Coffee Time (August 2022 Story) (Ch. 1 REVISED) (Patreon)

I’m not even a coffee drinker but I met Barbara Rodriguez by being a regular at Starbucks. I went there primarily to write my stories, especially my fetish stories, since I feel awkward being at home with my little brother wondering what I’m doing at my computer all day long.

I’m also the kind of writer who needs visual stimulation while they write. I can’t be cooped up in my bedroom for long. I need to see and hear people as I conjure up the next scene in my tale. Certain people give me inspiration. Barbara Rodriguez was one such person. She was a relatively new barista at my local Starbucks. She became more than just a subject of people-watching; she became my muse.

From the first moment I saw her, I was smitten. I had a good feeling about that day even before I saw her. It was a cloudy autumn day with rain on the weather report. Rain is always good for a writer like me. Such an aesthetically pleasing sound. I was sitting in a corner table writing, people-watching, when I noticed a striking curtain of raven black hair enter through the doorway. She wore a stylish long black coat that reached down to her ankles. She was slightly tan with dark eyeliner and small lips. The structure of her face reminded me vaguely of Lady Gaga, except Hispanic. She was in the middle of putting her hair up into a ponytail when she walked in, her boots tapping the floor giving off a vibe like she owned the place. She smiled at the barista behind the counter and said, “Hey there!”

She disappeared behind the employees-only door, and then seconds later came back out donning a Starbucks apron and cap, switching shifts with the dude there.

I had just ordered my usual - a black iced tea lemonade. I needed an excuse to interact with her. She was so fine that I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I got up anyway without a plan and stared dumbly at the bakery items they had by the cashier.

She was medium height. I hate to say how cliché this is, but she was plump in all the right places. I usually tuned out to girls wearing their Starbucks apron and whatever else they wore underneath, but damn – she looked fine. She wore these black leggings that made her booty pop like crazy.

“Hi, welcome to Starbucks, what would you like?” she said.

That was when I caught a glimpse at her nametag – Barbara.

I have to write about this girl, I thought.

“Do you know what you want?”

I snapped out of it. With an awkward mumble, I said I wanted a chocolate chip cookie. Barbara seemed warm but then again, she worked in customer service, so she was forced to be warm all the time. Nevertheless, she inspired me.

“Do you want that warmed up?”

“Yes, please.”

I stared at her ass again as she turned around to place the cookie in the oven. She tapped her long galaxy-colored fingernails on the counter as she waited. That ass though – so round – I just wanted to cup my hands on it and then use those cheeks as pillows.

I went back to my table after she handed me my cookier and I typed away my lustful, impromptu longings about her, hoping to piece it together into a coherent story for my decadent online audience. I imagined her farts would be deep and bassy. Something told me though that maybe that sort of thing grossed her out. How could a girl as stylish as her fart like that? She also looked serious in her work, never goofing off with co-workers or even looking at her phone.

I usually stayed at Starbucks for hours at a time, sometimes even until closing if I went in the evening. But of course, since this new barista worked the counter, I really wanted to stay until closing. I ended up being the last customer there, and I may have played it off innocently pretending like I didn’t realize what time it was. I said out loud that I realized what time it was, she surprised me by saying, “You’re good. No rush. I’m just cleaning up the place.” She was wiping down the floors with an old dirty mop and putting up the chairs on the table.

I closed my laptop. “Nah. I shouldn’t be in your hair.”

Barbara smiled at me. “No, it’s okay. There’s nobody else here. It’d be nice to have some company.”

She went back to wiping the floor. The perverse impulse in me kept stealing glances at her thick, juicy ass. Oh my God. I bit my knuckles to prevent myself from emitting a strange noise. Those cheeks jiggled with every swish of the mop. Pure dummy thiccness.

She had made herself a venti of some coffee thing (again, not a coffee drinker), taking sips every so often taking a pause in her cleaning. She also wore cat-shaped earphones and tuned out to the world as she swept the floors, murmuring whatever song she was listening to.

Barbara then caught my attention when she stopped mopping suddenly and said, “Uh oh” a little too loudly. I thought she made a mistake, but then she put the mop aside and hurried to the bathroom.

Hm. Interesting.

I didn’t think much of it…until I heard her fart.

The sound was unmistakable.

A loud, grotesque, manly fart.

PPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!

It was muffled behind the bathroom doors, and also distant because the bathroom was some ways away. But since it was dead silent with nobody around and no music playing, I clearly heard it.

Then, a second time!

PPPRRRRRMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHTTT!

This one sounded like the final blow, like stuff came out and signaled the end.

