When a barista passes you a latte with latte art, the handoff is purposeful. The barista may pause, slowly slide the drink over, make a point to witness your first glance, perhaps direct your eyes to whatever illustration they’ve created out of foam. It’s not enough for them to simply make the latte art, they need to see you receive it. It’s a shared moment.
Receiving a latte is a gift. The moment when milk and espresso come together is beautiful, sexy and satisfying on its own. But when you’re given a latte with latte art, you’re given a gift within a gift. Suddenly that nameless barista touches a special place in your heart. They care just a little more than you expected. You sigh. You feel good. You are touched.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a flower, a heart, the first letter of your name, a bird, a smiley face, a Van Gogh portrait, a foamed ‘Warren 2020’; it’s not the skill level of the latte art that takes your breath away, it’s the fact they did it at all.
You don’t ask a barista for latte art. It’s not a talent every barista possesses, nor is it a talent every barista cares to express. It has to come from within them. They need to want to create the latte art for no other reason than to please.
I need to be fucked by someone who has the intuitive passion for going even just the smallest step beyond what is required. Someone who, yes, is satisfied by making me come, but even more satisfied by sharing the moment, digging deeper, taking pause, finding purpose in their movements, sipping slowly, cooling slowly, someone who doesn’t feel the need to put the lid on right away.
So many times sex becomes tit for tat. You then me. Instead of a directionless adventure, it becomes a GPS of orgasms. I’m no longer satisfied by just ‘getting there’, by just ‘receiving the latte’. I didn’t choose the drive through for a reason. If you don’t want to talk to me about the origin of your beans, the temperature of my drink or what makes almond milk trickier than whole, you’re not a barista I care to get to know.