Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers

Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers
July 27 2007
You have to be creative to have fun in a small town. That means things like hay rides, cow tippin’, skinny dippin’, etc.

But most of time, people just get together, hang out at somebody’s house, maybe light a bonfire or throw in a crappy scary movie, and then just drink
themselves into oblivion.

The summer during my sophomore year of college, I was tossed right back into this quaint little small southern town environment when I headed home
from school. I had taken a job as a line cook at the old restaurant I’d worked at since high school, so I was reunited with some of my old cronies and also
made friends with a few of the new guys. But mostly, I spent time with the waitresses. Since I was the only gay guy at the restaurant, I just tended to relate a
little better to the ladies!

One night, my friend Karen invited me to head out with everyone after to work to J.T.’s place. J.T. was the ‘new’ bartender. Really, he’d been there for
nearly a year, but he was new to me since I had never met him before I’d returned home. He was a great looking guy. Tall, lean, dark, close-cropped hair
and that perfect amount of prickly stubble on his chiseled cheeks and jaw. But he was a player, and a jackass at that. In the couple weeks that I had been
back at the restaurant he had already dicked over (quite literally) two of the waitresses, one of whom was Becky, one of my oldest friends here.

I know it’s tough to place all the blame on the guy when he’s known to be the type who takes what he wants and leaves; I mean, it’s not like the girls didn’t
know what to expect. Still, somehow every girl always thinks they’ll be the one to change the bad boy and make him settle down. Whatever. Becky was a
sweet girl and I held it against the guy for taking advantage of her.

So when Karen said the after work party was at J.T.’s, I was a little hesitant to accept her invitation. But with a little coaxing, she got me to agree to tag
along, if for no other reason than to ‘watch out for her and Becky’.

So, when the last few customers left and we finished mopping up the kitchen and closing down the lines, I said I was gonna run home and shower and change
and then head back to meet her to leave for the party. Karen stopped me and explained that J.T.’s place was a long way away and that there was no need to
clean up since everyone else would be going in their work clothes as well. I argued that there was a stark difference between a waitress heading out in her
‘work clothes’ and a line cook heading out, wreaking of frying oil, smoke, and whatever else was smeared into his jeans and cook’s smock.

Then Karen explained that J.T. had a big pool and that most people ended up in there to ‘get the smell off’. Again, reservation set in. I didn’t have a suit
to wear and I wasn’t about to go skinny dipping with all my very hetero kitchen-mates around. I explained to Karen that’d I have to run home and get my
swim trunks.

“John, seriously. You’re being way to formal about this whole thing. We do this every weekend. It’s just the

staff, we head out, we get loaded, we have some fun, and then we come back in here, hung over as hell, and run the restaurant tomorrow morning! There’s
no need to go home and ‘freshen up’. Who are you trying to impress?”

Karen had a point. But I just felt like an outsider and I think I was looking for an excuse to bail out.

“I know,” I began. “It’s just that, I don’t wanna feel awkward. If everyone else keeps a pair of trunks in their car because they know this happens every
week, then I’m gonna be the douche sitting in the lawn chair by the pool in his jeans and tshirt watching everyone else have a good time.”

“Look, if you’re that worried about it, just stop at the Wal-Mart along the way and grab a cheap swim suit.” Karen, always the pragmatist, seemed to have
come up with a reasonable compromise.

“J.T. lives near a Wal-Mart?” I scoffed, knowing good and well that when you’re out in the country, EVERYONE lives near a Wal-Mart.

Karen cast her head to the side and gave me her ‘don’t be like that’ smirk. I returned the smile. “Okay, so how do I get to J.T.’s?”

“You just follow highway 16, past the Wal-Mart…”

“Past the Wal-Mart,” I repeated, shooting her a coy smile. Karen just sighed and continued.

“Yeah, after the Wal-Mart you’ll go through one of those blinking yellow lights at an intersection and then you take the next right onto Rifle Range
Road…”

“Rifle Range Road?!” I interjected. “Where the hell are you taking me?!”

“John. Your parents live on Foxhole Lane. I live on Houston Mill Road. Don’t act like it’s a big deal. You know this town. This county. College has
changed you. When’d you get all high and mighty?!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t like this J.T. guy,” I explained.

“He’s really not a bad guy. He just had a bad rap. He never lied to Becky or Courtney about his intentions. They just ‘hoped’ for something more and got
pissed about it afterward.”

“Yeah, I understand that.” And I did understand that. So I changed my attitude and perked up. “So, Rifle Range Road…?”

“Follow that for about a mile. There’s nothing out there but pine trees and wooden fences, so when you see a house with a couple dozen cars parked on the
front lawn, you can pretty much assume that’s it.” Karen concluded.

“Fair enough.”

And so, I set out for Wal-Mart on Highway 16 in pursuit of an affordable, and most assuredly fashionable piece of swimwear.

