Hot Young Girls!

July 4, 2008 at 12:23 pm (Cussed Dumbers)

I’m stuck working on the 4th of July. Waah! I probably could have made an issue of it and got the night off, but why? I don’t really celebrate, and I’d just be home, flinching with the blast of every too-close M-80 and praying the house or yard doesn’t catch on fire.

The upside? I’ll be working near the waterfront, where the Blues Festival is in full swing. If nothing else, it’ll be a nonstop parade of babes walking by.

For those of you late to the show, I’m pretty much a dirty old man. I flirt, oogle, google and try not to drool over the truly stunning. (I succeed, mostly.) I try not to think about the fact that my step-daughter is older than most of these girls; they’re legal, and that’s what counts, right?

Last night I received a visit from an old co-worker. I should say former co-worker. She was 19 at the time, and now is approaching 21. As I sat reading the paper during a short break, I see a pair of almond-colored eyes gazing over big sunglasses. They were the second stop; I had to pull my eyes away from the milk-chocolatey mounds jumping out of her sundress.

“Hey Boo!” Her radiant smile took me right back. I remembered why I liked working with her. Besides being easy on the eyes, her personality was bubbly and infectious. You could not be around her and not be happy after a very short time.

“It’s my favorite canoodler!” I exclaimed.

“You’re so bad…” She slapped my arm. My coworker looked befuddled.

I introduced them, and explained. “One day I invited her to come by during lunch. She said, ‘That sounds fun! We can go into the office and canoodle!”

Skrat, my coworker, a worldly 19, grinned. “Awesome!”

“Yeah,” I continued. “But I said, ‘At the risk of killing this wet dream, do you know what canoodling means?’ She said, ‘It’s like talking, gossiping, right?'”

“Did you show her what canoodling means?”

“Only in my dreams, homeboy.”

By now Canoodles is blushing, no mean feat for a black girl. She patted my hand and told me she’d be back. Poof! She was gone.

A little while later, a regular who works at a clothing store up the street popped in. “I was hoping you’d be here. I have something to show you!”

She began pulling her shirt up, grabbing my full attention.

Under the long sleeve was a fresh tattoo, reaching from shoulder to elbow. I’d heard about this tattoo, and had cringed at the thought. I’ve seen so many bad tattoos. I’m kind of a pessimist when I hear about them in the planning stages. But, when they work, I like them. Especially on centerfold-worthy young ladies.

Her choice? Yoda casting a fireball.

My first thought? Have you seen the internet photos of the fat guy with all the Star Wars stuff tattooed on his back? Yikes! I had a feeling this was going to end poorly.

As she wrestled her shirt around, trying to be modest in the middle of a downtown open market, I caught glimpses of this and that. By the time the tattoo was exposed I was dizzy.

And looky here! The tattoo, still fresh and starting to peel, was most excellent. Multi-colored, depth in detail. I revoked every reservation I’d had about her choices. She smiled proudly as I snapped a picture. Sorry, I’m not posting it here.

Then, about closing time, Canoodles came back. She’d been out having a bit of fun, and bought some vitamin water for the morning. She posed for a couple of quick pics. I’m not posting them either…

Now? I have to get to work. Trusty camera is in my pocket. All I have to do is close my photo album, roll my tongue back in, take a cold shower and make for the bus.

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job…

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