Tampa, Florida
March, 1963
The night was waxing with possibilities at the Tiki Club. A trendy dive a few blocks away from the Palms where I was staying, the Tiki had that certain special charm that attracted pretty young girls who wanted to dance, fall in love, and find some visiting rich young stud to marry. They flocked to it like bees to sugar.
In 1963, that was probably your best shot at a bright future, for a young woman. The domestic ideals of the Fifties sill lingered, and most women had yet to enter the workforce on a permanent basis. The common ideal was the husband with a good job, nice house, two cars. Find the right man and spend the rest of your days getting drunk on the sly and breezing through middle-age. Their educations were largely focused on "home economics" -- that is, how to be a wife and mother. As ideals go, it wasn't that bad, and their bright young faces were filled with the hope of romance and prosperity. Security.
Little did they know what was ahead: the ramifications of the Sexual Revolution and liberalized divorce laws would turn the once-straightforward mating ritual into a hellish spiral of serial monogamy and ever-diminishing expectations. By the time these fresh young flowers hit thirty-five, about a third would have ex-husbands, little or no alimony, dependent children, and be forced to take jobs. But for now, at least, they were hopeful that their femininity could be their ticket to the good life. And the boys were taking advantage of it.
Me? I was masquerading as a rich young stud: Mike Winslow. Or Winthrop. Or Winwood. I had three different but completely authentic identifications available. I found it handy to be able to switch them around a little, give different names to different girls, especially in a tangled situation like this. And it was tangled -- it was the height of the evening, and the dance floor was filled with young lovelies careening around the dance floor to the strains of Jazz and Rock and Roll and other, more esoteric forms of "Negro music." Actual Negroes, of course, weren't allowed. This was a respectable joint, after all.
After fucking one fine little filly in the back room already, I wanted to pace myself. It was still early, after all.I rested an hour or so, dancing occasionally, but mostly presiding at the bar, before I hit on another chick.
This one was a small, slightly-Hispanic-looking girl in her early twenties, named Rosa. She had small tits but pretty eyes, and when we danced my ring heated up instantly. I asked her if she would join me for a drink, and she demurely agreed, after she went to the ladies' room. While I waited, I had Donald make something a little fruity and popped the insta-aphro in it while he wasn't looking. Sure it was artless -- the air was thick with pheromones already -- but I was on a schedule, and Latinas, while hot, often take a little more coaxing to overcome their Catholic upbringing.
Rosa was sweet and polite and bore my boorish behavior beautifully. She smiled at my awful jokes and made impressed noises when I told her about my fictional parent's fictional home in the Hamptons -- and then it dawned on her that I was filthy stinkin' rich and she was in way over her head. By the time she had drained her drink, the drugs had started acting on her, and her eyes were getting dilated.
"So," I said, when I had drained mine, "You want to go back to the back room?"
"Why?" she asked, affecting confusion.
"To see some dusty old bottles and count the bags of chips," I explained, a lusty growl in my voice. "Why do you think?"
It amused me to watch her decide if I was serious -- and what I was being serious about. Luckily, her artificially-energized clitoris made up her mind for her. There were enough pheromones in there to rouse a retirement home, and her central nervous system had but one goal in mind: get fucked.
"Okay," she said, finally, tossing her hair back bravely. She hopped down off the stool and went back, not even looking around to see if someone was watching. Cary was, of course, and out of the corner of my eye I caught her looking daggers at Rosa, but when she saw my eye on her, she was all smiles.
Rosa apparently knew the way back to the storeroom as well. So much for Catholic innocence. She nearly attacked me when I closed the door behind me, and suddenly I had a double armful of horny Latina on my hands.
She kissed enthusiastically, with some rudimentary knowledge of the art, but not well. She smelled wonderful, however, and whatever she was using on her hair was enough to give a dead man wood. I inhaled a few times, then pushed her uncomplainingly to her knees.
She knew what to do. She gobbled my meat for a good five minutes before she hopped up of her own accord and sat on a case of glasses, pulling her light summer skirt up over her hips. She wore no panties, and her jet-black beaver glistened in the dim light.
"I need you in me," she said, intensely. "There's something about you . . ."
"Yeah, and here it is," I said, muscling between her dusky thighs and planting my root into her with a single thrust. She was dripping wet, and took the whole thing without a whimper -- no fainting virgin, then. I pounded her with the same urgency I had taken Cary, but without the need for humiliation. This girl didn't need it. She knew she wanted to be fucked, and she didn't seem to mind that I knew. She came quickly, and then again, and a third time as I spilled my seed deep into her hot box. Then she collapsed a few moments on my shoulder.
When I withdrew, I just looked at her. "I'm here to find a wife," I said, bluntly. "Here's the deal: My family is wealthy and I want to piss off my parents by bringing home the biggest slut I can find. If you can be this nasty all the time, you're on the list. Marriage, kids, a huge pile of money. If not . . . let me know now."
"I'm your girl," she assured me, eyes wide with the possibilities.
"Show me," I said, glancing at the floor. She took my hint and cleaned me off pleasantly with her mouth. We parted without another word, but she watched me like a hawk the rest of the night.
Ten minutes later I was back at the bar, sipping Scotch, and trading lies with the bartender. It was still relatively early, and on a school night. But I knew if I waited long enough my mark would appear.
And, wouldn't you know it, she did.
Stephanie Anne Bristow. Age twenty-five. Brunette. She looked just like her photo in her file (which wouldn't be taken for another eighteen months), only with slightly shorter hair. Long, thin nose, pencil thin eyebrows, dark blue dress that was just a little too snug over her boobs. Not that I minded. She was pretty, and those jugs were pretty tempting. She sidled up next to --surprise! -- Cary, and within five minutes she knew the scoop. She glanced at me, then stared, as Cary filled her in on my situation.
She started all the attracting signals at once -- lip-licking, hair toss, framing her boobs with her arms, darting glances, she pulled out all the stops. I made her wait at least twenty minutes or so before I finally had Donald bring her a drink and invite her over to my end of the bar.
"Hi, I'm Stephanie," she said with a girlish giggle that she was just a little too old to pull off completely.
"Mikey," I grunted. "You're pretty," I added out of the side of my mouth.
"Thank you, sir," she said, dimpling. "So what do you do?"
"I pick up loose women in bars, when I'm not sailing," I muttered. "Are a loose woman?"
She shrugged. "Depends on the size of the yacht," she said with a flirtatious tilt of her head. "How big is yours?"
