A One Night Fling- Set in 1987

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Marie Christine looked like her hot, provocative self. She should be gracing the runway of some fashion show rather than a nondescript bar catering to thirsty students.”Jimmy, I haven’t seen you for a bit,” she said, greeting me like a long-lost friend.”I’ve been out of town, but I’m back now.””Will you be staying for a while?”I detected optimism in her tone. I recalled how flirtatious she had been at our original meeting, but back then, Julie was the target of my affection. Now I was floating in uncertainty. Here I was, yearning for a girl who looked for revenge sex with a stranger the day after I’d left her while standing twelve inches away from me was the most unique woman I had ever met. Her uniform of skinny black jeans, a white sleeveless top, and a black leather vest accentuated all her best attributes. With her looks and charisma, she could lure any man she wanted.”If you had asked me a couple of hours ago, the answer would have been yes. But now I’m unsure.” My answer came out with more of a smirk than I had intended.”Trouble in paradise? Can I get you a beer?” Marie Christine asked.”Does paradise exist? And yes, a Molson sounds great.” My head still carried a buzz from the Jameson, but a beer chaser never hurt. I wondered how I’d gotten into this situation in the first place. Would I be placing a call to Miss $50 Tipper or throwing some sheets over the mattress in my van?”Jimmy, your eyes are sad.” Marie Christine reached out her hand to touch mine. Her tone was now more subdued, and her eyes somehow mirrored the sadness of mine. “My shift ends in thirty minutes. I could use a chaperone to walk me home. Can I count on you?”The sincerity in her voice left me no option but to accept. “Sure thing.” I cupped the draft with both hands, and my tortured fingers appreciated the numbing effect of the cold glass from tonight’s shredding. Taking my first sip, I acknowledged that I could no longer savor light American beers after becoming accustomed to the more robust local offerings.Marie Christine said her goodbyes to the remaining staff, and we headed out. I enjoyed watching the guys we passed give me a nod of approval. Never had I been with a woman that drew so much attention from others. Looking at her from behind, her stilettos accentuated her swaying Bolu Escort hips, much like a runway model strutting across the stage. Her ass threw out a challenge to grab a moving target.I had to ask, “How can you walk in those stilettos? Aren’t they uncomfortable?””Of course, they hurt,” she laughed. “If I wanted comfort, I would wear my Nikes. But Nikes don’t earn me tips; stilettos do. Tell me you don’t enjoy my shape.”“I enjoy everything about you,” I said sincerely. I’d come to recognize that there was much more to her than an extraordinarily packaged outside. Under the leather, under the tattoos, there was a generous soul, looking to give her affection to someone deserving.”Do you work out?” I asked, admiring her svelte, firm silhouette.“Not as much as I used to. My old boyfriend was a competitive bodybuilder and we spent untold nights training. He molded me into a competitive fitness contestant. My height gave me an advantage over the shorter girls, but they had something that I didn’t.”“What’s that?” I asked, perplexed as to what she could have been lacking.“Breasts!” She said. “I competed in a few events but observing the other participants, there wasn’t a B or C cup to be found. To have a chance at a medal, like they say at McDonald’s, I needed to supersize.”“How did that work out?” I asked, allowing Marie Christine to guide me through unfamiliar streets, lit by the yellow glow of streetlights.“The tits stayed, but I moved on from my boyfriend and competitions and started studying to be an esthetician.” She pointed to her breasts through her thin white T-shirt. “Do you like them? You certainly stare at them often enough,” she playfully admonished my indiscreet ogling. Reacting to my uncomfortable expression, she said “Relax Jimmy. I enjoy the attention,” she took my hand in hers, interlacing our fingers.My face flushed red like a naive college guy getting his first lap dance. I was right—this girl had no inhibitions. Her hand was warm against mine and I could only hope my palms weren’t sweaty.“They’re outstanding!” I replied in a tone that was far too exuberant.“Really Jimmy? Are they outstanding or outstanding?” placing heavy emphasis to separate the second part into two syllables.