"Wine, dine, and 69 me," were the words, I felt were etched in day glow ink on my forehead for all the patrons of the country club to see, as my older-than-I date escorted me into the banquet room. Another hosh posh insipid gathering of old monied blue haired ladies with their tanned retired aristocrat husbands in toll, rich widowers and divorced high profile men with their show piece beauties draped on their arms, and, let's not forget the poor wannabes, who mortgage everything they own for the opportunity to keep up with the Jones.
I fit into the middle category, a show piece for a divorced 53 year old land developer/publisher; a handsome man with charm, wealth, class, and power outside the bedroom, but a major disappointment in bed, much to my dismay. I had committed to attending this bigwig shindig. A woman of my word, here I was attired in a black tight short dress, showing off my bodily charms with my reddish brown hair more than an accessory.
Realizing, bemusedly, that I was the only woman present in the testosterone circle, my date had encased himself within, I decided it was an appropriate time to visit the ladies' room. I was within 10 feet of the beckoning door when I was broad sided by one of the penguin-suited guests. Strong tuxedoed arms encircled my waist, preventing me from tumbling off my 2" black heels. I was nose to nose with an interesting pair of dismayed hazel eyes.
"Are you alright?" He inquired with concern. His voice had a trained smooth quality, a slight northern twang. "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where my feet were heading."
"I'm good," I replied, "you're forgiven." I paused, waiting. "You can let go of me now. I've regained my equilibrium."
He reluctantly let his hands slide away from my waist, not moving. Smiling at me, his lips framed words but before they could escape, he was surrounded by a war party of blondes armed with silicone. I watched in amusement and surprise, as he seemed put out to be leaving.
Once in the ladies' room, I exchanged the usual polite mumbo jumbo. Eavesdropping, I heard someone mention that a good-looking Yankee was visiting someone, and how she would love to spread some southern charm all over him. Was it my bumper guy, I wondered? If so then, poor fellow, some one should warn him or at least give him a box of condoms along with a tetanus shot.
Looking as good as possible, I returned to the party at hand and found my date drooling over a peroxide princess. Relieved, I rescued some champagne. Sipping it, I rested my eyes on Mr. Demolition Derby. He was being entertained by a group of people I didn't know. I looked at him discreetly over my champagne glass.
Handsome was not the proper term one should use to describe him. He was of medium build in great shape. Short, close cropped, dark hair flecked with gray, a man of around forty something. His smile brightened the whole room, hinting of mischief and humor. I wouldn't say exceptionally gorgeous, but close enough to it. I found him extremely sexy, but would deny it if asked.
Suddenly, his sparkling eyes were on me, causing me to look away, feeling guilty, as if caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Escaping his stare, I ventured over to the banquet table to examine its fine foods decorated with melon carvings and ice sculptures. I felt his presence before he spoke.
"More champagne?" he asked. I took the glass and smiled thanks. "What do you think of this fine art?" He was indicating the tacky swan ice sculpture.
"Well," I said, "I was considering melting it with my x-ray vision, but have decided against it. I would probably get black balled, regardless of the fact that I am a super hero."
Not missing a beat, he asked, "So, where's your side kick? Or do you work alone?"