The car sped down the fast lane of Wilshire Boulevard towards an unknown destination, bending with the artery that bisected the high-rent and low-rent sections of West Los Angeles. Inside the car, I racked my mind and tried to think of any decent places hosting a midweek happy hour. In my efforts to get out the door as quickly as my mother could push me I accounted neither for locale nor any enforceable dress code. I looked slightly posh in my thin gray v-neck sweater and overdyed black khakis, but I knew better. In some parts of town my wardrobe would not be good enough. My car followed the wide curve of Wilshire through the L.A Country Club, and continued east until I found myself at a light at the Santa Monica Boulevard intersection. To my left I spoted the Beverly Hilton, its whitewashed cement walls a beacon against the overcast sky. It was likely that Trader Vic’s, the hotel’s famed restaurant and bar, still had a nightly happy hour and Vic’s seemed as good a stop as any in this town. The story was the Mai Tai was invented at Vic’s following the Second World War, after all the servicemen stationed in the South Pacific returned to San Pedro and Los Angeles only to discover they missed more of the south seas than they thought. And so Vic invented the exotic drink. I wasn’t one for the tropical drink myself, and even a bad bar menu could be compensated by the amount of people watching I could do at Trader Vic’s. It was a destination for tourists and Hollywood’s beautiful people alike. At Vic’s it was commonplace to see your average out-of-towner seated next to a movie studio power player seated next to an art colony wunderkind seated next to a burgeoning starlet waiting to grace the local trade magazines. Vic’s was everything people loved and hated about Southern California. It was as original and hip as it was hackneyed and superficial.

The light turned green and I swung a wide left turn into the Beverly’s valet lot and was quickly met by an early 20s-UCLA undergrad parking boy with perfectly styled hair. His uniform was freshly pressed and void of any wrinkles, and you could tell the kid took great pride in how he looked, something I am certain was instilled in him by the hotel’s management. He cheerfully opened the door and said an obligatory “welcome to the Beverly Hilton Hotel,” and I had to hold back a snicker when he addressed me as sir. The guy was at most three years younger than me.
Inside, sign after sign pointed the way towards Trader Vic’s, and as I followed through a maze of hallway after hallway, I reminded myself that the number one demographic of this hotel was the over-55 retired set and they can lose their way. When I arrived at the entrance to Trader Vic’s I was greeted by soft Polynesian muzak pumped through the house speakers and a large sign announcing the appetizer special was crab rangoon. Just below the sign on a smaller wooden sign attached to the wall was the following message I tried my best to ignore: Slacks and jacket attire required.

Vic’s was packed. For just after 5 on a weeknight you’d think this bar was Cinch, White Lotus, or Cinespace. Even a more accessible place with a less affluent clientele like Father’s Office in Santa Monica wouldn’t have a room filled to this degree. People stood shoulder to shoulder taking up all the available walking space, while others sat sardine-packed in booths. The ten or so people lucky enough to secure a spot at the bar looked to be rethinking their position, as they were continually bombarded from all sides by row of people leaning over and around them trying to get the bartender’s attention. Waitresses with trays held high above their heads moved in and out of the crowd pockets with military-like precision before disappearing behind saloon style swinging doors.

With a crowd this size I thought it would be no trouble getting around the dress code restriction. They would have a hard enough time trying to pick me out of this mass of humanity. I was quickly proven wrong.

“Hey you, didn’t you see the sign when you came in?” shouted one of the bartenders from behind the bar. A hostess who I hadn’t seen when I entered appeared out of nowhere at my side.

“Sir, our policy is to allow only those in slacks and a jacket.” She was young also, probably 23, and her hair was two toned – dyed black on top with streaks of bleach blonde showing through below. Likely a Bruin as well.

Under the dim lighting of the place there was no way the girl was going to contest my overdyed khakis not being slacks, but it was obvious I was sans coat.

“I am aware,” I began in my best apologetic tone, “and came totally unprepared. Although I live a quick ten minutes away I would prefer not to have to go home during rush hour for fear this place will fill to near fire hazard capacity. Is there any chance I could trouble the concierge or the restaurant host for a house jacket for the next few hours?” I flashed an inviting smile meant to signal I was serious about both their policy and my intent to stay.

The woman smiled in response. “I’ll see what I can do. You certainly know how to work the system, don’t you?”

“I confess I may have absentmindedly come without a jacket once or twice before.”

She giggled. “Then I’d say you owe me,” she added flirtatiously. She disappeared behind the saloon doors and into the restaurant. When she didn’t return immediately I took it as my cue to try carving out some small place for myself in the packed room. As I squeezed between bodies and yelled loud ‘excuse mes’ meant to part the crowds, I started getting a better look at the people: Old people and young people; middle aged businessmen in power suits and trophy wives fresh out of the salon sporting the latest over-30 fashions; hipster college grads with retro style zoot suits and long metal chains hanging from their front pockets; young female secretary types with tight 50s skirts looking like Donna Reed or Diahann Carroll straight out of the movies; waiters in post-war period penguins suits efficiently moving about the room, and cocktail waitresses in frumpy maid outfits. Trader Vic’s was both a subculture unto its own and a place that drew in all types from far and wide.

