Only in America would such a “dilemma” exist. And Bud was the first to admit that he was a victim of such a quandary. A real catch-22 (not that he actually knew where that saying derived from, having never “heard of” the book). He had been told by his employer at the Amazon warehouse that it was of the utmost importance that he get tested immediately, as there was a fellow picker on the floor during his shift who had come forward as being positive (a word his boss had used as though this was the 1980s, and the man in question had revealed himself to have AIDS).
Sure, Bud knew he had a responsibility to “the team” to get to the drive-thru testing area as soon as possible, but when he saw there was another sign for the Hooters on 4th Street, how was he to be expected not to want to go there first? What’s more, he hadn’t eaten lunch yet, and their signature wings sounded oh so delicious. Especially if they were going to be served by a tight top-wearing, big-titted Hooters girl. The more Bud thought about it, the more he figured that they wouldn’t have put the sign up about the Hooters if they didn’t want people to think about going there before getting a Covid test. And yeah, sure, somewhere deep down he knew it was morally reprehensible “or whatever” to ignore his social responsibility to ensure that he wasn’t diseased. But for fuck’s sake, how was he supposed to ignore the huge boner he was getting that could only be quelled by the sight of a Hooters girl that he would also pay to blow him in the bathroom (or maybe his car) while he waited for his wings?
He made a hard (no pun intended) left away from the Covid testing area, telling himself he would go after he finished (in more ways than one) at Hooters. Where was the harm in that? he asked himself, perhaps seeking some invisible sign of approval from a far-right God. When the car in front of him stopped abruptly, he zeroed in on one of its bumper stickers: “Only God can judge me.” He took it as the sign he was looking for.
For some reason, the exterior of the Hooters in St. Petersburg looked like it was designed to appeal to children. It was painted in the colors of a daycare. And, one supposes, such an aesthetic wasn’t off the mark in terms of the male “kidults” the franchise was intended to cater to. Because yes, there was a reason men loved women with big tits so much—it brought them back to being a baby (when any pair of breasts seemed large from their vantage point as they sucked Mother dry in the first of many ways they would in the future). The branding people at Hooters knew what they were doing, even if the whole enterprise had originally been started as a lark that the founders never assumed would get this far. They apparently underestimated how coked out people were in the 80s. And, of course, they were spitballing the idea in Florida, where anything goes. The original location started in Clearwater, just thirty minutes away from this St. Petersburg one that Bud was about to pull up to.
He could already make out the silhouette of a real nice little number standing near the hostess’ station. Her ass and tits out as though she was just waiting for him to cum on both the sides she was currently exposing. He suddenly realized his erection had only stiffened all the more in the time since he’d gotten here, and with the sight of this Hooter girl in his midst, he didn’t see how he was going to be able to walk through the parking lot, let alone move at all without having a bit of a wank. It was then that he got the idea to call the restaurant from his phone and tell one of the girls to bring his order out to him when it was ready. He made sure to ask for Charlene. That wasn’t the name of a real broad, but it was the code you used when you wanted to let the person running the operation know what you were asking for in addition to your food (‘cause God knows the men came for them burgers and wings, too—it’s not like the sex appeal of these women was the only thing that allured).
It only took about ten minutes for “Charlene” to come strutting out with his order all wrapped up in a white paper bag. His hard-on was still going strong, and he knew that once she got in the front seat, they would need to drive somewhere more private. Somewhere that he could more “fully” and “freely” “reveal” himself to her. He drove about five minutes until they reached another parking lot that was deserted, in front of a condemned building where no one ever bothered to go unless they were a crackhead. And if they were a crackhead, they surely wouldn’t care about Bud and “Charlene’s” quick tryst.
“How you doin’ today, Bud?”
Bud unzipped and let it loose. “I’m about to be a whole lot better if you suck on that right there, Charlene.”
She smiled, flashing him her crooked teeth. It was a good thing her body was decent—Bud tried to focus on that again as he squeezed her tit like it was a water balloon he wanted to toy with bursting. “You’re real feisty, aren’t ya Bud?”
He glared at her. “‘Feisty’ is what women are. Now how ‘bout you start usin’ those lips for blowin’ instead of talkin’ so damn much, huh? Feisty little lady?”
She giggled obsequiously. In her line of work, she had been treated far worse in terms of the verbal diarrhea men were able to come up with. So she went with it, that is, until apparently making the fatal mistake of asking, “Oh, um, not to like, kill the vibe or whatever, but you are negative for Covid… right?”
Bud could feel his boner deflating. What fucking nerve did this bitch have to ask him that? What fucking right? Sure, in all likelihood, he probably did have it. But what if he didn’t? Then she was just the prude cunt rag killing his fucking rod when he had been waiting the past thirty minutes to relieve it. It was in that moment he wished he had just turned right to get the goddamn rapid test. Then he could thrust the piece of paper right in this ho’s face and tell her, hopefully, “Yeah, I’m fucking negative.”
Rather than lie to her, he said, “You know what, if I do have it, then you definitely got it too now. So why don’t you either fucking blow me or get out of the car?”
“Charlene” looked upset now. Like she might burst into tears or vomit at the same time. Bud was tired of this whole fucking thing. At least if he’d turned right, he could’ve gotten this test over with and been able to tell the boss man some information—optimistically, the answer they both wanted to hear. But no, his pecker had done the thinking for him. His peckerhad led him down the primrose path of self-destruction. Better known as: blue balls.
As Bud muttered obscenities to himself and started the car, “Charlene” snapped. She punched him right in the nuts, paralyzing him long enough to get out of her side of the car, come around to his, pull him out of the driver’s seat and shove him into the back.
He managed to collect himself long enough to ask, “What the hell are you doing, you crazy cunt?!”
She got in the driver’s seat and burnt rubber as she sped out of the lot. “Taking your irresponsible ass to get a test. Which is what you should’ve fucking done before showing up to my Hooters, you misogynistic, small-pricked shithead!”
At that moment, “Midnight Sky” by Miley Cyrus came on the radio as the announcer noted it was a brand new release from the former Hannah Montana. “Charlene” turned it all the way up, hoping to God or whatever the fuck was out there that this asshole didn’t just infect her for the sake of getting his blow job and wings more instantaneously.
She sighed to herself and said, “It’s just like, this country has no goddamn soul.”
“I was born to run, I don’t belong to anyone, oh no…” Miley sang back to her in response.