Dog Walker.

After getting fired from a job for—unintentional and humiliating—public nudity the second time this month, I figured a little self-employment might be a good idea and started offering services online as a dog walker. So far, the business is doing great…

Here's the story of when that stops being the case.

I'm walking three dogs at once, all belonging to the same woman, they're; Pincho, an excitable German shepherd; Poncho, a lovable (yet unidentifiable) mutt; and the spirited little chihuahua, Thomas Jefferson.

I've been getting an absurd amount of attention on this walk. I guess a tight, athletic outfit shrink-wrapped over a muscular frame and three adorable dogs meant that most women—and even some hot men, score!—in the park had the inclination to flirt. However, I've rarely had time to respond, because those dogs I'm walking? They are rowdy pups, and to say I'm walking them feels disingenuous, as I in fact have no control over these dogs.

On a baseless whim, they tear through a hedge, and drag me along with them; that doesn't bother me too much, but once we're on the other side I realize I'm missing something important: My shirt!

By this point In my life, I'm no stranger to going bare chested—even if I don't like to—but it's definitely embarrassing to run around topless like this in public. Now, 'topless' must sound like an unfitting term for a guy, but it feels way too appropriate when women licentiously gawk at my bare chest. My face reddens as a groan escapes my lips, this shit again?

Pecs bouncing like I'm on an episode of Baywatch, and my Lycra shorts starting to ride up my legs, the puppies tear off in a new direction.