I’d gotten into a kind of rut: hitting the ABS on Fridays with the same old result. I’d buy five bucks of tokens, head back to the arcade and some sex-starved guy would suck my boner and balls through a glory hole. Yes, it allowed me to predictably blow a steamy load, but the predictability became almost boring.

I could pretty much predict who would be my sucker. The early birds, those waiting in their cars for the store to open at 10 am, tended to be retirees, professionals, or clergy. They were great at servicing a hard dick, took their time, and universally thanked me for my jizz. I liked these guys without ever seeing their shy faces.

The guys on their knees between 3 and 5 pm tended to be blue-collar workers. Not to be negative, but these cocksuckers always seemed to be in a hurry (? had to get home to the little lady) and frequently asked to be fucked. Fine, but topping a hairy crack was not my thing.

And then things changed. Donna was asked by her sister to babysit the niece and nephews for a week while her sister recovered from knee surgery. Oh, my! How could I possibly get by for seven days and six nights? I’d starve, I’d run out of clean clothes and I’d forget to set the alarm. Right.

As it turned out, I had a tough install the Friday Donna left town. Between the installation taking almost six hours and the need to make an airport run, my routine of blowing a load at the ABS was interrupted. On the way back from the airport, the little brain ensconced in my little guy’s head told me to swing over to the ABS, some four miles out of the way. My big brain told me I was pooped, hungry, and I had seven days to satisfy my lust. No rush.

I was actually starving and needed a cold beer. As I drove down Old 25, I passed an Applebees, an O’Charleys, and a Red Robin. No doubt I could get a burger and a beer, but I was in no mood to sit around with a bunch of soccer parents and their bratty kids. Thankfully there was a Hooters on the next block. What came to mind were cold brews, a basket of wings and tight asses in tiny orange shorts.

Although the parking lot was pretty much full, thankfully there was no waiting line inside. A cute twenty-something greeted me and asked whether anyone would be joining me. I answered to the negative and without thinking stated I was just one of those old pervy dudes who come in to ogle the waitresses. She laughed and said over her shoulder as she was taking me to a booth: “Yep, I can spot ‘em a mile away. Janet will be your waitress.”

Janet was surprised in that she both did and did not fit the stereotype of a Hooters girl. On one hand, she had the body style of a cheerleader: maybe 5’ 2” with small perky breasts and what my older brother used to call star gazers (high-set erect nipples). Her orange spandex shorts were two sizes too small and hiked up to accentuate luscious camel toes split by the inseam. On the other hand, she was thirty-five, maybe even forty. Great looking with raven-colored hair and porcelain skin.

She too asked if anyone would be joining me. When I said no, I could have sworn she licked her lower lip. Nah, I’m just horny, I mused. Besides, I’m here for food, not pussy. I ordered a Bud, a dozen hot wings, and fries.

I didn’t see much of Janet other than when she brought me a second Bud and ultimately the check. She asked if there was anything else she could bring me.

I thought, “Hell, yes. How about some poon!”

She lingered, once again bit her lower lip, and then went back to work. Instead of the usual cutesy thank you message and a drawn heart, there was a handwritten note to text her and a phone number. I paid, left her a generous tip, and shoved the receipt into my shirt pocket.

All I could think about on the way home was Janet’s small orange work shorts and her full labia displayed proudly for all to see. I imagined running my cock head up and down the seam, adding my precum to her musty wetness. By the time I pulled into the garage, I had a raging boner and an expanding three-inch circle of wetness on my khakis.

I needed a cold shower ASAP, both to wash off the work grime, but additionally to cool my jets. I knew that if I didn’t get this woman out of my head, I’d do something I’d regret. You see, I had promised myself years before that I’d never cheat on Janet. I know what you’re thinking. Is this the same guy that gets his cock sucked every Friday at an ABS? Isn’t this the same guy who sucked a total stranger’s dick not more than a month ago and even let this stranger top him bareback, breeding him deep and raw? Yes, to both questions; but somehow I’ve rationalized it.

I dug the receipt with Janet’s number out of my shirt pocket and threw it in the trash.

