The Illicit Transaction

I was sitting at the end of the half barren bar when she entered the room. She was more out of place than a full set of teeth in a trailer park, but it seemed to bother her nada. She fit in at Bubba's like the Queen Mum might fit in at a rodeo.

She didn’t just walk in. She glided in as if on a boogie board lubricated with the slippery exudations of a temptress deep in the throws of passion and torridity. Slithering, like a slow motion sidewinder with no particular destiny might travel across the pelucid desert sand, she approached the vacinity of the bar.

Her silvery form fitting seafoam sequined attire was cut short and barely covered the area where her curvaceous gluteus met her tenacious maximus. Long toned gams slowly impulsed her across the room like the pistons of a steam locomotive chugging alluringly, seductively, silently, powerfully, lustfully, inticingly, invitingly, gathering heat with every giration as her hips thrust aside the caliginous air with each and every audacious step.

You didn’t hear her as much as you felt her dynamisms, like the deep, deep, bass of a hip hop boom boom car lost far away in a deep,  damp, dark hammock, the low sound filtering through the burly foliage of lush, lusty green. Thewoomph, thewoomph, thewoomph, thewoomph, thewoomph.

Her breasts danced under the metallic like halter and heaved and hoed as she walked, like perfectly pear shaped mirror balls reflecting and dispersing flickerings of magical pixie dust that seemed to hang just a moment too long before evaporating into the essence that was her ethereal aura.

Shapely calves, sheathed in skin the color of Uley’s Gold followed up, up, up and away to a peek-a-boo aperture on the port side of her covering that offered almost a glint into the moist gates of Heaven that was her womanly garden as she seemingly floated like the froth in a well poured imported draft.

Ensemble matching toeless pumps girdled immaculate pedicured toes displaying a faint glimmer of clarion stainless polish, exquisitely buffed like the creamery care afforded only by the finest jewelers rouge.

Stiletto heels lifted her calves that raised her thighs that hoisted her muscular, athletic bottom until it faded into the arch of the small of her back like Robin Hood‘s drawn bow. It gave her a silhouette that said yes, we can do it that way if you like, just don’t pull my hair.

A deep thick sheen of shoulder length hair the color of coagulating, yet still wet oxygen depleted hemoglobin, framed her face like a weeping willow with bangs that were severed just above the thin crescents that formed the sweeping soft waves of her well shaped brow.

Piercing bright satiny emeralds looked out through the ovaloid openings that were shaded by lashes so long and dark they resemble curled up mud flaps on a shiny new Peterbilt. Dark green shadow and ebony liner etched as if by laser, finished out the construct of the elegant Michelangelo portrait that was her phantasmagorical eyes.

High, but not overly so, could describe her cheekbones for lack of better words, while just a hint of faint blush shadowing lead any mesmerized eye down to her provocative lips. And oh my, my, the inveiglement of those lips.

What carnal treats those luscious, sagacious, lust inducing, full, moist, bastions of Dear God’s Heavenly Delight, might she perform with those plump, pursed, perilous, lubricious lips. The possibilties were discussed around town for years after that night, by the few who were lucky enough to cast eyes upon the vision of pulchritude that was this opprobrious woman.

She scanned the bar and had the choice of several empty seats. That is until our eyes met, then she made a change in direction so subtle as to barely be perceived by the naked eye and settled into the bar stool next to me like an all knowing lioness might establish herself on the pubescent plains of a Serengeti savannah.

Pleasantries were exchanged and intoxicants were ordered as I lit her long slender cigarette she had elegantly pulled from a pack with an Eiffel Tower emblem on the front label and some par le vous e something, something Francoise, something, something, printed above the Parisian phallic symbol.

An occasional pool ball clacked or a dart was thrown in the background while Patsy Kline’s seductive voice beckoned for us to Go Walkin’.... After Midnight....from the jukebox in the corner, but for the most part all eyes could not be peeled away from the scorching, sizzling, sultry, sweltering siren at my side. There was no doubt by anyone present that she could smoothly, steadily, surely, swimmingly seduce the most accomplished ancient navigator onto the perilous rocks of ruin. All hands lost on a calm and fully moonlit night.

The mystery of the anonymous Goddess only deepened for those sheepishly observing as she leaned nearer to me for close up and personal small talk and to discretely discuss the terms of our illicit and immoral transaction. Ours would be a one time only arrangement.

Olfactory overdrive tempted to consume me as the sensuous redolence transuded from her pores and my loins boiled as if a spicy cajun gumbo had been lit on an old wood stove deep in my libidinous bayou. I fought hard to control nature’s rising pulsations as my meaningful man weapon endeavored to grandstand to full glory under the guise of my loose fitting chinos. Baseball, baseball, baseball, baseball, math, math, math. An untimely embarrassment miraculously averted.

After much haggle a compensation was agreed to. Ecstasy would be ours this very night, fulfilling each of us our lustful, yet disparate needs. I flipped a twenty to the bartender who was unable to utter a complete sentence in the presents of the statuesque auburn enchantress. I instructed him to keep the change as he nodded appreciation like a dashboard mounted bobble head on a back country road.

The rapturous seductress locked onto my arm with a knowing grin affected only by the cat that always got the canary. All motion stopped in the small bar as we headed for the door. All motion, that is, but the eyes that protuberated in disbelief at my perceived first-rate fortune and the necks that swiveled in unison like a lily pond full of famished Great Blue Herons with all eyes following the same lone frog. I could swear as we reached the door that I heard Patsy Kline take an extra breath as she sang I’ve Got Your Picture..... She’s Got You……..

I stayed away from Bubba’s Long Horn Honky Tonk Saloon for a few days after my rendevous with the voluptuous femme fatale who would be  forever after that night be known as “The ExoticVision” around these parts. Rumors spun like tornados through the Oklahoma panhandle in May as all around the small town had heard, but nobody really knew what had happened after I’d left Bubba's with the red haired vixen that balmy Texas night.

Many a local redneck would try to coax the sordid information from me like trying to pry a rusted nail from an old barn plank with a lever that was ill suited for the task. Mystery holds an advantage like no other delusion. I allowed the wonderers to wonder. Bribes of long necked beer and liquored shots from cowboy hats and toothless smiles were met with a wry grin and always the same response by yours truly. A gentleman never tells. 

Indeed, a gentleman never tells that he recently found a long lost sketching by Pablo Picasso stuffed away in the corner of his grandmother’s attic after her death and sold it to a deliciously exquisite private art collector from Houston for a vigorous sum who just happened to be so hickory smoking hot that she would forever be known around these parts as The Exotic Vision from Bubba’s Long Horn Honky Tonk Saloon.