I was cruising down Walking Street when she picked me up outside Bee Jays. Her rubies parted; her voice low and husky. ‘Go smoke in room, okay?’
She sidled closer. My knees trembled as her fingers brushed my unlit Havana.
‘Your place or mine,’ she whispered.
I gazed at her firm ripe coconuts. “Love is...short time” emblazoned across her skimpy T-shirt.
I was ready to go all the way.
‘Not here,’ she said. She led me into the dusty bar, past the pool table, up the rickety wooden stairs, and into the murky rest room above. The shower head was dripping. I could hear the music from the juke-box below, “...oh baby, give it to me one more time...”
Pulling her closer against the tiled wall, I smelled her musky aroma. Urgently, my hand dipped down to her honey pot. I jerked back in surprise.