I haven't always been the world's greatest covert operative, famous glamour model, or even small-part actress with a bigger following than most superstars. Back in 1969 I was just a girl of 19, but I was already commanding men's attention like I simply owned it from the start. Most were drawn to my ludicrous MM cup breasts (They weren't quite done growing even then) while others liked my long legs, sculpted butt, fit physique, and then there were the older guys who just loved blonde hair and blue eyes.
One of those older guys was Lon Gordon, I was in a bar late at night in San-Francisco on a hiatus from college, letting all the horny boys in the place fight (politely, I do not tolerate violence in a suitor) for who would get the right to buy me the most expensive drink they could. There were studs of all kinds, from those delectable lean-yet-defined types to those hearty buff boys. There were fashionable types, and there were nerds (I use the term affectionately), and there were businessmen in suits and even one punk kid just loaded up with metal in his face. On some level they were all tempting, but I wasn't in an orgy mood (that night anyway) so I couldn't quite make up my mind.
Then he came in. He was older than all the rest, maybe in his late forties, with a full head of black hair that was just barely graying around the temples, his eyes were a very pale shade of blue, like a thin sheet of ice held up to a cloudless sky, and while he was most unfashionably dressed, there was something about him that was alluring. It might have been in the way he carried himself, but more likely it was the way his eyes wandered the room, favoring me (as all eyes eventually would) but with neither the shock nor hunger most settled on; his eyes just seemed somehow like they recognized mine, though we'd never met.
He spoke then, to the bartender, his voice a wonderful
"sandpaper-on-smoke sort of sound, I don't even know how to begin describing it. It wasn't that it was especially deep, but resonant somehow, tired, a little sad but very commanding.
"Hey there shooter, I'd like a Laphroaig and whatever the lady wants provided it's good enough for her." he chuckled, clearly no such drink existed in his mind.
Why am I not surprised it was the punk who decided to get up in his face.
"Back the fuck off, gram'pa'pa! There's a fucking line for which of us gets to sous this chick!"
He met the metal eyebrows with one of his own slowly lifting. "I'm pretty sure that's the lady's choice. Also, I don't mean to ruin your night son, but the the third ring from the left over your right eye is clearly infected. You need to go get antibiotics before you go septic."
"Shut the fuck up man, IβAIIIEEEGH!" he howled in pain as the older man gave him a very gentle-poke where he'd indicated trouble.
"See? Infected. Go get help, son." he pointed towards the door, and to my relief the punk actually gave a very un-punk-like murmur of thanks and made his way out, still holding his palm over the sensitive spot. The older man looked back to me where I'd cocked my head and pursed my lips with obvious interest. "What do you think, my dear? Should I get some piercings? I think he was kind of pulling that look off."
Even some of the other suitors had to laugh at that and I joined in. Still, one of the brawnier boys decided to confront him next.
"Look old dude," his drawl was distinctively surfer, "you seem like a cool guy, and I don't mean any disrespect or nothin', but look at that girl! She's like your daughter's age, she should really be with one of us."
I was taken aback that the meat-head was the one trying to appeal to some sort of reason, perhaps even a little impressed, if I didn't spend the night with one of the others I might still want to jot him down for later, you just never know who is going to end up in my little black book.
"Oh for christ's sake, I'm too old, alright. Too old to put up with this shit, too old to care about what some yapping puppy thinks, and definitely too old to spend all night doing this. Hey shooter, what does it cost to book this place for a private event?"
The bartender blinked, "Well, five thousand dollars, but sir, you need to clear it inββ"
"Here's ten grand." The older gent said, slapping a wad of hundreds that could have overflowed one of my bra cups on the counter. "And that's just for the bar, not the service. You can go take the night off if you want."
The bartender gawped a few moments, looking like a bit like a fish giving a dissertation to a panel of sharks, then he shook his head and slapped his hands over the pile of bills.
"You heard the man, asshole, everyone out!"
There were groans of protest, but they all knew they'd been beat and began to file out. The barkeep flicked a few knobs by the door and turned back to us.
"Alright, it's set to lock when you leave. Please turn the lights off and don't be here when I get in at three P.M. tomorrow."
"You got it," the apparently very rich man said, grinning. He rounded the bar and muttered to himself, finally selecting a rather dusty-looking bottle of brandy from the top shelf. To my surprise, he did not bring it right over but heated a small kettle of water that was on one of the modest burners behind the counter and poured that into a wide-brimmed glass, nestling the snifter into it so the natural curvature served as the perfect warming apparatus for the amber liquid.
He walked over to my table at last, setting the snifter in front of me and swirling his own scotch in his glass. "Good evening, Princess, the name's Lon. Nice to finally get to talk to you."
Was I impressed? Of course I was! He'd demonstrated wit, thrown off a pack of younger lions, and even knew his way around a fine drink. Did that mean I was going to let him off easy? Never; I may be a cock-pleaser but I'm a cock-teaser too.