I got to the store around midnight. And naturally, like every Wal-Mart in America, it was lit up like a Carnival, proudly displaying its ‘open 24hrs a day’
status. The parking lot was practically empty. ‘Why in the hell does a place this remote need a 24hr department store?’ I asked myself.

I got inside and headed for the clothing section. I had to give my eyes a moment to adjust to the searing fluorescent lights. As I broke off from the main
aisle and turned in between the clothing racks, I noticed a young couple passing me in the other direction. They caught my eye mostly because they were
the only other shoppers in the area. But also, because the boy was so damn hot.

They looked like high school kids. Young, toned, fit and tanned. The girl had classic blonde-hair, blue-eyed beauty, with long, straight golden locks and
perfect, flawless skin. She was wearing a tight white tank top and a skimpy little pair of snug red knit shorts that showed off every curve of her perfect,
tight little ass and perky tits.

Her boyfriend was every bit the piece of eye candy. He was a tall, thick, broad-shouldered hunk, with shaggy brown hair and square jaw. He too had crystal
blue eyes and the most devilishly handsome dimples. He was wearing loose cargo shorts with a form-fitted button down shirt that accentuated his strong
pecks and full, round, bulging biceps. My head sort of twisted around on a swivel as they passed by me, trying to give my eyes as much time as possible to
soak in the image of this young stud. ‘Probably some football player and his cheerleader girlfriend,’ I thought to myself.

I shook the image of the young stud out of my head and ventured further into the clothing area. Eventually, I found the men’s swimwear. Yikes. Talk about
some gawdy-ass clothing. I had to dig through three racks just to find something that didn’t look like it was the national flag of some third-world country.
Finally, I found a pair of plain blue trunks in my size. Good enough. I grabbed them and headed out.

As I was clearing the section, it dawned on me that I should probably try the trunks on, just to be sure they fit right. So I headed back and found the little
row of Wal-Mart fitting rooms. They were really little more than a set of stalls set out in the middle of the clothing section, but at this time of night, I
figured what did it matter? There was no one around.

So I went in the first stall and dropped the latch down. The little room was tiny, and there were random articles of clothing strewn all about the floor, and
on the little hooks that adorned the walls and back of the door. The mirror on the side wall was cracked, and the little bench, presumable for sitting, was
broken and halfway falling off. “Nice,” I mumbled to myself as I set my blue trunks down on the broken bench. I turned and began to unfasten my belt
buckle. I dropped my dirty work jeans to my ankles and kicked my feet free. Then I heard a thump against the wall beside me. I realized someone must be in
the next fitting stall. ‘What are the odds?’ I asked myself, then resumed my disrobing.

I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off, hanging the smelly white garment over the edge of the door. I was now standing there in just my boxer briefs. I
admired my body in the mirror, still pretty proud of my lean physique. I was confident I’d look pretty good in my crappy Wal-Mart swimsuit.

As I leaned over to pull off my underwear, I heard another louder thump behind me, followed by a stifled giggle. I turned quickly and stared at the wall to the
side of my little stall, as if I’d be able to see something through the beige wood. Shrugging it off, I went ahead and removed my underwear. I took a moment
to admire the reflection of my plump cock in the mirror. I wasn’t the most well-hung guy around, but on my body, it looked pretty darn good. I had to
admit, I wasn’t half-bad looking naked.

Then I heard another, even louder thump followed by two distinctive giggles. That’s when it finally dawned on me what was likely going on in the next
stall. Never one to pass up the opportunity for a little peep show, I turned and leaned down to see if I could see any feet under the divider wall. There were a
few articles of clothing strewn about underneath, and I could make out a wiggling shadow. There was definitely a pair of big, hairy man-feet in there in a
pair of rugged brown flip flops. But that was all I saw.

Then I looked back toward where the back wall met the divider wall. Where the little seat in my stall was broken, a half inch crack had formed running the
length there. I pressed my face against the back wall and squinted my eye to try to peer through. I could see golden blond hair running down a narrow strip
of white fabric. “Ahhh…” I sighed as I recognized the hot little cheerleader I’d passed on the way in. She must be in there with her stud of a boyfriend.

Now terribly curious, I wanted desperately to get a better look. But how? I looked around to see what my options were. And then I saw it. Right there on
the floor, just under the outside wall of my changing stall, glowing in the harsh fluorescent light, was a nice little handheld mirror. ‘God bless Wal-Mart and
it’s sloppy dressing room upkeep!’ I thought as I reached down and plucked the mirror from the floor.

I leaned the little mirror down and angled it under the divider wall. I could see both pairs of feet now. The girls were either side of the guys. She was seated
on the little bench and he was standing in front of her. I angled the mirror more, to see his thick, blocky calves. But his back was to my stall, blocking most
of my view of the action.

