I've set up a little web page with all of my stories. I wanted to have the address be M1KE HUNT, but that name made the server get wet and it became unstable. You understand. So I've had to open up yet a THIRD address. It's MrM1KE@aol.com. I asked one of the tech support people at AOL why it wouldn't work at the M1KE HUNT name, and while she was eating lunch she told me "Gruumpg xopplwv tuupixxt flmp HTML." And then she said "Wiomghfflup htwelng asdfghjkl ersmpo AOL." So now I understand.
The website is <http://members.aol.com/mrm1ke>. Actually it's not a website because it's not on the web. Jeez, I'm already lying and I haven't even started the story yet! No "www" in the address, notice? AOL must be trying to save on electrons.
Anyway, MrM1KE is the address, and it's my new e-mail address, too. I need to get some of the old addresses back, especially since I bought that new "Nationwide Pizza by E-mail" franchise. Only $2500! Maybe you've heard of them? I hadn't until I got their e-mail. At first I thought it was just spam, but I read it and it sure looks like a winner to me. Hey! Spam pizzas! I just thought of it! Anyhow, the company has a special deal with FedEx to get 'em to you quick. And they'll let me buy a special oven from them for only another $2000. The program is actually quite involved. And they're very big on hygiene. I have to wash my hands every time I leave the bathroom! Sheesh.
I'll keep the other addresses open for a while, but if you're going to write, use the MrM1KE address, would you? Yes, the 2nd character in "M1KE" is still a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. I guess the "Mister" part sounds a little formal, but a successful businessman, like I am about to be, needs to present a certain dignity to the community, don't you think?
Oh, and check out the website, or whatever you call it when it's not on the web. I'm trying to get the pizzas to dance, but they're not cooperating yet. It has something to do with "rehmmilmpf gualomit frempling sahtpoxl Java" or something. At least that's what she told me.
People under age 7 can't read this. Can't read anything, actually.
People under age 12 shouldn't read this; they won't understand it.
People under age 18 mustn't read this; it's illegal.
If you're 18 or over, put your dick in your hand and LET'S GO!
(Ladies are encouraged to substitute a clitoris for the aforementioned dick.)
I didn't belong on stage, at least not on this one. I was on Spring Break along with about four jillion other college kids and was just farting around at one of two hundred beaches in Florida when I won a contest.
It wasn't exactly a competition to be proud of, not one I'd tell my grandkids about probably. I chugged a liter of beer faster than ten other guys and won. And I didn't even puke afterwards.
Luckily I was comfortable in front of people. I'd been in the Drama Club in high school, and had even had a couple of small parts in some of the college plays. So being in front of an audience was no big deal. I mean, how hard could this assignment be? I didn't have to act. I was supposed to pour water on about 20 girls in a wet T-shirt contest. I figured I could handle it.
Little did I know.
First, there's a technique I had to master, as the guy actually running the show told me.
"Listen," he said. "You think you're just going to splash water on them, but there's more to it than that. You have to make sure to pour just at the top of their tits. Watch out for their hair, don't get it wet, cause they'll go nuts. Make sure you try to keep the water in the tub, I don't want somebody slipping and falling off the stage. After you're done with each girl, get a new pitcher for the next one; I don't want you wandering around when it's time to get the next girl started. Be careful. The pitchers are glass..." He kept droning. Like if I'd known it was this complicated, I would have applied for my union card. Tit-Waterers of America, Team 304, you know?
I went backstage to the dressing room. There were more than 20 girls in various stages of undress. Some instinctively clasped their arms in front of themselves as I poked my head through the door. "Weird," I thought. "They're about to prance around in front of 300 guys in a wet, low cut muscle shirt."
"Ten minutes," I called out. The action in the room became frantic. Men's cotton undershirts started flying everywhere. Bathing suit bottoms were donned; a few of the girls were already dressed for the event and spent their remaining minutes touching up their eye makeup or their hair. I couldn't really see any of them. I felt like a Gulf War fighter pilot on the road to Kuwait: Too many targets of opportunity. I couldn't single out any of them.