I jumped when I heard the door unlock and pretended to focus on my work. Barbara whistled as she walked back to her mop and continued cleaning. I sat there trembling with excitement, thinking over and over in my head, I heard her fart. I heard her fart. I heard her fart.Eventually she finished cleaning and I left to let her close-up the store.

That first interaction with her put me in a daze. I was thinking about her so much that I nearly drove my car over the curb on the way out the parking lot. I had captured her descriptions in my writing, and she would forever be a part of that. It was like I had taken a picture of her but in a more intimate way. And without her knowing. Was that wrong? I didn’t know. I held onto that piece of writing in my folders in my laptop, my deep dark secret.
 Barbara would be part of my new norm every other day. I came to my local Starbucks more frequently to write in hopes of running into her again. She seemed to have the night shift, somewhere from 7PM to closing. She didn’t work on weekends, so I stayed for less than a couple hours. I guess she ended up being not just my muse but a motivation to go out and write.

She typically made herself a coffee, and something told me that it was the bane of her digestive system. She would retreat to the bathroom after having her coffee. I didn’t always get to hear it, since most times other people were around talking, and the music was playing.

We gradually became acquainted in the “I know your face” sense. Whenever I went up to her to order something she would greet me with a sing-song voice saying, “Hey youuuu.” She got used to my name by not asking for it and writing it down on my cup right away.

I became such a frequent customer that she then remembered my order all the time. She caught onto the habit and said one time while handing my drink, “You always order the same thing.”

I shrugged. “I just really like iced tea.”

One day Barbara wore these mom jeans that made her ass look bigger than the state of Texas. Oh my God, I lost it. My mind was screaming. My dick was raging, and my blood was pumping. Funny how mom jeans are sexy now. Well, at least for perverts like me. I caught a glimpse of her waistline when she picked up her apron to clean her hands. The button looked tight around her waist, not quite needing to pop open but also not relaxed. The white long-sleeved shirt she wore also made her look fabulous.

It was very busy that day. She made herself not one, not two, but three cups of coffee in the entire evening that I was there. Her co-worker, a nondescript white dude with freckles said, “Barb, you know those are for the customers, right?”

“Oh shush,” she said, smiling into her cup. “Morgan won’t know.”

My time went by as usual there except for one thing – she took her lunch break sitting next to me and talked to me. She popped a squat on the table next to mine with a lunch bag and her coffee.

“Hey youuu. Don’t mind if I have lunch here, do you?”

“No, go ahead.”

She unfurled a homemade sandwich and ate noisily. I tried not to stare at her from the corner of my eye too much.

With a full mouth, she asked, “Are you a writer by any chance?”

Her question threw me off. Time stopped for what felt like an agonizing hour. I said something, but it didn’t make sense. My voice had cracked.

“Sorry?” I said.

“I was just curious. You sit here almost every day typing away on your laptop. I never see any books on your table, so I figured maybe you write or something.” She took a loud bite of her sandwich and stared at me. She then widened her eyes as the silence between us strained. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I can tell that I bothered you. Sometimes I just say things. I’m sorry. I’m awkward.”

I laughed nervously. “Nah, nah, you’re good. Uh. Yeah. I’m a writer.”

She lit up. “I write too.”

I was completely floored. This was beyond anything I expected, then again what could one expect? Thousands of people came here in and out working on things, and you never knew what they did. For all I knew, a spy could be on his laptop that very moment working on state secrets.

“That’s…that’s so cool,” I said. “What do you write?”

We took off from there. Turns out that she was a student at the nearby college of Brappaport and was in her senior year with her sister Brianna. She had been undecided for a while, starting off with law and then switching to history until she settled with creative writing.

“It was tough convincing my parents,” she said. “They’re first generation from Mexico. Nobody in my family is a writer, and my father keeps warning me that I need a real job to eat and make a living. I figured I could work for a publishing company as an editor and get in that way. I don’t think he gets that there are far more jobs for writing careers now than there ever were.”

She talked about how she was inspired by the movie Hereditary. She was an avid horror movie fan who liked reading about witchcraft. Not that she seriously considered it real but at the same time she learned that such things were suppressed by the Church because women were mistaken to be devil worshippers when in reality they just knew their shit. The way she talked about all of this was unlike the first words she uttered to me. She spoke confidently and with flow.

I quickly fell in love. I could listen to her talk about anything for hours on end. Barbara was the kind of voice you heard on NPR talking about interesting shit you never knew even existed. This girl knew so much. Maybe I’m sapiosexual? I felt like an idiot giving the usual “Oh wow” and “That’s so cool” response because I didn’t know what I could add. How could I add anything? She graduated from a college that was fucking overseas in the U.K. Like a special international school. There was a point when she giggled and asked if I was boring her. I shook my head vigorously, denying this.

