My job involves a lot of travel, and a lot of that travel takes me to college towns or, at least, cities that have very large universities, the kind that play big-time football. Let’s put it that way. As such, I have a deep expense account that reimburses me almost carte blanche for tabs at sports bars and strip clubs, now and then if I’m discreet and the name isn’t too obvious.
I’m a frequent guest at Hooters, in other words. And really, I do enjoy the food there. And the beer. It’s a very reliable experience, as they say in my line of work. You have great, greasy chicken wings (and other bar food), super cold American lagers, and 29 TVs all blaring sports. The waitresses are, for me, literally a garnish. Don’t get me wrong, Hooters Girls are fun, especially because when they have the time, they will sit down with you and write their name on the tab, circle it with a heart, and let you have the idea that they are flirting with you. If you visit a Hooters in off-peak hours, usually early afternoon, you get even more attention.
This past Tuesday was one such occasion. I finished a partner meeting early and, with the extra time, went to a nearby Hooters to grab some wings and beer. Now, here's what you need to know. First, I am an alcoholic (quite functioning, thanks for your concern). And second, I take antidepressants. Both conditions combine to have a neutralizing effect on my dick. I’ve gone whole weeks where I’ve been masturbating on the line with a phone sex girl, even getting blowjobs and/or fucking an escort, without coming. Ladies, guys fake it, too, is what I’m saying.
So when I popped into the Hooters and sat down, I had a lot of lust that Mr. Happy needed to disperse. That’s when Tonda sat down. Gorgeous. Bottle blonde. Huge tits. And that sexy stripper name that all Southern girls seem to have. Something about Tonda just did it for me. I was instantly hard, all the way out of the fly of my boxers and down the right leg of my pants. Tonda sat down to make small talk; I said I was just having a beer, but I might get food later. I wanted to string out this visit so she would keep bringing her cute, orange-spandex-clad butt back to my booth and jiggle and wiggle and giggle while she asked if I needed anything else.
After my second beer, Tonda returned, and I asked for another (huge) mug of their coldest draft and an order of a dozen wings. She came back with my beer and the food and sat there as we chatted since there was no table to look after other than mine. It was about 3 p.m. We talked life. Very down-to-earth. I asked Tonda if she was in school at the big state U. nearby. No, she said, writing a phone number on my tab and tucking it back under my beer mug. She was thinking about going back to community college. Meantime she was trying to get into modeling. My eyes widened because I knew that code word.
Just then, as I took a huge bite of a drumette, I felt a sensation in my pants that I had never felt before. It felt like I was peeing. Except … you can stop pee, and I couldn't stop this. And it was sticky. Oh my fucking God … I hadn’t felt sticky linen like this since I was a teenager … all of that built-up tension, and my rapturous lust for Tonda, came splurting out.
Tonda saw my eyes widen and roll back, and then my face flushed. “What …?” she asked, half-smiling, but a little concerned, like she might have to call an ambulance or something.
As I finished coming in my pants, I slowly put down the chicken bone, wiped my mouth with the napkin, and stood up. My dick was still hard and still pointed straight out the front of my khakis. There was a huge, damp streak down the right leg. Tonda placed both hands on the booth table and sat there, slack-jawed, gazing at me.
