Swagger of a Champion
Lately I’ve been doing a lot of walking, both to save gas money and to keep healthy. I won’t drive to any destination that’s within 20 minutes’ walking distance.
Often I pass by a Hooters restaurant near my house. So far I’ve never gone in—I hear the food’s not that great—but I’ve been curious. Well, horny, actually. Since my girlfriend broke up with me six months ago, the closest thing I’ve had to sex is 1-900-FONE-FUK. In fact, all the gas money I’ve saved has gone to phone sex. It would be nice to be in the presence of a real live beautiful woman for a change—to see her, not just hear her voice. And to have her smile and be nice to me, even if she’s only doing it because that’s her job. I don’t pay for hookers because I don’t want to catch a disease. I’ve only been to a strip club once, and it was the most depressing place on earth. Just a bunch of drunk, lonely guys—losers like me—and listless “dancers” with dead, tired eyes, who could only manage a fake smile when saw someone hold up a $20 bill. As for actually going on a date—I don’t wanna’ talk about it. And phone sex is getting boring. So why not, instead of walking to the grocery store as planned, just walk into the Hooters?
A Hooters girl was at the entrance, greeting me as soon as I walked in. She was older than I expected, late ‘30s, early ‘40s, an actual adult woman, not a girl, and heavier, curvy, full-figured, a woman’s body, not that 14-year-old girl’s body that men have been trained to think is sexy. She filled up that little Hooters uniform quite nicely. And the hooters! I couldn’t take my eyes off them. My cock would be a perfect fit between those tits. “Welcome to Hooters!” she said. The enthusiasm, the smile, seemed genuine. I was probably just too horny to tell she was faking it, but so what? So far, I was enjoying my Hooters experience. For the first time since I couldn’t remember, I had a reason to smile.
Then we had the most interesting conversation. She did most of the talking, which was fine with me. Listening to her smooth, gentle, almost musical voice was almost as pleasant as looking at those tits. And she didn’t seem to mind that I was looking at them. All that mattered was that I listen to her voice. Listen and concentrate on her every word. All I had to do was listen. Don’t ask me what she said. I can’t remember. Everything she said was fascinating, demanding my complete attention, but all I remember are her last two words: “Go home.”
And that’s what I did. I turned around, walked out the door, didn’t even bother to say goodbye, and walked home. By the time I got home I had forgotten why I had wanted to leave. There was reason to leave. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to go but sleep. To lie down on the couch and sleep.
At some point I woke up with an aching hardon. Phone sex would fix that. Instead of asking for my regulary girl, I told the operator I wanted someone named Layna. I didn’t know anyone by that name, but I knew I had to speak to Layna, whoever she was. It turned out to be the wonderful woman I’d met at Hooters. There was no mistaking that voice. My regular girl, Lexy, was submissive, and I enjoyed verbally abusing her, telling her, “Suck it, bitch! Suck it, bitch!” over and over again, as a rubbed my cock. But I knew that Layna was no submissive. She was a real woman who deserved my respect and obedience. Not just mine, but every man’s respect and obedience. Once again, I let Layna do most of the talking. Whatever she said was exactly what I needed to hear. Instead of guiding me to orgasm she made me forget all about that hard cock, so that I could relax and go back to sleep. Once again, I have trouble remembering exactly what she said, but I do remember her telling me that a wonderful dream would give me the release I needed, that all I had to do was sleep. So I went back to sleep.
And later that night (I must have been dreaming this) Layna and I were sitting on the couch together. We were both naked. I was not allowed to touch her. I did not need to touch her. She gave me permission to touch myself. And when the time was right, she gave me permission to come. And all the while she talked. And whatever she said (I can’t remember) was very important, and I listened carefully to every word. And that last word she said was, “Sleep.”
I awoke that morning knowing that I needed to check my email. I had one message, subject heading: “You have a YouTube video!” “Oh, cool!” I said, clicking on the subject heading, and then on the YouTube link, without even bothering to see who sent it.
It was me. I was in the video. I was wearing a Hooters uniform, pink tanktop with the Hooters logo and pink shorts, so tight they barely fit. I was strutting, my chest thrust foreward, arms swinging, hands balled in fists, smiling ear-to-ear, not at all embarrassed to show my big buck-teeth. And obviously not ashamed of the bulge in the front of those tight pink shorts. A skinny, bald, buck-toothed nerd in a pink tanktop and shorts, strutting down the street in broad daylight and showing the world his 4-inch hardon.
The camera shifted to a couple of young women, both nice curvy figures, wearing tight, short-sleeved shirts and denim shorts, both giggling and pointing. One looked at the other and held up her right pinky, and that made them both laugh even harder.
Then the camera turned back to me, staring straight ahead, striding forward, a proud rooster, cock of the walk. Was there a little stain on those pink shorts, at the tip of my hardon?
The camera shifted to another woman. She must have weighed 200 pounds. And she was wearing a string bikini. But that day there was someone even more ridiculous-looking than her. She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Then back to me. And back and forth between me women alone, or in pairs, most of them young, most of them pretty, some even beautiful, all dressed for a hot day, showing their legs, the belly-buttons, and laughing, and pointing. Some making the universal pinky sign, some holding up an index finger and thumb about an inch apart, making themselves and their friends laugh even harder. No men, just women. Either there weren’t any men around or whoever took the video just avoided them. And I strode forward, oblivious to it all.
Sometimes I would say something: “Boy don’t try to front I-I know just-just what you are-are-are.”
It was obviously me in the video, doing something I couldn’t imagine myself ever doing. But I had no memory of what I was seeing. When had this happened? Had this happened? Was it some kind of trick? CGI, maybe? But even though I didn’t remember it, I knew it was real. That was really me, unashamed of my skinny body, bald head, buck-teeth and 4-inch hardon, either unaware of or even enboldened by the laughter of every woman who saw me. How I wish I could remember!
But if it had happened, couldn’t it happen again? And this time I would be conscious of it. Not just watching a video, but actually experiencing it! I knew then there was no greater task for me to perform than to put on a Hooters uniform and walk out that door. I was saying it again: “Boy don’t try to front I-I know just-just what you are-are-are.” I didn’t know what the words meant and I didn’t care. Saying it felt good, felt right. That’s all I needed to know. Then I finally noticed that I was actually wearing the Hooters uniform. And my four hard inches were straining to escape from those tight, tight shorts. I would have to do something about that when I finished my walk, maybe call 1-900-FONE-FUK. Or maybe pay a visit to that nice Hooters waitress. But that would be after my walk, after I showed the whole world what a real man looks like.
Before I got up to leave there was one more thing to do, foreward the video to everyone in my adress book, friends, coworkers, family, even my ex-girlfriend. That’ll make the bitch sorry she ever left me. Good luck finding another man like this.
That done, I stood up and went to the door. “Boy don’t try to front I-I know just-just what you are-are-are.”