My folks recently moved to a large property in the hills outside of a major city. I thought it would be cool living in this urban setting not too far from the college I attended, but I soon found I needed to supplement both my time and pocketbook.
One of my classmates mentioned a nearby golf course was looking for a beer cart girl. Her friend had worked there while in school, and said it was easy making good tip money, so long as you knew how to “play the boys right."
“Tammy, most of them like cute/sexy," she said. “Chat ‘em up, laugh at their dumb jokes, but cut them off if they get out of line. And most of all, wear clothes that show off that tight little body of yours.”
The last comment felt vague to me. I was hardly one to have to fend off many boys through high school. I was slim yet strong, having run cross country and hurdles. My body had stopped growing at 5’1”, with a lithe 32A-22-33 figure, and I considered myself plain. It didn’t help that my dad was the weightlifting coach and put the fear of God into suitors. Since I had little experience around older men like the ones I’d encountered, she ran me through some scenarios to help me get the feel of it. It all seemed pretty simple, so I applied for it and got the job.
At first, it was okay. Sure, I would get bored hearing their dumb stories and comments, but the tips made up for it as I followed my classmate’s suggestions. After a while, I became more comfortable with role-playing and started buying cuter outfits while honing my skills at flirting with these guys. Truth be told, most were easy to manipulate, and I found pleasure in seeing just how much tip money I could extract from them.
As the next semester came around, my available days changed. I was disappointed to lose Ladies’ Wednesdays and hear all about the goings on, especially when it came to the salacious trysts among the members. These ladies knew all, and I began to understand the critical value of discretion. The rundown on who was sedate, who was fun and playful, and who was a Lothario helped me proactively manage my interactions with them while maximizing my income. They taught me some tricks as well, confiding in me that wimpy men would spend more on you just for the pleasure of your time and company.
“Greg West is known to dole out hundreds just to be near a woman,” Margie told me once. “That poor sap! He’s not bad looking, and with a little confidence and guidance could be getting laid.”
Rita chimed in, “what will your workdays be now?”
“Tuesdays, Fridays, and the weekends.”
“You’ll enjoy Tuesdays for sure,” she responded. There’s a foursome of eye candy that any woman would love to wrap themselves around. All four at once would be dee-licious! I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve pulled that off more than once.”
“Who are they?”
“Phil, Steve, Ralph, and Gerry. We call them the surf brats. That’s how they met and became friends. But, beware, they’re well-seasoned. You’ll have to be in top form around them.” I was certainly interested in seeing what these four were about.
It wasn’t long before the surf brats and I crossed paths. As described, they were thirty-somethings that were athletic and fun. I confirmed that they swam and surfed together back in college, and, by the looks of their physiques, had kept it up, much to the pleasure of the women I would see swooning over them at the club.
I was especially interested in Gerry. He was about six feet tall, with that strong, tapered swimmer’s body that looked scintillating. I found myself looking forward to their company, even dressing special just for them, but Gerry’s eyes and voice cut through all that like he knew there was lust beginning the brew within me. And he’d be right. Those eyes both melted and moistened me in a way I’d never felt before.
On one particularly slow Tuesday, I drove through a sheltered part of the course and came across Gerry alone with his bag. He was wearing a muscle shirt that highlighted his features, and those feelings rose in me again.
“Hi, Gerry, where’s your crew?” I asked. “They bailed on me”, he replied. “But Tuesdays aren’t quite the same if I don’t get to see what you’ve prepared for me.”
“What do you mean?” I said rather coyly with a knowing grin.
“Exactly,” he replied. “I could use some Heine.”
I looked at him for way too long before I realized he meant beer, or so I thought, then laughed sheepishly and went to open one. The thought that he was eying me caused me to lose focus, and the unopened can slipped from my hand onto the grass. Then, to make things worse, I picked it up and opened it without thinking. It sprayed all over the semi-sheer top I’d worn that day, highlighting the braless cami I’d put on beneath, and my aroused nipples. I turned towards him, raising my arms and swearing before I realized how exposed the wet clothing had made me. Flustered and embarrassed for being so obvious, I walked into the nearby washroom to clean off.
As I tried to dry and settle myself, I heard Gerry near the doorway. I froze and was afraid to turn around, certain he’d see my exposed, aroused state, and the desire in me. He entered the washroom, walked up to me, and, for a moment, simply stared into my eyes in the mirror. I turned as if under a spell. Sensing my condition, he easily hoisted me atop the counter and planted a long, searing kiss on my lips. Disengaging, he raised his eyebrows and head slightly, as if asking permission to proceed further. I stared deeply into those amazing eyes and slowly nodded.