Unattainable Women: The Waitress

The disaster that is modern love is a glaring example of evolution. We are surrounded by people and their personal lives and here we are, like exhibitionists, flaunting our own private lives for the world to see. In this cesspit of Social media driven frenzy, there is a certain topic that makes men cringe and writhe in pain.


Most of the women in my life are unattainable women, a breed of women that is like a Facebook Feed, heavily customized, and the only thing you can do is to look at them and be content. Oh, they are approachable alright, they smile and wave and talk sweetly. They look at me with wonder but ultimately, they are unattainable.

There is a woman who works as a waitress at this small cafe who is one of them. Mistaken as I am for a Jew, she rolls out her sweetest Shalom and takes my order, reminding me that her food is Kosher. She explains the ingredients on the dishes on offer, and I listen attentively, leading her on. I sit there in a cafe drooling after a waitress and this thought alone would be enough for my family back home to disown me, lynch me, and strike me off from any Will and testament that they might have made. The thought that a well-dressed, well-brought up, college going boy can even think of forking a waitress where it counts will revile the Capitalists back home. They will call my hots for a waitress a “corruption” of my upbringing, a blot on my social class, and a perverse disgrace to the family name.

Never mind the snobbishness, though, never mind the idea that where I put my genitalia and to which curve I choose to rest my gaze are the sole responsibility and concern of my own self, the idea of forking a waitress is repulsive even to me. I am training in one of the world’s toughest undergraduate courses, for fuck’s sake, and what am I supposed to do for pillow talk? I want to fork this woman, not waste my time dreaming about wedding bells and love letters. I want to fork this woman like I would fork just about every porn actress I have seen getting forked in the dark hours of the day. I am damned if I will have to think about love letters and baby names. Who wants to marry Pamela Anderson? Who wants to have their babies through Kim Kardashian or any one of her sisters?

I understand my own revulsion as I sit and think these thoughts. It is as if the years of Capitalism, feudalism and the added “Gentleman’s education” that I received in my own country has been strapped on my back and carried across the oceans and continents to haunt my daily life in this town in the middle of nowhere. This is where I lust after women I know I have no real chance with. I use lust as an emotion to rationalize the cross cultural gap and I use Lust to make myself feel better, hoping that my thoughts of forking a waitress is rationalized if I put Lust on a pedestal.


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