“Well Shonnie, was nice of your friend to introduce us. Did y’all come here together?”
“Yeah, we come here two, three times a week.”
“I didn’t catch her name.”
“Layla.”
(Well, I guess that fits, I thought.)
“See seems very nice,” I lied.
“She’s a good friend. We work together.”
“I see. Do you need a fresh drink?”
“Uh, yeah I do. Thanks.”
I managed to get the attention of one of the Serving Wenches.
“Shonnie, what ya drinkin’”
“Jack and coke,” she said. (A kindred spirit. Well, if you remove the coke, but what the hell, right?)
To the waitress I said, “For the Lady a Jack and Coke, and for me a shot of Beam and a Heineken.”
“OK. Be right back with that. Wanna run a tab?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The band started up with “You Look So Good In Love” (George Strait)
“I love this song,” Shonnie said.
“Wanna dance?” (I knew I could manage a slow dance and that was about it. My Two-Step resembles a blind turkey caught in a rain storm)
“Sure,” she said, standing up. Wow! I thought; she really is tiny, as I took her hand and led her to the floor.
We began our dance and her head barely came up to my chest. I estimated she was five foot nothing, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. She held me very tightly as we slowly moved back and forth to the music. She smelled sweetly of some perfume I could not identify. Not surprising, as I am not really a connoisseur. Her semi-long blond hair was somewhat unkempt. Well, that may be unkind. Let’s call it ‘Country Casual’. She had a very nice figure, breasts just about right (far as I could tell) for her frame, nice ass (Yes. Yes. I know. I am being sexist, but I suspect she was ‘checking me out’ as well. And at one point she actually put her hand on MY ass. So there!)
As we danced I admitted to her that slow dancing was all I could muster and that I never mastered the simplest dance of all: The Two-Step. She giggled in my ear and offered to teach me. I told her I would have to think on that.
As the song finished, we stood there momentarily to see if they were going to play another slow song. They awarded our wait by busting out with ‘Cotton-Eyed-Joe’, a song I remember far too well from the Seventies and the line dance that went with it. No way. I hustled us off the dance floor.
Happily our drinks had arrived while we were dancing and we settled back down and began to get to know each other over booze, Marlboros, and Country Music.
While we were continuing our small talk, Layla suddenly (and loudly) reappeared.
“How’re you kids doing?” She shouted over the band.
Just as I was about to say “Fine,” Shonnie said, “Great!”
(Hmmmm…. ‘Great?’ OK, I’ll take ‘great’.)
“Uh, Layla… That’s your name, right? Would you like to join us for a drink? Take a load off?” I asked somewhat disingenuously.
“Love to!”
(Damn!)
“Well, name your poison,” I said.
“Wine cooler, white.” (Go figure)
I decided to just go to the bar to place the order, as the place was now completely full and I did not want to delay getting Miss Layla her (hopefully) one drink. I took the liberty of ordering drinks all around for our table while I was at it and returned to the table and sat down. Shonnie and Layla had their heads together and were giggling over something. (Probably my dancing).
“Drinks on the way,” I announced, thus interrupting their little giggle fest.
“Oh goody” (goody?) Layla exclaimed.
“So, Layla, Shonnie tells me y’all work together.”
“Yep, and we’re best friends, so you better take good care of her,” she said, still in giggle mode.
(Good ‘care’ of her? Hmmm…)
The drinks arrived and I decided to kick it up a notch, so I proposed a toast: “Here’s to new friends,” I said, raising my shot of Beam.
The ladies followed suit and two glasses and one shot glass collided with a soft ‘clink’.
“Hear! Hear!” Layla giggled (what is with this woman? Drunk or stoned, or both?)
We tried to settle into some conversation, but Layla clearly was not interested, as she spent more time perusing the other tables and the dance floor than she did on the ‘conversation’. I could see she was as anxious to extricate herself from our table as I was to see her succeed.
Thankfully, a California Cowboy finally came over and led her out to the dance floor.
Shonnie and I danced every slow dance song that came up for the next couple of hours (between several more rounds of drinks). About every twenty minutes or so Layla would pop back by, ostensibly to be ‘social’, but methinks, to ‘check on us’, as if we were her charges. Good Grief!
Finally, as it was getting up along twelve midnight, and Shonnie and I had, indeed seemed to find some mutual attraction, I broached,
“How ‘bout I give you a ride home? And Layla can be freed of her chaperone duty?” It was a gambit and I gave it fifty-fifty.
“Sure,” she said instantly. “Just let me tell her what’s up, okay?”
“Of course.”
I watched as Shonnie tracked her down and gave her the happy news. I could see they were having some discussion over this, but it did not seem too heated. Shonnie returned to me and announced gruffly, “Let’s go.”
“Yes Ma’am. Let me settle up with the bar, and we can split.” (Not really a Cowboy term, ‘Split’, but hell! I was in Southern Cali after all.)
We walked to my Toronado which was parked way in the back of the parking lot, by now pretty much emptied out. After we settled in and I was about to start the car, Shonnie said, “Ya wanna smoke a joint?”
“I would love to Hun, but you know I’m in the Navy, and they have random piss tests all the time, so I just can’t.”
She looked a little disappointed, but it was a fleeting look. I turned my attention back to the keys in the ignition when she put her hand on my arm, and said, “Well, would you like to fuck me then?”
(Bam!)
“Love to.” And it was definitely ‘On’. Since she was so tiny and my car so big with front seats that could be moved way back, we had no trouble with her straddling me on the passenger side.
The sex was passionate, slightly drunken, and fucking great! Seems there was much energy stored in that diminutive frame of hers and she unleashed it on one unsuspecting Cowboy.
After we had finished and I was back in the driver side seat fishing for two Marlboros, she started crying. (Crying??)
“What’s wrong Honey?” I sincerely asked.
“I’m married,” she managed to get out.
I almost laughed as I said, “That’s okay Baby, so am I.”
