Sissypov - - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - Pov-

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.

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.

The Night Shift at the Crossroads

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

I look him dead in the eye. I could play the game. I could act coy, brush my hair back, ask if he wants another drink. That’s the SissyPov script, right? The fantasy of being desired, of passing, of the thrill of almost being caught. SissyPov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - POV-

Tonight is a Friday. The air inside is a living thing: a roar of sports commentary, clinking glass, laughter that borders on hysteria, and the low thrum of male anxiety. My manager, a gruff ex-linebacker named Rick who never questions why my uniform fits a little too well, just points to Section 4. “Table 12, Jackie. They’ve been waiting. Turn on the charm.”

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. I smooth down the front of my top

I lean in, just a little, letting him get a whiff of the vanilla. “It’s the name my mom gave me,” I lie, smoothly. “You got a problem with it, honey?”