It began as part of my standard bit.

“Look at those tits!” Walter said. Walter Woodman, age seven going on seventy-five. Green hair. Freckled complexion. Always wears the same yellow-and-red plaid sports jacket with the same pair of light khaki pants and brown loafers. Height: 3’ 6”.

Walter is my ventriloquist dummy. We were in the middle of my act, doing a monthly gig at the bar lounge of a hotel near the beach. I had spotted her using my peripheral vision, which becomes acutely perceptive for those who do my line of work. At least, for those who do it well. She is older than me, but gorgeous: one of those women that puts out a high-beam erotic vibe, like some radiant version of the Spanish fly. I could see the men (and some women) around her fidgeting from sexual agitation. Read more…