Growing up in a Midwestern farming community, I was decidedly a tomboy. At least I appeared to be heading in that direction, until puberty changed everything. I wasn't blessed with what you would call classic beauty; not particularly pretty either. However, since my teen years, I've been referred to as attractive. This was due in large part to my well developed figure. 'Pretty' and 'beauty' might have passed me by, but in all the parts that attract the majority of men, I matured rather nicely.
Raised in a farming community, you'd think I would have been a late-comer to the constant changes in sexuality during the '60s and '70s. However, my little community was far from backward or even conservative. As a matter of fact, tales about wild parties surfaced on a regular basis. If you were lucky enough to participate in a small town scandal, you would never be forever outcast, unless the infraction was criminal. Everybody had a wink-and-nod attitude toward the true party animals, nothing more.
Among those party animals were the owner/operators of our local steak house restaurant in town, Robert and Charlotte Martin. Rob had resided in town for over 20 years and tried several ventures before settling on managing the local steak house. Through equal amounts of hard work and schmoozing, he transformed a run down, rural restaurant into an appealing, upscale business. When the original owner decided to retire, it was only natural for Rob to step in and take over the reins. Nearly every teenage girl had a crush on Rob in the '60's and I was no exception. He was handsome, ambitious, single and quite comfortable dealing with all kinds of people.
My family dined there regularly on weekends and I can vividly recall always wanting to wear something special to get Rob's attention. The concept of a naïve teenage girl flirting with a grown man bordered on the ridiculous, but at the time it was excellent fantasy fodder. He was always on his good behavior; being extremely cordial to everyone. If I could somehow catch him off guard, he just might slip me a cute little wink. That would be enough to feed my emerging hormones for another week.
A number of years passed, as did my teenage feelings for Rob. I was busy dating one farm boy after another and looking forward to going away to college, when I heard that Rob had married. It was at our last family dinner at the Cedar Mansion before heading off to college, when I first met Rob's new wife, Charlotte, or Charly, as she liked to be called. Whatever schoolgirl crush I had for Rob went 'poof' at that point.
Charly was the most uncommon of common women I'd ever seen. Rob had met the woman (almost 5 years his senior) in Minneapolis and they fell head-over-heels (her term) for each other. I imagined that to be quite a fall from her 4 inch stiletto heels! The first impression most women have of Charly would either be that of an over-the-top hostess or a cheap hooker. Charly, in her skin-tight mini skirt and opened blouse with boost-'em-up bra by Frederick's simply oozed 'slut.' This tramp was what Rob really wanted in a woman? I could hardly believe it. They did have one major thing in common - charm. Once greeted by her warm beckoning smile and bawdy sense of humor, men and women alike fell under the spell of her disarming personality.
Like Rob, she had the uncanny ability of making people feel comfortable and special. Moreover, she seemed to know, by instinct, exactly what buttons people like pressed and she made no pretense in being able to press them. I suppose I will always admire and even envy her abilities in that regard. She practiced the fine art of manipulation flawlessly.
Attending college in the late 60s, I went through all the unpretentious style-altering changes. Penny loafers gave way to platforms, thigh-high boots or sandals. Plaid skirts went to hip-hugging bell bottoms, while preppy cotton button-down blouses morphed into tie-dyed T-shirts and beads. Maidenform bras, corsets and snuggies couldn't compete with going braless and wearing panties. With my almost waist-length straight blond hair and blue eyes, I was the epitome of the real pseudo-hippie chick.
As I previously mentioned, back then I had all the necessary attributes to model such an unforgiving wardrobe. Being a slim 34(D)-23-35, I got more than my share of second looks and glares. I made up for being sensually 'farm-girl' naïve, by using my natural attributes to project the image of a sexy broad who knew her way around the bedroom. I had no religious hang ups regarding per-marital sex and made sure to take my daily dose of 'the pill'. "Sleeping around" wasn't my routine, but if a guy treated me nice after a date or two, and I found him attractive - well, let's say I'd accommodate his advances. All in all, I'd describe myself as sexually active in college.