“I think a little of both. “I mused, Bolu Escort Bayan joining in her amusement. “What else should I know about you?” I asked, smiling at her amusement.She coyly smiled. “If we’re finished discussing the girls,” she continued “I graduated from an esthetician school and moved to Montreal. I was a small-town girl in a big city, with no friends or family. One night while eating a burger at a pub a couple of blocks from where I’m working, I asked the owner if he needed any staff. He didn’t but was kind enough to refer me to the bar. I’ve been there ever since.”“Was the pub owner named Jacques by any chance?” I inquired, throwing out the name of one of the few people I knew in this city.“Yes, it is. Do you know him?”“Best burgers in town,” I replied. “Jacques let me play for tips when I first came to Montreal. It took him a little time to get used to me, but now I think we can call each other friends.”“Jacques looks like he could be a wrestling tag team partner of the Rougeau brothers or André Le Geant, but he’s a marshmallow inside. At least for me, he is,” she smiled.We continued to walk up Saint Laurent, passing many graffiti murals along the way. Finally, we arrived in front of a two-story walk-up.”This is my place,” she said. “Come upstairs. I have something which might impress you.”When she’d taken two steps up from me, I asked “More impressive than what I’m looking at now?” I asked flirtatiously.She turned back and laughed. “Yes, Jimmy! Even more spectacular than my ass, if that’s possible!” She gave me a seductive look that would cause an instant erection in any straight guy.As we entered the apartment my eyes were drawn to a stereo setup and two display cases of albums. I was like a kid in a candy store. “Wow, a Technics 1200 turntable, Marantz amp, and J.B.L. speakers. I’m impressed.”She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I’m stunned you recognize these components. They must be over twenty-five years old.””As well as music, my dad gave me an education on stereo equipment. Do you mind if I go through some of your albums?” I was already heading toward them, not waiting for confirmation.”Sure, have a ball,” as she followed my path toward the records.”This is quite the collection. Some of these are Escort Bolu valuable.” I told her.”When my parents moved from our two-story detached house into a condo, my mom insisted my dad give them away or they would end up in the trash. She wasn’t taking this junk to the new condo, she said. So, I volunteered to take it all off their hands. My dad still comes over occasionally to listen to his favorites.”Leafing through the shelves, I appreciated her father’s taste in music. The artists included David Bowie, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Traffic, and Cream.”Do you ever listen to them?” I asked.“I mostly listen to the radio, cassettes, or CDs.” She replied.I mulled over her comment before I replied. “In my dad’s day, records and the radio were the only choices. With the introduction of reel-to-reel. With cassettes and now CDs, I feel we are moving in the wrong direction. From the liner notes to the song order, to the album cover design, it was all meticulously thought out. Now we are starting to move away from this to provide more flexibility. But what we gain in flexibility is often offset by a lower quality experience.”I stopped rifling through the stack of albums to gauge Marie Christine’s interest in my thoughts. “Look at this album cover,” I said, holding up the triangle prism image of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. “You must admire its power and simplicity. You can’t create that connection from a CD case. I fear we are moving into a digital revolution where zeros and ones will replace the pure quality of analog recordings.”Marie Christine moved closer, her delicious scent of freshly baked cookies circling my nose as she placed one hand on my shoulder as I flipped through more albums.“I never really thought of it that way,” she said. Her breasts were now grazing my back as she leaned over my shoulder, making it difficult to focus on the records.”You speak with a lot of passion about these records. OK, close your eyes and tell me who’s singing,” she challenged me.With my eyes shut, I could hear Marie Christine flick through a selection of albums and place a record on the turntable. I heard the recognizable click of a stylus meeting vinyl spring from the floor-mounted J.B.L. speakers.”It’s the unmistakable voice of Barry White,” I said without hesitation.”You’re right!” she laughed. “This was my parents’ ‘Let’s make love’ album. I grew up knowing my mom and dad would be fucking like rabbits whenever this record played on the turntable. I’m surprised the needle never wore through the vinyl through overuse.”

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