Pale Moon Rising
The woman on table sixteen is a forty year old, slightly drunk, voluptuous peroxide blond.
And her ass is halfway out of her pants.
Leaning forward in animated conversation she’s oblivious that her backside is sliding out of her jeans. I can’t help but notice it’s a nice ass.
I also notice she’s not wearing any underwear.
“Shouldn’t one of you girls go over and say something to her?” I ask my comrade Arlene.
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Cause I’m a guy. I’ll look like a pervert.”
“Listen, it’s her own damn fault she’s looking skanky. Let her deal with it.” Arlene says.
“Man you girls are cold,” I mutter.
Every male waiter, including myself, makes several unnecessary trips down the aisle to sneak a peek. Women at other tables are giggling. Their husbands, faces flushed with effort, are trying not to look. With every passing moment Blondie’s butt is slipping over the horizon.
“Fluvio,” I say to my boss, “Please go tell that woman what’s happening.”
“You’re the owner.”
Taking a deep breath I start to walk over to the lady’s table. Chivalry not being completely dead I decide to clue the woman in on her predicament.
As I approach Blondie says, “I have to use the ladies room,” and starts to get up. Oh no.
Her jeans hit the floor.
“BRAVO!” a male voice shouts.
“Eeeek!” Blondie cries quickly pulling up her pants.
I pretend I don’t see a thing and continue walking.
“Oh my God,” the woman groans, face buried in her hands.
Another table waves me over. They’re laughing hysterically.
“Oh man did you see that?” one of the patrons asks.
Waiter sangfroid firmly in place I reply,
“Must be a full moon tonight.”