Determined to figure this out, I decided to try looking down from above rather then up from below. So I held the mirror up high and over the edge of the
stall. This view was much improved. I could see all of the boy now, the back of his head, his shoulders, all the way down to his waist. And in front of him, I
could make out the motions of the top of the girl’s blonde, golden head moving in and out at his waist. ‘This kid is getting a goddamned hummer from his
girlfriend in the freakin’ Wal-Mart dressing stall,’ I thought as I stretched to angle the mirror more. Frustrated that I still wasn’t getting a good view, I
decided to get a little more brazen.

I laid the mirror down flat on the floor between the two stalls and slowly inched it forward under the divider wall. As the mirror crossed over from my stall
to the next, I could clearly begin the make out the shape of the standing hunk and his seated girl. I pushed the mirror a few inches further, and then
something magical happened. I noticed that if I leaned back, I could see the reflection of the wall mirror in their stall in the little mirror on the floor. With
just a couple more inches, I’d have a front row seat to the all the action!

I inched the mirror a little further, now almost entirely on their side of the wall, and then presto! There it was! A cute little blondy sucking one of the most
magnificent cock’s I’d ever seen. This boy was truly a stud indeed. He was easily nine inches long, or better. It was a veritable log extending out of those
loose-fitting khaki cargos of his. And thick. A full, firm, round, throbbing, vein-decorated, cinnamon brown man tool. With a nice, plump, rosy mushroom
tip. I salivated at the sight of the girl’s full little red lips sliding up and down his thick pole.

She was working him over good, too. Taking in a good two-thirds of his length, practically deepthroating him with long strokes of her mouth. Every once
in a while she’d pull off and grab his trunk with her fist, shaking his massive cock and smiling giddily up at him. She even looked over at her reflection in
the wall mirror and smiled wide, really loving the look of seeing herself sucking her man’s cock. This startled me a bit, since in my little mirror, it looked as
if she was staring right at me. But that was impossible, of course.

As she resumed her mission to get her man off, I felt my own prick rising. I wanted desperately to be that little cheerleader. I wanted it to be my lips
wrapped around that thick rod, and for it to be my hair those big, masculine mitts were running themselves through.

I could hear the guy huffing and panting a bit now as his massive tool continued to get rimmed and blown by his lady’s fresh, teenage lips. I realized now
that I was almost involuntarily stroking my own cock rather aggressively, trying to match the motions I was watching in my little dual mirror theatre.

My mouth was watering and my belly was burning at the sight of this kid’s organ. I didn’t realize how incredibly horny I must have been. And that’s when
something strange happened. As I began to fantasize that it was me blowing that cock instead of some little cheerleader, I also began to fantasize that it was
J.T. standing in that stall instead of some high school football stud.

It was all clear now. I knew why I hated J.T. so much. It wasn’t that I hated him, it was that I wanted him. And I was jealous that I couldn’t have him. I
could probably put that to rest right now if I finished through with this fantasy. So cleared my head, and went back to stroking my cock while imagining I
had J.T.’s thick, nine-inch prick in my mouth.

The boy was moaning and huffing quite audibly now. At one point his girlfriend stopped and tried to shoosh him, but he just muttered, “don’t stop, don’t
stop” and that let me know he was probably quite close to finishing. And, the sight of this hunk’s amazing monster cock had me nearing the brink myself.

As I kept my mind bouncing back and forth from J.T. to the images I was watching in the mirror on the floor, I felt myself begin to warm to the sensations
of my hand riding up and down on my hard pole.

Then, I heard a loud thump against the wall and watched with excitement and mouth-watering lust as the high school boy snatched his humongous rod from
his girl’s mouth and cannoned several thick, heavy streams of youthful cum all over her face. She squirmed and giggled as he painted her with the reward of
her efforts.

I couldn’t hold it any more, I lost my own seed, firing several shots of juicy man-paste against the divider wall between our stalls. It slid down the wall and
splattered on the carpet below next to the mirror on the floor. I heard a rustling and saw in the reflection that the boy had reached down and given the girl
a hand towel to wipe her face off with. ‘They planned ahead,’ I remarked to myself as I realized this problem wasn’t the first time they’d done this.

When the girl finished wiping herself up, she leaned down to the side of her boyfriend’s leg and looked directly into the little mirror on the floor. I froze.

“Need a towel?” she asked, smiling widely as she stared straight at me. She knew. She had known the whole time. I felt my whole body flush red.

“Uh… yes please…” I stammered. Then a thin, lithe wrist reached under the divider wall with a little blue hand towel. I fetched it and mumbled, “Thanks.
And thanks for… you know.”

“Anytime,” she replied.

“Who are you talking to?” her boyfriend finally asked, probably very confused.

“Oh, we had a spectator,” she admitted, motioning to the little mirror on the floor. The boy just laughed and then the two left their stall.

I hesitated for a minute, cooling down. Then I wiped up my come, tried on my suit, and headed off for the party.

When I got there, Karen asked me what took so long.

I just replied, “I just needed to take a few minutes to give J.T. a little more thought.”

“Good,” Karen responded. “I’m glad you did. Feel better about things now?”

“Much.”