As a server in one of the most shallow cities in the world, I’ve observed that the more beautiful the man, the bigger the nightmare. And God help us if he's a model.
Sebastian swaggered over to his lunch meeting unapologetically 25 minutes late. While his dining companion was a cold, old, and unattractive Hollywood exec, Sebastian was...wow. Free from the forces of fat or age, Sebastian stood obliviously at about 6’3”. His tobacco-and-ocean scented body oil hit just the perfect mark of moisture, accentuating arms made of basketballs; sexy, oiled up basketballs. His full head of hair defied flaw, almost seeming to feel and communicate emotion. I’d describe his skin tone as caramel on vacation. His firm and rotund booty danced and smiled as he walked. His…
Anyway, Sebastian’s charms began and ceased with his looks. And once I heard him speak, the lust was dead in its tracks.
“Hello, how are you?” I asked.
“Fine,” Sebastian said dismissively while rolling his beautiful green eyes, green like two beautiful Oahu ocean pools.
“May I bring you anything to drink?” I asked. The men did not respond. I retried the question a few seconds later.
“I heard you the FIRST time,” Sebastian raised his voice. “I don't KNOW yet. I'll call a waiter over when I want something.” The second I walked away, his tone shifted from dickhead back to an unconvincing sing-songy ray of light. He regaled the horny old exec with stories of this photo shoot in Maui and that photo shoot in Thailand.
From eavesdropping, I gathered that Sebastian needed the exec’s help making the brave leap from modeling to acting. I could only imagine what the exec might want in return (and where he might want it).
The majority of our time together involved Sebastian *snapping* in my direction whenever he needed something and me mouthing "Fuck yourselves" when they weren't looking. Mid-meal, Sebastian jumped out of the booth to take a phone call and knocked two (empty) glasses out of my hand, offering no form of apology.
Once I cleared the plates, Sebastian ordered a decaf coffee.
“We’re out of decaf,” I informed him. And then he. Lost. His. Shit.
“Fuck!!! Why didn’t you tell me this right when I sat down!?!” he demanded. “I need a small but specific amount of caffeine immediately after I eat!! FUCK!!!”
“There’s a Coffee Bean across the street," I said unfazed. "And a Starbucks. And a Peet’s. And a…”
“I know where the coffee shops are, pal,” he said. “Bill. Now.”
I delivered the bill, and the exec paid, showering me with a ten percent tip. I watched Sebastian’s perfect haunches as he and the exec darted across traffic, in too dire a need for .08 percent caffeine to wait for a traffic light.
(Oh, and no, we weren’t out of decaf)