Hot in the kitchen

Hostess, West Loop
I was working late one night at a place on Randolph Street, and most of the staff had left, but the sous chef, a guy I had a crush on, was still cleaning up. He asked me if I was hungry. I told him I was. He said he’d make me a sandwich, but joked that he’d only do it if I gave him a blow job. I said sure; he asked if I wanted to do it while he made the sandwich. I knelt down beside him as he worked a sauté pan on the range. Now that I think about it, I don’t know why we didn’t worry about getting burned. After I finished him off, we sat down and ate this skirt steak, blue cheese and frisée sandwich as if nothing happened. A couple weeks later, we were both working late again, so I walked over near his station and flashed my thong and told him to meet me in the walk-in fridge. He came in, I grabbed onto a shelf, and next thing you know we’re doing it doggie style. I slipped and knocked over a stack of stainless-steel pans, at which point I felt really stupid, so we stopped. He quit a few weeks later.

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