By 1973, Donny and I were in our mid-twenties, recently married, poor as a pair of church mice, but in the best physical shape of our young lives. I talked him into taking me back home for dinner, drinking and dancing at the Mansion with some of my older brothers and sisters-in-law. Back then he regarded my family's down-home, small-town partying as quaint and agreed to come along.
I wore a cute little red Spanish gingham dress. I always liked that dress for going out dancing. Nestling my sizable melons between its empire waist and wide elastic neckline, I was able to go braless. The wide shoulder straps were fun to play with, if I was in a flirty mood and the ruffled hem, well above my knees, made for excellent twirling. I sported a deep tan in those days, so I didn't have to wear hose. A pair of white cotton panties and hippie sandals completed my sparse but sexy ensemble.
"I suppose it's better than watchin' grass grow," Donny derided with a fake twang.
"Oh, you'll have a great time; wait 'til you meet Rob and Charly. They're something else!" I insisted.
"So, what's the deal with this Charly?" He asked, as if he had heard a few tasty things.
"Oh, I think you should wait and see her for yourself; wouldn't want to ruin it for you," I smiled.
Winding our way through town, we finally pulled up to the Mansion and parked. As was her custom, Charly greeted us in the updated parlor/foyer. Donny was noticeably taken back, as we were approached by the 40-plus-year-old hostess with the mostest. The sight of her heavily ratted up strawberry blonde hair framed her heavily made up face. Her spaghetti-strapped, deep blue sequined party dress featured her trademark deep 'V' front, open back and thigh-high slit. The combined smell of smoke and thick Channel No. 5 followed close behind, as she swept toward us in those stiletto heels. A plethora of rings and assorted costume jewelry swung from her, as she threw her arms around me.
"BARBIE DOLL! God, we haven't seen you forever! Geez, you look great and whose this handsome creature...could it be...Donny?! Come here you big hunk and give Charly a big squeeze," she said, impatiently finishing with me to get to my husband.
In her 4-inch heels she stood eye-to-eye with Donny. Grabbing a healthy chunk of his butt, she ceased her patented salutation banter long enough to take a nice, long look at both of us.
"Seriously Barb, you've never looked better! That whole marriage thing looks so good on both of you," she smiled, taking mine and Donny's hands and leading us into the renovated lounge.
Donny's immediate expression of awe and wonderment changed to one of lighthearted flirting. Charly had caught him and was reeling him in with every wink, dip and jiggle. Bartending Rob introduced himself to Donny, heartily shook his hand and turned to greet me with a big, long hug.
"Hope you know Donny, you probably pissed off half of the male population here in town; marryin' this sweet young thing?" He said, running his hands down my back.
"Only half?" Laughed Donny.
"Yeah. The other half are still in diapers!" Joked Rob, then lightly kissed my cheek.
Several of my siblings showed up and after downing a few extra toddies we all headed into the restaurant for dinner. Charly strutted around like a cross between an aged Bond girl and Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke. My short gingham sun dress garnered little attention - except from Rob. With all of us seated around a large table, Rob stood directly behind me, placed his hands on my shoulders and rattled off the menu specials. Everyone was so focused on his funny anecdotal delivery; they failed to notice his hands gently stretching the elastic neckline of my dress. By the time he described our desert options, he had pushed the straps down far enough to bare my shoulders. Since the dress could be worn either way, I didn't interrupt or resist his innocent teasing. It wasn't until the tips of his fingers found their way inside the fringe of my lace-trimmed collar, that I leaned my head back and smiled up at him. He peered down into my eyes, glanced at my exposed cleavage, turned beet red and immediately pulled his hands away.
I let out a little chuckle, realized no one was the wiser and forgot the incident. I was a big girl now and totally capable of some light hearted flirting. Dinner was delightful; full of tasteless jokes and whose-doing-who backyard gossip. I lost count of just how many vodka sevens I had downed, but by the time we finished dinner I was in a pretty giddy mood.
