In fact, I wear quite a lot under my apron.

Someone left a gift in the restroom at my work today. At least, I assume it was a gift. Some people might assume it was a threat, or a mistake, but I'm an optimist. When someone leaves pornography lying around, I just assume they believe, as I have occasionally, in the great karmic circle of porn. Or perhaps they just wanted to share it with my co-workers and I, and were too shy to slide it over the counter.

What was so kindly and anonymously gifted was actually of interest to me: Barista porn. I didn't even know it existed. There it was, though. Women in pigtails, green aprons, and nothing else. In case one was so focused on the apron that one missed the split beaver coyly displayed below, the caption to the spread said "These girls don't let anything come between them and their aprons!". Generous use of various coffee accompaniments (whipped cream, chocolate syrup, etc) followed, as the aprons were discarded.

Coffee girls come only after record store girls in the romantic and sexual aspirations of the post-college urban male. They've managed to supplant the naughty nurse and sexy librarian, perhaps by daily being present and at least minimally archetypally consitant. Nurses have stopped being young, efficient single women in short white uniforms. Librarians are mostly obsolete, made rare in life by electronic card catalogs, not to mention google and amazon.com. Every couple miles (or blocks {or feet, it seems}) there's a girl in her twenties, who really wants to know how you're doing, and sell you 8 ounces of milk and 2 ounces of espresso with your choice of flavored syrups. And she'll remember your name, and that tuesday is the day you work late, and your drink. She'll laugh at your joke, and tell you her major. You'll tip her a dollar, and you won't know why.

I knew about the barista cachet before I took this job. I embraced it, at first. Being part of a stereotype is freeing. I wore more makeup than usual ( I almost always wear none) took care with my clothes, being as titsy and quirky as possible within the guidelines of the dress code. I flirted. My third day, a man wrote a poem about my eyes. I blushed, and he wrote a poem about that. I'm disarming, and I have a good memory. I'm not pretty enough to intimidate anyone, so even shy men like me, and women are comfortable with me. In fact, the shy men are the ones who love me. I have one or two men who only come in when I'm there. I have to admit, I like it. I've always been a background person, so I like being put in this category of occupationally sexually desireable women. It's nice.

However, I really can't endorse what that woman was doing with that portafilter. It's just not sanitary.

[Barista]