to pump, where to rub, where to swivel. He’ll learn how. What. When. When you want multiples and when you want simultaneous orgasms.

And if even robot sex is too monogamous? Change his face. Change his body. Change his dick. Interchangeable parts would still be cheaper than date night outfits, blowouts, and manicures after all. Mix it up every night of the week. Every hour of the day if you need.

Give us sex robots. Because relationships are overrated. And booty calls are complicated.

Sex robots. So we can get off and focus on the things that matter.


Last Call Means Last Call

It never fails. It’s 2:30 but that doesn’t stop the drunks from asking.

“Just one more! Please!”


“What if I tip you real good?”

Ooooh like maybe double your last one? You know, the quarter you left on the bar three beers ago?

“C’mon I didn’t even hear last call, you gotta give me one more.”

Here’s the thing buddy, I don’t have to give you ANYTHING. Not only that, but it would be illegal for me to now. And, contrary to what you think you know about my job, I don’t even have to say last call. So kiss my . . .

“Hey beautiful, let me get one more.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He tosses a few crumpled dollars on the bar. A couple of quarters. One of them rolls and ends up on the floor.

It could be worse. Every once in awhile some bitch will throw a fit: scream and yell, throw the ice at the bottom of her glass across the bar, make a total ass out of herself. This city is known for its bad behavior and faked bipolar excuses after all. The whole damn state is actually. What Oregonian hasn’t found their flight by the obnoxious passengers that litter the concourse?

Which must be why the Powell’s employee approached me with kid gloves last Saturday. “Did you already get your book signed?”

“No. I just got back.”

She apologized. Profusely. “He’s done signing.”

Now I’m not a crier or anything but I admit, tears started to well up in my eyes. “I called. They said it was still going. I drove up from Salem . . . ” I don’t know why I told her that. It just came out. Better words than tears. I had already driven to Portland earlier in the day for the signing, waited hours but had to leave for work before my group was called to line up. As it happened the bar was overstaffed for the night and they didn’t even need me. So I raced back to the Pearl District and fought for parking a second time.015

I probably sounded like one of those asses trying to circumvent last call because she responded, “I’m sorry, that might have been the case then, but the line is closed now.”

So close. Yet so far. I strained to at least catch a glimpse of the Fight Club author but I couldn’t see over the crowd.

Her words were soft, coddling―well practiced in handling the temperamental, entitled Oregonian consumer. “He’s been here since one and his hands are starting to tremble.

Chuck Palahniuk. The best storyteller of our time. Sacrificing his hands to sign books. I told her I understood, told her not to apologize, blinked back my tears yet again, and did not even think of throwing a fit.

But you go right ahead and scream and throw shit because you want another shot of Fireball. I dare you.



77 Cents on Your Dollar

I’m about to knock my glass off the table to get the bartender’s attention. Cameltoe Joe walked by once already. No he raced by. My beer was already skimming the bottom, little more than foam, but he didn’t notice, didn’t offer me a fresh one. Didn’t even make eye contact. He grabbed the empty off the table and sped away, his eyes locked on the television over the bar. It was on a commercial break but that could change at any moment. I tried to swallow enough of the salad in my mouth to order another beer before he got away but he was too fast.

“You’re still waiting?” Julia yells, loud enough you would think she’d get his attention, as she slides back into the booth.


“I smoked a whole Newport and fixed my mascara.” She agrees that I should have shoved the pounder to it’s demise on the stained floor. “I bet he makes more than you in tips too,” she jeers.

My blood boils. It’s true. When I started bartending I was naive enough to believe that I had found the magical profession where I would be immune to wage discrimination. If anything my hot young body would get me a few extra dollars, right? Wrong. For every extra percent a customer might give me for my looks, another stiffed me altogether for being a chick.

A touchdown is scored. There are cheers and high fives. “I’m just going to go up to the bar.”

Julia slurps her bloody mary. “Order me another too.”

I would if I could.

There are instant replays and more cheers and high fives and I’m standing there waiting and waiting and he’s staring at the TV with this huge smile on his face. I’m getting thirsty but there’s no way I can get his attention without looking like a total bitch. So I wait and stew on my friend’s words. I know she’s right. I’ve seen it in action. Whole groups of women won’t tip other women. All sorts of people take their racism out on their servers, not just in how they treat them, but financially too. Of course old white men can be the worst. They respect someone that looks like them behind the bar. But a female? It’s not a real job when a female does it. There’s a guy that come’s into my bar. We call him Grumpy. He’s rude as shit to all the girls. Never tips, doesn’t even leave us his change no matter how good of service we give him or how much we kiss his ass. But the one male bartender, the one bartender who is just like Cameltoe Joe right here and doesn’t pay a damn bit of attention to customers, Grumpy leaves him twenty percent and plenty of compliments.

“Wow you must have wowed him,” I said to Geoff one day after retrieving Grumpy’s Visa receipt.

“I guess,” he snorted. “I haven’t moved from this spot since he got here.” It was true. Geoff never gave table service. Just watched ESPN from his corner behind the bar. Customers came to him or they didn’t get anything to drink.

So I’m remembering all of this, really freaking out about it, wanting nothing more than to let my rage erupt in a riot, when Cameltoe finally turns around and looks me right in my beet red face.