Sissypov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - Pov- -

Turn on the charm. As if I have an off switch.

“Jackie.”

Later, at the bar, I’m filling a pitcher of Coors Light. A guy in a polo shirt—corporate, mid-thirties, wedding ring tan line—slides onto the stool next to the service station. He’s been nursing a single whiskey for an hour, watching me.

He swallows. His hand trembles a little on his glass. “I see… someone who is owning it.” SissyPov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - POV-

“You’re not like the other girls,” he says, low enough that the music swallows it.

The tension is delicious. It’s a rubber band stretched tight. The other guys look confused. The groom just stares at my legs. The best man backs down, laughing. “No problem at all. Jackie it is.”

“Hey there, boys,” I say, my voice a soft alto, not a falsetto. That’s the trick. I don’t squeak. I purr. “Sorry for the wait. What can I get started for you? Beers? A round of ‘I-need-to-sit-downs’?” Turn on the charm

His smirk widens. “I’ll have an IPA,” he says. “And… what’s your name, sweetheart?”

I text back: “Tired. Pretty. Yours. 30 mins.”

I cap the pitcher. “What’s that supposed to mean?” A guy in a polo shirt—corporate, mid-thirties, wedding

I smooth down the front of my top. The padding inside is subtle but deliberate, giving just enough of a curve to make the double-takes last a second longer. My waist is cinched by a thin black belt, the orange shorts hugging a pair of hips that I’ve sculpted through squats and a genetic lottery I still don’t fully believe I won. My hair—a cascade of auburn waves, not a wig, all mine—brushes my shoulders. I check my reflection in the mirrored tile behind the bar. Eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. A beauty mark drawn just below my left eye. The faint shadow of stubble is gone; I exfoliated for an hour this morning.

They freeze. That first moment is always my favorite. It’s the click —the sound of their brains shifting gears. They see the curves, the hair, the makeup, the uniform. They see a girl. Then the groom’s best man, a guy with a goatee and a knowing smirk, looks at my hands. They’re not delicate, but they are manicured, nails painted a soft coral. He looks at my adams apple—smooth, shaved, but the ghost of it is there. He looks at the way my shoulders are just a touch wider than a cis girl’s.