My Babe Moment"Are you enjoying this fabulous weather, babe?”
That was it.
That is what he said to me, right after I said “Could you please fill it with regular?”
We don’t have self-serve in New Jersey, thank god, so one’s gas purchasing experience is pretty much hit or miss, but for the most part the service people are exceedingly polite. But this guy was going all out.
I had been cruising with the windows down and with Robert Palmer blasting in the 75 degree blue sky afternoon air and I was in an 80’s kind of mood, and truth be told I felt a little babish, like I was 25 and not 48. So as stunned as I was to be called babe, I found I liked it –a lot.
Now it should be noted that the only person I ever let call me babe was the person I was making mad passionate love to and he is AWOL at the moment so I am in heat, have been for longer that I care to admit, so the babe crack set me on fire. Wait I thought, he is not working for commission or tips. He could get sex in my car after his shift just for saying babe to me—I was that grateful for the ego boost. Next thing you know I am surreptitiously checking myself out in the rearview—do I warrant the babe? Okay. Not bad, windswept hair, that little, Why yes, it is a beautiful day you hunky gas pumper guy you. And I am digging that Hess vest with the matching cap. I was too, sort of, right up until I started thinking about his age-- 30ish, kind of young.
But while I was caught up in this little gas station sex fantasy another car pulled up and he said “What can I do for you, boss?”
I was instantly deflated.
Oh, I thought, he is the male version of the sweetie/honey woman—you know the type, they just kind of add those insignificant terms of endearment to statements made or questions posed to complete strangers.
Oh. I am not really a babe. I am a middle-aged gas needing 48 year old. I could probably have sex with the 50 something “boss” in the sports car over in the next bay though. Boss, meet Babe. Are you enjoying this fantastic weather we are having, boss?
I don’t know why I get flirty at gas stations but I do. Maybe it is the seductive rolling down of the window, the phallic pump, the fill me up. I have no idea, but I have had some serious flirtatious encounters at these unremarkable venues, so this is nothing new.
But for a moment I forgot who I really was and I was in the babe moment, and it was fun.
Then after, “Have a nice weekend Ma’am.”
It was a nice moment while it lasted.
Quintesse 46-50, F 26 Responses 12 May 18, 2012