19 September 2009

Wardrobe Malfunction

"Can we dance the Cotton Eyed Joe?!"

"Of course we can! Let me go drop this drink off and I'll turn the music on for us."

Dancing and Hooters are synonymous. It's just something Hooters Girls do; we serve food, we flirt shamelessly and we dance. The thing about dancing at Hooters, however, is that most girls become tired of dancing. You see, after doing the same repetitive dance about half a billion times there comes a point when most girls simply don't want to do it anymore. For some reason, even after a year of Hooters service, I still enjoy dancing. I dance with the fervor of a new girl. That's the thing, usually dancing is enjoyed my newbies who are excited about doing anything and everything Hooters; they haven't been spoiled by the repetition.

So when the question arose from one of our newer hires of course I said yes. Running over to change the music, I could see her excitedly rushing toward the middle of the floor. With the quick adjustments of a few switches Cotton Eyed Joe blared through the restaurant and I clapped my way to the middle of the floor. Not surprisingly, only the two of us stood there on the floor - new girl and old girl. Five other servers raced around us as we expectantly waited for our cue. None of them joined us.

The music dropped in and we started dancing. I should correct myself, not really dancing as much as bouncing. This is the thing about every dance at Hooters; they are incredibly bouncy. Hopefully I don't have to explain this affinity for bouncing. Lets just say that the bouncing allows certain assets to be more....noticeable. Plainly, Hooters dances have little to do with dancing and lots to with tits.

Bouncing away, the too of us smiled at the expectant eyes before us. The simple steps were completed with ease. As the song continued and we'd done the same four steps about six times, I looked over at my dancing partner. My smile faded away and was replaced by a look of shock. Smiling away, bouncing happily, there was one of our newest employees with her right breast hanging over the top of her tank. Luckily, the nude bra beneath still slightly covered her ample cleavage, but it left very, very little to the imagination.

"Your bra, your bra! We need to stop dancing right now!"

"What? Why?"


And then she looked down. A look of horror flashed across her face as she began desperately trying to adjust her top. She still hadn't stopped dancing.

"Stop dancing!" I said as I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the waitstation.

Helping her adjust her top behind the safety of a half-wall and stacks of to go boxes, we peeked out at the restaurant. Guests were snickering, point, giggling and reenacting. Everyone had noticed. Her face reddened as she dropped her head to her hands.

"Well at least they got dinner and a show," I tried to say over my own laughing.

"I do what I can!" she said as she cracked a cautious smile.

I flashed her a smirk and we both laughed as we confidently headed back to work.

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