I Was Sleeping With a Bartender- He Knocked Up My Friend, & We’re Still Hooking Up
- By: Julianne Elise Beffa
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
It all started on New Year’s Eve, 2022.
I was standing in front of my mirror in a skintight black sequin mini dress that glittered under the light. My Steve Madden heels strapped tight around my ankles, making me taller, stronger, sexier. I pushed up whatever cleavage I had, tossed my hair, and gave myself one last look. Tonight, I wasn’t just going out to party. Tonight, I was going to get laid.
Anthony was the bartender at my favorite East Village dive. Brown hair, blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass, and a smirk that made every girl think she was his favorite. He knew he was hot. Knew every girl wanted him. And he milked it. For a free shot, girls would do just about anything—quickies in the bathroom, sneaky hookups after last call, or straight-up leaving the bar with him when the lights came up.
But I wasn’t about to be just another one of his late-night conquests. I wanted him to want me, and only me.
That night, the tension was undeniable. His eyes roamed over me like he was starving, and suddenly I felt powerful, dangerous, and horny as hell.
“Pour me the usual,” I told him, steady voice, but my body screaming promise.
“Yes ma’am,” Anthony smirked, already playing the game.
Two tequila shots later, I was alive, buzzing, unstoppable.
The next morning, I woke up in a tiny Brooklyn studio to the sound of sirens and a crooked Red Hot Chili Peppers poster. Anthony was next to me, shirtless, sprawled out, snoring softly. I was in his black t-shirt and nothing else. A used condom stuck to my thigh was the only proof that it wasn’t a dream.
He kisses me like he's starving, like every touch is stolen.
We were toxic. Flirting with other people to make each other jealous. I’d cozy up to strangers, while he poured shots into girls’ mouths, his hands lingering too long. One night, I even brought a Hinge date to the bar, sat on his lap, and kissed him slow, knowing Anthony was watching.
And then came Maggie.
She was a mutual friend, someone I trusted. One night I saw her at the bar, leaning too close to Anthony, laughing a little too much. My stomach dropped, but I brushed it off, convincing myself it was harmless.
It wasn’t.
A few months later, Anthony grew distant. Cold. Detached. He still hooked up with me, but something had changed. Then one night, my best friend Molly called.
“Katie, are you sitting down?” she whispered.
“Why?” I asked, already bracing myself.
“Anthony got Maggie pregnant.”
The words shattered me.
I wanted to scream, cry, throw something against the wall. My hands shook as I called him three times, all going straight to voicemail.
Are you out of your f*cking mind?
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But instead of hiding, I slipped back into my black sequin dress, sprayed on perfume, and walked straight into the bar where it all began.
Anthony was wiping down the counter when he saw me. His eyes flickered, and he froze.
“Are you out of your f*cking mind?” I spat.
He dropped the rag. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered, like it was some kind of confession.
I laughed bitterly.
He admitted he slept with Maggie to get back at me for bringing that date to the bar. Now he was trapped with her and a baby.
I should have hated him. Should have walked away. But instead, I let him kiss me again.
Now Maggie is eight months pregnant. Everyone knows Anthony’s the father. She thinks they’re a couple. She thinks he loves her. But what nobody knows is that Anthony and I never stopped hooking up.
We still sneak around. His place. My place. Sometimes after hours at the bar, when the lights are off and the music is dead. He kisses me like he’s starving, like every touch is stolen.
Do I feel guilty? Sometimes. But not guilty enough to stop.
Because when Anthony texts me at 1 a.m., I’m already halfway out the door.
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