Adam's Weird Job

"This is weird," Adam muttered as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was a strange experience looking at your reflection and not recognizing yourself. The make-up, the hairstyle, even the outfit, all of it added up to an image that gazed back at him through familiar eyes but an alien face. For the umpteenth time that day, he wondered how his life had taken him down this path.

It wasn't that Adam wasn't grateful for the job. He'd been looking for something for months, each day more depressing than the last. He'd found temporary work here and there, odd jobs, administrative work. Once or twice Adam had found himself on a construction site doing day labour, but his small frame didn't lend itself to success on those sites, only teasing, bullying. It was bad enough to be failing at a job, but to be called "Cupcake" by your co-workers made it so much worse. Anything, he had told himself, would be better than that.

But a Hooters waitress?

Sure, Adam could tell himself that he was a server, of an "entertainer" as the language often went at his new job, but he knew the truth. Adam was a waitress. They all were. Each man who worked at Hooters under the new company rules was a waitress. There was no other way to look at it. It was great that the corporate office had finally relented and opened the job market up to men, even going as far as an affirmative action ratio, but they hadn't budged on the rules for waitresses. Not one inch.

His face expertly made-up, his long hair (previously he had thought it made him look tough!) cut in a decidedly feminine manner, the tank top, the orange shorts, the pantyhose... taking a deep sigh, Adam fluffed up his breast forms, trying to get the balance right. When he had first put on the outfit earlier that day, Adam had been surprised how nice his rear end looked in the shorts. It was a bit of a source of pride to him that his ass looked better than the other men's asses, something Adam would have never thought he would be proud of in his life, but he needed something to hang onto, something to help him hold his head up high. The bulge in the front of the shorts, though, didn't add to the illusion of him being a woman, but instead was like a flashing neon sign that all the male waitresses wore, indicating to the patrons which were men and which were women.

It was a sign that was needed if a customer wanted to be discerning. Not much else indicated who was what. The men had taken their outfits, their disguises very seriously. Image was important to Hooters, and nobody wanted to be unemployed, especially in today's economy. Two of his co-workers, Brad and Billy, had been discussing breast implants earlier while they got dressed, which had perked Adam's ears up. Some of the female waitresses had hinted that bigger breasts got bigger tips, and Adam wondered if the theory would directly transfer to men in the job.

"Adam," Kelly, a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties who enjoyed a button nose and freckles, who also happened to be Adam's direct supervisor, "Stop staring at yourself. You look great. Now get out there and look after your tables! You've got customers!"

Straightening from the mirror, Adam steeled himself, the put on his new, practiced, flirty smile, and bounced out of the room. Adam was a working man, and it was time to earn his wage.