Mmm, Cinnamon!

Gunnar felt saved by the bell -- or more specifically, the lights and music. The DJ came on and said that the first warm-up dancer, for the countdown to the featured headliner, was named Cinnamon.

He frowned, glancing every which way. What was going on? Brandy and Candy were prime specimens, no question, but still he had to wonder -- were there ANY original house girls, or bartenders even, who he could recognize? It was one thing to radically remodel, another to radically rehire.

He was duly impressed as the curtain of tinsel parted and Cinnanon strode out. Something, indeed, had happened. Gunnar was a secret boob freak, the bigger the better, and yet he has always been aware of a chunk of the local audience that always seemed down on the busty performers, presuming to sneer at or simply snub them, especially the ones who were so obviously fake. Gunnar hated that, but he put up with that, and sometimes a big-busted gal turned up anyway.

But if Brandy, Candy, and now Cinnamon were any indication, the management had suddenly gotten religion, the religion of bodacious ta-tas. Cinnamon was a cheery blonde in what seemed to be some skimpy cowgirl get-up, complete with big white hat and silvery sequins suggesting rhinestones, but her cleavage was awesome. No less awesome was how athletically she could dance with it.

Gunnar usually preferred to play it cool until a girl really caught his attention, but he was caught already. "Please excuse me, ladies," he apologized to Brandy and Candy, and took his new seat at the stage.