"Yo! I bet you 20 bucks you can't get that hot barista chick to fuck you."
I'm in line at a hipster coffee shop with my frat brothers when Steve whispers that challenge in my ear. I give him a cocky smile.
"You're on."
The barista has an exotic look to her: dark hair, perky tits barely hidden by her work apron, a mouth that would feel great wrapped around my prick. There is also something a little aggressive in her demeanor. Maybe this one will be different than the simpering sorority chicks I'm getting bored of bedding. I saunter to the counter and lean on it.
"What do you recommend?" I ask with my best killer smile.
"For you? Vanilla latte," she answers, not even looking at me. Shit. Something is off here. Counter chicks usually dig my flirtation. I soldier on.