Her blouse nearly hit the counter when she leaned over to pour my Guinness. I maintained eye contact. I knew they were down there. But I refused to look. It's no fun to gawk at cleavage when the owner of the cleavage practically demands that you admire the merchandise. The Hattricks bartender glanced up from the frothy glass of Guinness to find my eyes still locked above her shoulders and — I swear — glared at me.
I guess when a girl drops thousands on a pair of augmented breasts, she damn well expects every person in the room to be impressed. It's understandable, I suppose. Truth be told, though, I find big fake boobs silly. And if I do feel the urge to ogle a strange woman's chest, I prefer to do it on my own terms, when she's not looking, because, well, that's just way more exciting.
My Guinness tasted good. It had been a rough week, the kind that leaves even a young man feeling old and achy. I took a long pull from my beer, wiped my mouth with a cocktail napkin, leaned back in my stool and looked around. Last Friday was my first visit to Hattricks, one of the few Tampa watering holes actually located downtown. The place is an old 3-story, stand-alone brick building. Inside, the ceilings are high and the room is deep, with the bar located on your left when you enter. That's where I took a seat after I arrived around 4:45 p.m. for a little happy-hour action.
Hattricks has a couple dozen tables, most of which were full by the time I left around 6 p.m. A hat trick, for all you non-sports fans, is when a hockey player scores three goals in a game. Framed Tampa Bay Lightning jerseys decorate the exposed brick walls of the place.
Since I'm originally from Pennsylvania, I was pleased to spot a Bill Barber No. 7 sweater as well. Barber was the goal-scoring left-winger for the Philadelphia Flyers back when they struck fear into the hearts of their opponents as the Broad Street Bullies and won two Stanley Cups in the mid-'70s.
I guess I was too busy thinking about the hockey stories my old man used to tell me to get all hot and bothered about the boobs that kept bouncing past. The couple to my left didn't appear to notice, either.
Actually, they weren't really a couple. They were co-workers. That was clear by their business attire and the papers spread about between them and the way they both just ignored their drinks like they were full of water instead of booze. I didn't smell any lust between the two of them. But who knows? Maybe three hours later they were sweating and panting like barnyard animals in a suite at the Hyatt.
The three businessmen to my left, though, were all about making their urges known to the bartender, who was lapping up the attention. I polished off my first pint and took a call from my buddy. He was on his way over from a job site, warned me he was dirty from a day of labor and advised I land a table away from the sharp-looking business types.
I grabbed a four-top near the door. A server approached me within a few moments. She was also well-endowed, but naturally so, with a top that showed a modest amount of cleavage, not the obnoxious amount being flaunted by the bartender, who kept adjusting her blouse every three or four seconds. By the time my buddy arrived, the bartender with the boobs was really working it.
"She just put that guy's hand on her titty," my buddy observed, rather gleefully.
I looked up just in time to witness the spectacle. I think half the men and women in the joint must have been watching. The bartender leaned over, rested her torso on the counter, grabbed the guy's hand and placed it in the gulf between her boobs. The guy's hand got lost between two mounds of augmented flesh. It was hilarious.
"Hey, do we get the same treatment?" my buddy said — jokingly but maybe not jokingly enough — to our server.
"I don't think so," she replied. "My six-three boyfriend who used to play at UCF wouldn't go for that."
"Is she always that, ah, open with her chest?" I asked our server, while nodding in the direction of the bartender.
"She's showing those guys that her boobs are fake," our server said. "They seem to think that they must be real."
"I could tell they were fake the minute I saw 'em," I bragged.
"Really? How's that?"
"The large gap in between is a dead giveaway," I said. "Plus, they're too big for her frame."
Our waitress walked away. My buddy looked at me and shook his head, as if to tell me I'd just sounded like a complete idiot.
"I had to bail you out," I argued. "I was afraid you had offended."
Several minutes later our server returned. She bent over with her elbows on our table, her cleavage at our eyes.
"Are y'all ready for another round?" she cooed.
We all got the joke.
Hattricks, 107 S. Franklin St., Tampa. 813-225-4288.
This article appears in Jun 13-19, 2007.