She sipped her coffee. “Sorry. I just spew word vomit. I should be going back to work now. I have a few minutes though. If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do? Besides writing, of course. We’re both creatives so I assume you have a job to try to support yourself?”

Desk job for the local library. Still living with my parents. Failed writer. A thousand rejection letters. A shitty podcast that nobody listens to. I tried to think the best way to explain all of this to her without sounding like a loser.

“Oh,” she said, “librarians are so under—uurrrp—oh gosh!”

I blinked twice. She had let out a low rumble of a burp while talking. Her face had contorted as it rolled up and erupted from inside her. She looked as though she tried to hold it back, or at least let it out quietly, but she failed. She tapped her mouth with a napkin and said, “Excuse me. Sorry. Haha. I’ll be right back!”

She hopped off her stool and disappeared around the corner to where the bathrooms were.

I stared in space in silence.

Well, that just happened.

I drummed my fingers on the table. The people around me went about their business chatting, drinking, working on their laptops. Nobody could feel the excitement and nervousness that I felt. I almost envied them.

Almost five minutes passed by, and I decided to get up and go the bathroom. The two bathrooms were situated around the corner of the café in an alcove. I tested one of them and it was vacant. I assumed Barbara was in the second one. I knocked on the door and she grunted, “Occupied! Sorry!”

I waited there, listening.

I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought.

I heard someone walking over. I panicked and entered the second bathroom. It had seen better days and the fan wasn’t working well. It’s funny, even when I don’t need to pee the sudden urge to pee always hits me when I enter a bathroom. So, I peed and washed my hands and then heard something on the other side of the wall, where Barbara was.

I gulped and pressed my ear against the wall.

Nothing.

And then---

“HRRRRNG!”

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!

Bathroom farts echoed all the time. Barbara had let out a massive, deep ripper. I could feel her satisfaction by hearing her grunt and sigh at the end. She even added a “Whew” and then she flushed the toilet.

I had to hurry back to my seat.

Somehow, we ended up leaving our respective bathrooms at the same time. I stepped out and so did she and we awkwardly gave a little “Oh” at the same time, and then did that side-stepping dance to see who went first into the hallway. After an awkward giggle, she went first.

Holy shit that was awkward, I thought. This is mad awkward. I would totally understand if she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.

That fart could have been heard by anyone within five feet of that bathroom. She must have known that I heard it.

But once we sat back down, Barbara picked up where we last left our conversation as if nothing awkward had happened. Maybe she didn’t think anyone heard her.

“Anyway. As I was saying. Librarians are so underappreciated. Everyone loves the Internet now but forgets that the library still has so much to offer, stuff that’s behind paywalls online. But that sounds like a good place for a writer to work. What kind of stories do you write, by the way?”

I stared at the Word document open on my laptop to a page detailing how Tifa from Final Fantasy VII was ripping ass on Cloud’s face.

“Uh,” I said. Three seconds later: “I dabble in fanfiction.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really. A lot of people consider it trash. It’s okay if you think it’s trash and not real fiction.”

“People really say that about fanfiction?”

“Oh yeah. Loads.”

“Well writing is writing.”

“There’s like a whole community behind it. Not all of it is…uh…good.”

“Every community has its bad side. That’s inevitable.” She thought for a moment. “I can go on about how most communities are led by boys and how they treat it like a boys club but maybe now’s not the right time.”

I smiled. There really wasn’t any reason to other than a dumb reaction to wanting to hear her talk again. But alas, she went back to work and let me be.

We both stayed there until closing. She once again said I didn’t need to worry about leaving right away. I could tell that she was getting more comfortable around me by singing out loud as she mopped the floor.

“You heard of Vampire Weekend?” she said.

“There’s a band called Vampire Weekend?” I really had no idea. I was as lost on popular bands as I was on coffee.

“Uh, yeah. They’re only the best. Look up ‘Taxi Cab’. It’s my favorite.”

I did so. She asked me to turn it up, and she sang along as she finished mopping the floor.

“Are you going to be writing here tomorrow?”

“Yeah…” I said dreamily. But then I shook my head. “Actually, no, I have somewhere to be tomorrow. Tomorrow is an exception.”

“Aw, poop.” She frowned. Then shrugged. “Oh well.”

We both left the Starbucks at the same time. We parted ways at the parking lot of the strip mall, the November night already upon us. I gazed down at her thick thighs in those blue jeans. Her wispy black hair swept up as the wind hit her, and then she got into her car and disappeared around the corner.