Not Just for Tips

There's a spot out by the thirteenth hole that is perfect for lifting my skirt.

The twelfth is a long par-5, that means it's long, and the approach to the green comes up the gradual side of a hill. By this I mean the golfers aren't one bit sneaky; their little carts chortle their way around the hole's crooked bend and as their shots dribble and fizzle into the rough and as they sidewind into those bunkers, I can hear them hooting and hollering.

But it's not just that I can see and hear them, but that even should I not, the spot by the thirteenth is still well hidden. There is a small and defunct house up there standing vigil beneath a tall pine tree, the one whose lower branches are so long unused and de-needled that it appears as if it's lifting its own skirt. The shack was used once for selling the beers and snacks that now come in my cart.

Yes, I'm a twenty-two year old beverage cart attendant. What else is a girl to do when she decides to take a year off before graduate school before realizing that she's tried to do it in this economy?

Jason usually comes around on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, unless it is raining, and on days when he's hitting well he'll make the thirteenth by 8:30 am. I am usually driving my cart around the course and see him first with his checkered shirt and messenger hat somewhere around the fourth hole, with one hand on the steering wheel of his cart and his other gripping the hood. I pull up beside his cart, caring not to step on the gas if my approach comes when he has a club in hand.

"Care for an iced tea? Or maybe a coffee?" I ask Jason, so long as he's not hitting.

Jason is a rounded, avuncular man. The double-chin smile, cigar and visor type. He walks bow legged with the unsteadiness that tells me that now in his sixties, golf is the primary exercise he gets.

"You're looking very pretty today," he tells me. He stops and makes a point of examining my shoes, and then drawing his eyes up to examine me in full. "New outfit?"

"Always white," I tell him. "Thems the rules."

He has asked me this before. He holds out his hands in the air and grins. "What is this, Wimbledon?"

"What about that Arnold Palmer?"

He waves me off with his gloved hand, emblazoned with the word Taylor, a golf brand that also happens to be my name. "Later," he says.

Later I suck Jason's cock on my knees. It points down and I have to hook myself on it, and sometimes I'm not so flexible in the mornings so I tilt my head and let it fill my cheeks. I brush my teeth with Jason like a hungry rodent. He's my flute and he's one of the predictable ones. He will stroke my ear and call me Blondie Baby in the moments just before this little chipmunk has enough nuts to hibernate.

But there is no rest for me. Not only must my cart make the rounds around eighteen holes, but on Wednesdays, Arthur's morning tee times come just behind Jason's. Arthur is a gum-chewing finance type. He claims the wind blows his collar up, and during our walk around the old beershack I only have time to tease him about it once before my cheek is against the beershack's siding and Arthur finds out again that my skirt does not have a bottom to it, neither built-in pant nor panty. He always regards this fact with a whistle. He's bent just like hole thirteen wears a condom. When he is feeling like a gentleman, he offers me his wrist to grip with my teeth. And though for obvious reasons I cannot accept his cum, he makes sure to kiss me, and thereby leaves me the gift of his gum.

My parents are surprised I returned from college to work six days a week outside in the hot summer, but what can I say? I sell a lot of beer. The men must be talking out there, in the clubhouse bar, for every week it seems I encounter a new golfer, at times a whole party of them. And when I drive up to them on the course they say they won't be thirsty until the thirteenth hole. Perhaps I should open the old beershack myself, so long as I can keep my boss away from it.

Jason often shoves his hand in his pocket right then and there, before I am sure all of him is off my lips. This time it is my turn to wave him away and shoo him back to the cart.

"Arnold Palmer, is it?" I ask. "It's $2.99, I'm not sure if I have any change."

I know that my services are excellent, that I am skilled at popping cans and unscrewing bottles. And although a woman like me won't chagrin whatever is handed to me in a fist, I will tell you for sure that I work these holes not just for tips.