As far as I was concerned, Janet was old history, so I no longer needed a cold shower. I hopped out of my clothes and tossed them into the hopper, making sure my khakis with the drying precum spot was on top: a reminder to wash them before Donna returned. I turned on the shower and added the steam function. By the time I hopped in, the shower was toasty warm.

I stood facing the shower head, soothing warm water cascading directly onto my face and scalp. Despite my best efforts, my thoughts turned to Janet. Was she as smoking hot as she appeared? Was her pussy as warm and wet as Donna’s? Did she suck dick and did she like to have her snatch eaten and her rosebud rimmed? Stop it, already!

I turned away from the jet and grabbed a bottle of Donna’s girly and fragrant shampoo. I needed to smell my wife and I needed to quash any temptation. I lathered my scalp, my hairy chest and my manscaped landing strip. Despite my best efforts, my cock was at its near eight inches of full erection. I rinsed my hair and grabbed a bar of Dial. Slowly I washed my face, then my arms and chest; all the while hoping my Janet-inspired boner would abate. No such luck.

I relathered my chest, first running my soapy palms across my hardening nipples. I then tweaked each BB, then pinched and twisted them to the point of discomfort, no pleasure. I shifted my right hand to my left nipple and rinsed my left fingers. I closed my eyes. Without thought, my thumb found its way between my lips: slowly pumping in and out like the motion of a penetrating cock. I abandoned my left nipple and slowly rubbed down my torso to my yearning meat. Using just my thumb and index finger, I encircled the sensitive area just below the expanding mushroom. Up and down the reddening veiny shaft I jacked, all the while getting closer to nirvana.

Just before the point of no return, I stopped sucking my substitute prick and lowered my left hand to my balls and taint. My soapy long fingertip found its way to my anus. As I shoved it in up to the knuckle, I could hold back no longer. I exploded to the point my face was grimacing and I involuntarily locked my thighs against my wrist and hand, effectively preventing me from removing my violating digit. I collapsed against the shower surround, took a deep breath, willed my thighs to relax, and slid out my finger, producing a full-body shutter.

I awoke the next morning to a beautiful sunrise and a list of honeydew projects affixed to the refrigerator door with a smiley face magnet. The list was actually fairly extensive and included everything from fixing the leaky guest room toilet to cleaning out the gutters. I had a continental breakfast and set out to check off as many chores as I could before dinner. I told myself thoughts of Janet would no longer be a distraction. As you might guess, she in reality was far from out of my consciousness.

By the end of the day, I had checked off seven of the eleven chores on the to-do list. I brought in the mail and grabbed a Coors Banquet from the frig and a frosty mug from the freezer. I plopped down in my easy chair and sorted through the mail. Thank goodness and for a change, there was only one bill. I must be a short hitter because I awoke two hours later as the sun was setting. I had a crick in my neck and drool on my beard.

My plan was to eat in, maybe just graze on leftovers. What I discovered in the frig changed my mind: day-old pizza, half a tin of Stouffer’s mac and cheese and some unrecognizable brown stuff that likely was stew and likely had been delicious ten days or so ago.

Screw it. I washed my face and added another layer of Sure to my pits and changed into some comfortable duds: cargo shorts, flip-flops and a well-worn Grateful Dead tank top. I drove out to Old 25, paused at the light, and headed in the opposite direction from Hooters. I knew there was absolutely no way I could trust the little guy’s brain.

I passed several stand-alone restaurants and the Mall, but I quickly realized my options were limited given my less-than-formal attire. Up ahead was a new establishment: “Down Under.” The parking lot was about two-thirds full, half pickups. I made the assumption my clothing might fit in just swell. I wasn’t wrong: a lot of denim, lots of ball caps, a couple of Stetsons and a lot of double-teased cotton candy do’s.

I sat down at the bar and was relieved the tender was an older gentleman (I guess one could call him that: a goldish colored toupee, a stubbed out stogie, a big collared red and black bowling shirt with the embroidered name “Stan” and white Levi’s). At least he was no Janet.

I ordered a shot of Jack and a Miller High Life. Stan dropped off a menu that was surprisingly comprehensive. I couldn’t decide between fish or red meat, so I compromised and ordered surf and turf: in this case, a ribeye and jumbo fried shrimp. I figured I needed to replenish all my spilt protein.