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" and a lithesome 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 encounter, 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 OK. 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 hearing 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 once in a while."
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-liciuos! 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.
