OLIVIA AND ME

So there I was, wearing a sweatsuit with my hair pulled back, sitting in City Bakery's cozy setting, noshing on a mini-cylindrical-croquembouche, a cylinder of profiteroles, and drinking a steamy cup of Tazo Green Tea. It was a perfectly delightful Thursday evening.
My waiter sauntered over to the table and flirtatiously asked me if I would like another pot of tea. Though he was a dapper, conservative gentleman who was definitely my type, I just wasn't up for it. I politely gestured my interest for another pot of tea. The end. The girl at the next table passed on the tea, but vulgarly grabbed his ass.
"You are such a bitch, Ginger." Incapable of summoning any sense of public decorum, she continued. "It's over between us. I hate you. You have no regard or appreciation for me."
Little did I know, the games were just beginning. Now seated across from me was Olivia, my coifed-- yet obviously very pissed off-- pussy. And she was on a roll.
She flagged down a waiter in a husky voice: "Gimme a 25-year Mcallen on the rocks. And I mean a lot of rocks."
As the waiter spun on his heels, Olivia, garishly wailed, "And snap to it, sweet ass."
Now sipping a cocktail and posturing, cigar in tow, she was in her element. "Ginger, when it comes to food, you're the first in line at a buffet. It's been a year since we've had sex. You don't flirt. You don't wear provocative clothing. Fuck, if you didn't shower, I'd never see the light of day."
I had to stop her. "Olivia, be reasonable. I have to eat."
She interrupted, "So do I!"
I was not about to take this lying down. "Olivia, listen up and listen good. I will not let some free-standing psycho pussy rule my life."
After a swig of her second Scotch: "You want yeast infections? A closing of pleasure alley? Because I will put you on lockdown so fast, you won't know if you're on spin or rinse."
Irate, I said, "You're threatening me?"
Determined, "Ginger, you better feed me tonight. I'll even make it easy for you. Just bring the waiter home."
I grimaced. "I'm not attracted to him. Hey, I know, I'll masturbate."
Shamelessly drunk, "Ging, honey, you suck at masturbating. You're just not good at it. Your fantasies are vapid, and you lack coordination and originality in the fondling department."
I winced, but remained steadfast, "Yet, you seem to cum every time, Olivia. Hmmm,.. point for Ginger."
In an angry tone, "You make me chafe. It wouldn't kill you to get a vibrator, ya know."
I sighed, faced with the realization that we had a very real problem.
"Olivia, I want you to be happy. And I can't become New York's number one yeast supplier, so what's it gonna take?"
Well into her third Scotch and sporting a cocky grin, "Dick. Preferably, with a pulse."
I took a long, deep breath. "Relationship dick?"
She shook her head.
"Meat for the week?"
She smiled broadly, clapping and dripping with joy. After a final gulp of her Scotch and before obnoxiously burping, she simply said, "We're not leaving until you bring me that waiter for supper."