Sissypov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - Pov- Info

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.

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

“You’re observant,” I say, leaning on the bar. I bring my face closer to his. His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “Tell me, what do you really see?” SissyPov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - POV-

He takes a breath. “Whatever it is that makes you… you.”

“Jackie,” he repeats, tasting it. “That’s a… strong name.” I smooth down the front of my top

I look in the small, cracked mirror above the mop sink. The mascara is a little smudged. The wig is still perfect. The lipstick is faded from smiling. I look at the person staring back. She is not a parody of femininity. She is not a kink. She is not a joke to be laughed at by drunk frat boys.

Tonight, I am not a boy in a costume. I am Jackie. And Jackie is working . My hair—a cascade of auburn waves, not a

I cap the pitcher. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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.

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?”

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