They Usually Travel In Pairs

February 6, 2008 at 1:53 pm (Cussed Dumbers)

Fat Tuesday took a few people by surprise.

“Isn’t that in March?”

“Doesn’t that have something to do with Easter?”

“Do you even know what Fat Tuesday is all about?” This from a bald-headed 400-pound jack-booted security guard who wanted to give me a bible lesson.

I replied, “It’s a grand tradition where everyone gets drunk, passes out, and the last person standing goes around, writing words on people’s foreheads with a cigarette butt?”

He gave the scowl of the righteous, began to explain something about helping ones fellow man, then gave up as my eyes rolled inward. I smiled, “I consider a girl showing me her boobs for ten-cent beads very helpful to this fellow man!” He gave up, and wished me a good night.

Soon after I got to work, I got a call from Boss Whitney. “Just checking to see if you’d made it.” (I’ve only called in sick a couple times since I’ve worked there. I believe in saving sick time for the truly important stuff, like hangovers and surprise sexual encounters.) “I figured if you didn’t make it today, you’d better go to the hospital. Did you bring your stuff?”

“What?” I feigned innocence. “Oh, Fat Tuesday stuff? I’ve got a bag of porno. and the radio looks like a drag queen. I decided not to put the beads on until after dark.” Then we got distracted by work stuff, computer crashes, issues with a guy stalking the cashier I was working with. (My idea of a blanket party was not ruled out.) The evening rolled on, and I almost forgot about the festivities.

Whitney dropped by to check on things. We fixed the computer, and as he was ready to leave, a dancer from the underage club around the corner came in. “Don’t you look festive! What’s with the beads?”

“It’s Fat Tuesday,” I replied, licking my eyebrows in Big Bad Wolf fashion.

“No shit?”

“Absolute constipation.”

“I thought that happened during Spring Break,” she said.

I looked her up and down, trying to give the hint. She looked like a 19-year-old Mariah Carey, and things were bursting out all over. Since she was so near undressed anyway, I peeled off a couple strands of beads and handed them to her. Then I fished out a porno DVD and handed it to her. “Since I’m not flashing…” My eyes ran across the top of her low-slung jeans, but I chickened out when she busted me looking. Boss Whitney just shook his head.

Then? Nothing. An occasional McLovin’ type with a neckful of beads and an eager look on his face, or drunk guys with jester hats trying to be funny. Nine o’clock rolled around, as did the cops, but where are all the girls?

Then, at 9:15, the dam broke. As I sat perched on the cashier’s Barcolounger (two milk crates) a young Latina ran up to the counter. “I came for my beads!” She tossed a scratch ticket to be validated my way, and I got up to take care of it.

“That’s why I’m here!” I winked at her.

As I ran her ticket, she said, “Here you go…” I looked over, and under her hoodie was… nothing! She lifted the jersey, exposing gorgeous golden globes. She had perky half-dollar-sized aureoles. She gave them a shake, then put them away when a homeless man walked in to take a look. I had to laugh when I saw six guys with their noses pressed up against the store window. She’d obviously done this on a dare. (Most of the flashes happen this way.) She began to run out when I called to her.

“You forgot something.” I leaned over and let her choose her beads. She picked a long purple one, and began to leave again. “Hey!” She turned back, and I tossed a porno at her. “To keep the wolves at bay…” I nodded to the boys. “Oh, and here’s your dollar.” I gave her the buck from the scratch-off. Her face was beet red. “I said, “They’re magnificent, by the way.” I winked, and the look on her face was priceless. I’ve never been good-looking enough to be a successful exhibitionist, but after watching her reaction I think I understand the appeal. She bolted out of the store with a new batch of self-confidence.

As soon as the homeless guy left, a couple came in. They were older, he in his 60s and she in her early 50s, I’d guess. She was tall and husky, and a little drunk. As she fussed over which fifty-cent candy bar to buy, she saw my rack of beads. “I want some!”

‘Well, you know how the game is played,” I said. Gotta take the good with the bad, I suppose.

“Oh, you wanna see my boobies? Okay!” She lifted her three layers of sweatshirt, and there they were! The rest of her may not have looked like much, but her breasts were lovely. As she put them away, a group of African-American ladies were walking by. This year’s group of flashers were the most ethnically diverse; I got a world tour!

“I want some!” The lady came in, followed by a butch-looking teenager. She flashed, again gorgeous. I gave her beads and a porno, and she went to show her friends. Immediately one of her friends came in. “Can she flash you again so I can have some beads and a movie?”

“Sorry, that’s not how the game is played.” If I learned anything from watching those Girls Gone Wild videos, it’s that you always see the boobies before you give up the booby prize. Besides, I was running out of beads.

A group of four cowgirls came in as the black girls were leaving. They had denim vests and jeans on, and a look on their faces that said ‘I ain’t showing him nothing unless he buys me a truck.’ I showed no enthusiasm, and they left. How do you tell them you don’t want to see that?

About ten o’clock, it fizzled out. The cops were all over the place. I let them use the bathroom, and they were helpful in keeping the wandering packs of juvies on the move. The same thing happened last year. After a burst of flashes, the girls go into the bar and I spend the rest of the night refusing to sell my stash of beads to teenage boys.

I was looking for my favorite bus driver on the way home. I figured I’d give her my beads and any leftover porn. She had a boob job a year or so ago, and loves to show them off. One for the road? Dang, it was an old guy driving. I settled in near a smelly drunk, and hurried home, where I jumped right into bed.

For a little while, I forgot I was sick. I’m not nearly as enthused about going to work today.

So, to all the girls, young and old, coffee-colored or cream-colored, bee-sting or baloney-nipple, thank you for a most entertaining evening. You’ve strengthened my powers of perversion, and I hope to see all of you next year!

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