"God. Fucking. Damn it."

Slapping down the balance sheet in disgust, I stare across the street, eyes narrowing as that wanton hussy smiles and beams and blows goodbye kisses to an ever-increasing clientèle. It's an outrage, is what it is. Here I am, sweating in the steaming kitchen of my raggedy old food truck, lovingly creating the finest of artisan hot dogs - stone-ground mustard, ketchup made on-site, hot dogs sourced from the latest in ethically-farmed, positively succulent meat - and my business is plummeting now that she's perkily set up shop across the road.

We all know what goes on back there, of course. I've thought about it a time or two myself. God, just to slide up between those lusciously-rounded cheeks, and thrust, and leave a creamy finish just where her apron fastens in a neat little bow...!

But no. I must steel my resolve and batten down the mustard-spattered hatches. This is a mockery of the whole damn profession. An outrage to the proud heritage of the noble wiener-hawker, an indelible stain on the famed checkered apron of a street-food institution. And, more to the point, a grievous threat to my treasured bottom line.

The first step was gently nudging around City Hall, sliding in - damn it, man, focus - to ask a few questions about the legality of it all. Of course the Mayor had shrugged and let it all slide by. I could smell the damned mustard on his breath, for Christ's sake. "It's nothing against the rules," he'd burbled happily, and his assistant had nodded with glee, a hatefully familiar wrapper still on her desk. "Bumping, grinding, and dry humping galore! She's well within her rights."

Now, I'm not too proud a man to not resort to shameless pandering, but now I'm in a pickle - I've prided myself on being a one-man operation. Hell, it even says that on the sign. Even when I have my treasured Dachsund Watkins, in his little bun suit, visit, there's been one set of hands on the cookware. One Man's Dogs, in bright lettering, above my sign. So hiring a floozy to compete with that always-cheerful, ever-polite witch across the way is out.

And the rules?

Hell, how can I compete? If only I could offer a finely-honed ride on something other than a barstool, or solicit my talents with a tongue... But no, it's all bumping and grinding and so on, and given the anatomy involved... well, I'm simply not equipped to offer my clientèle the same joys. God damn it, this set of rules leaves to the ladies to take it all... especially that one lass with the bright blue eyes and the beaming, adorable smile.

And then inspiration hits.

By God, I'm going to break the rules. And I'm going to do it in style. With a proposition. With boldness and flair and fucking verve, for the sake of the damn holy hot dog.

And so commenced the long night - hammering under cover of darkness, sawing and painting and sweating over plywood and steel in the night, the flickering light from the stand across the way going out and only making me wonder where she goes, when the day is done, for a moment. Sweat and salt and pure force of will went into it, hearkening back to the days when I was starting up, trying to make ends meet, building something with whatever gimmick I could find, and by the time the day broke...

There, above my stand, it beams out at the world. Neon and bright, bold color, straight patriotic bunting all around the edges. I can see them - the men just smirk and trod the well-worn path to the other place, but the ladies... I can see it. Flushed faces, hands clapped over mouths, and the telltale shift of legs a little closer together. And then... the first customer, nervously blushing, sidling up to my counter after a look from side to side.

It's working.

In bright bold letters, my sign shouts to the world:

REBEL DOGS

FUCK THE RULES - I'LL FUCK YOU

Stark.

Uncompromising.

Beautiful, with its animatronic wiener thrusting proudly into painted cardboard buns, nary a whiff of this watered-down pap on tap across the street.

It promises all the delights of carnal indulgence, with two new certificates of cleanliness standing proudly alongside my health-inspection sheet. Plush countertops at waist height, perfect for bending over, clearly-marked and suggestively-shaped bottles of lube in red and yellow, and complimentary showers for sending one back out into the world with a new cream filling and a satisfied smile.

But there, just below the bold letters, a tiny, elegant scrawl angled just-so for a single pair of eyes not so far away.

You're welcome here too, Sally.

I'll admit, outercourse is harder to write when you've not got the right parts to make a seduction work.

But that doesn't mean you can't try, does it?

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