The crowd was getting restless. Of course. 300 guys in a bar, waiting for women to come out and take off their clothes. This was not exactly a refined Symphony Hall audience. They hooted and jeered. A few whistled.
The emcee stepped on stage. I took my position next to a kids' plastic swim tub. I picked up a pitcher and held it over my head. The crowd went wild. The emcee grinned. I guess I did good.
He waved his arms to hush the crowd. When the noise had quieted a little he began his spiel.
"Hey Guys, Welcome to the Happy Lizard Lounge!" A big cheer. He waved his arms again. "And welcome to the Friday night wet T-shirt contest!" A bigger cheer. He quieted the crowd again.
"Tonight we have 24 beautiful girls in the back just waiting to come out and let you see what you shouldn't see!" Another cheer. "Here are the rules:" A few boos. Guys are so juvenile, you know? "First, no booing." More boos. "Anyone booing will be thrown off the premises, face first." Silence. "These girls are working hard up here..." A few snickers..."and we don't want ANYONE embarrassed. Understood?" A few hands clapped. "Second, we'll judge by your applause. General noise, whistles, hands clapping, whatever. It all counts. So make yourselves heard if you like the girl. Third, we'll narrow the field to a final five, then have a run-off competition. Fourth, I'm the final judge. Period. OK, that's it."
He paused. He looked over the crowd, now milling about in anticipation. "OK, let's PARTY!" he screamed. The crowd erupted. Music blared from the huge speakers on both sides of the stage. The noise lasted at least a full minute, maybe two. He made no effort to quiet the audience.
When the decibels began to decline, he pulled the microphone back to his mouth and said, "Let's welcome Sissy!" The crowd roared. Sissy stepped forward, and he held her hand as though they were doing a minuet. She walked in a circle around him. He led her to me.
I motioned for her to step into the plastic tub. I picked up a pitcher of water. It was cold, I knew. The beaker actually had a few ice cubes floating in the top, I guessed to bring the girls nipples up quickly. I threw the pitcher of water at her front and it splashed wildly. It soaked her shirt, of course, but much of the water flew outside the tub onto the stage. I guess the emcee was right; I'd have to be more careful. He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders.
Sissy stepped forward on to the stage. She had a nice figure, with medium sized breasts, topped by pointy nipples that showed easily through the man's thin cotton work shirt that was the girls' approved uniform. She danced and bounced through a three minute song and the guys loved it. When the music faded, the emcee pointed to the crowd and said "Let's hear it for Sissy." A big cheer went up. He was judging.
"OK guys," he said. "Let's welcome our next contestant for tonight's big $500 prize. Here comes Michelle." Michelle walked out from the wings and paraded across the stage. The emcee waved her over to me, and I got ready. She stepped into my tub, and stuck her chest way out. I poured the water carefully across her chest, watching as the cloth soaked it up, then clung to her every contour. The emcee looked at me and smiled. I was learning.
Michelle stepped out of the tub and walked to the apron of the stage. The music started, a heavy percussion number that lent itself to a violent dance. Michelle didn't disappoint. She bumped and bounced, her heavy tits bobbling under the wet undershirt. About half way through the number she crossed her arms in front of herself, picked up the bottom of the shirt and began to take it off. As it reached the level of her breasts the crowd went wild, and she paused before she continued. She had a big smile on her face. She was having a good time. Michelle got a great round of applause when it was over, and the emcee charged straight ahead.
"Time for contestant #3. From Phoenix, Arizona, welcome Francis!" I expected an 80 year old. Instead a cute blonde girl came forward. She was only about 5'2", but had an amazing hourglass figure. She wore a hip-cut bathing suit bottom and the standard issue man's white cotton undershirt. On her it was huge, but nobody seemed to mind.
.... There is more of this story ...