I hadn’t moved very far into the room and the hostess found me with little problem. As she handed me the jacket I looked her over. Not too bad. Her two toned hair and the traces of baby fat in her face didn’t exactly make her a catch in my eyes, but her friendly attitude and otherwise fit body was enough to make some lucky guy happy. That’s the thing about this town – no matter how preoccupied we might be with physical looks and a person’s lot in life, we all know that one person’s trash is another’s treasure. A person who isn’t beautiful to me is somebody else’s dream come true. And it’s that perspective that keeps us grounded in this city of fakes. I smiled as I took the jacket and thanked her. She smiled back. Yeah I thought, some guy will do well by her.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook,” she said. “You still owe me. And don’t think I’m not going to forget the next time you come by Vic’s.”

"If you remember me."

"I'll remember, I have a good memory. Besides, you aren't the type of person someone forgets easily."

I smiled at the compliment and squinted a bit as I made out her name in the dim lighting: Brandy.

“Well Brandy, then I will count upon you to cash in when you feel the time is right.” I held out my hand to shake hers. “Reed. I look forward to next time. And thanks again for the jacket.” She blushed a little when she withdrew her hand. Later that night she’d tell me in passing that I was the first guy under 50 who hit on her in the past month. She called me an ego stoker.

With dress code no longer a concern I turned my attention back to finding a seat. I wedged myself between two people deep in discussion over some merger between two clothing wholesalers and came out on the open end of the room where there was a little more space to roam. To my left, people shot me the move along eye as I looked from booth to booth and chair to chair for an empty spot. The back of the room offered no help, as people stood almost on top of each other as they tried their best to enjoy the overpriced drinks. As a last resort I inched toward the direction of the bar and stepped between two people who moved their drinks out of the way at the last minute, not so much to accommodate me as to make sure none of their Manhattans spilled onto the floor. There, in front of me, with a faint light softly shining down like a sign from the heavens, was an empty chair. As I approached I saw why it sat empty: A Coach handbag lay there, and turned towards the bag and chair was a statuesque woman with the tightest and most revealing dress I’ve seen aside from what’s on the Playboy Channel. The ends of her golden brown hair danced on top of her bare, tanned shoulders, and the spike of her heels were too extreme to put them in the “fuck me” pumps category. Her face was mostly free of makeup, and bearing only the Neutrogena sunless bronzer she used to match her face to the hue of her shoulders and arms. As I approached the chair she caught me out of the corner of her eye and threw me the briefest of looks, as if to say I was insignificant and not who she was looking for. Obviously she was waiting for somebody; a woman doesn’t dress like that to help her own self esteem.

The empty chair was my only chance for a seat in the entire place and whether she wanted me there or not was no important. There was no way I could enjoy happy hour if I was stuck standing in the back with the other wallflowers, all the while at the mercy of an occasional waitress making a round to that overcrowded part of the room.

With my hands on the faux leather backing of the chair, I addressed the woman: “I know this is probably a dumb question, what with this room jam packed, but you are saving that seat for somebody else, aren’t you?”

The woman waited in silence for a couple of seconds, then turned and gave me the once over, running her eyes over me like a jungle cat sizing up dinner before finally making eye contact. “Yes, I am,” she replied in the most disinterested of tones. Her body language was harsh; both arms folded tightly with her tanned elbows resting on the edge of the bar and her body leaning slightly into it, suggesting I was the last person she wanted seeing her in that outfit.

“Ho-kay,” I slowly responded. “Somebody who’s already here or somebody you’re waiting for?”

She stared at me again with a cold, clinical look on her face, wondering if I was even worth answering. She gave the idea some thought for a few moments and then answered, “A date I’m waiting for.”

“Nice, good luck with that. Tell you what – since he’s not here yet and I really don’t want to be bumping bodies with all of the people standing around, what if I sit here until the guy shows up and once he’s here I’ll leave? I won’t even bother you.”

Again the woman gave me the once over, calculating whether or not I posed any threat to her or was some random loser trying to hit on her.

“He’ll be here in less than ten minutes. I’m kinda early.”

“Understood. As soon as he’s here you tell me and I’ll be out of your hair. Deal?”

With one final once over she nodded and a little of her icy veneer began to melt. “Okay, deal,” she replied as she cleared away her purse.

“Thank you.” I took my seat and tried my best to flag down the bartender who was busy fielding orders from four upper-20s traveling business men in navy blue suits, all of whom looked to be hiding their wedding rings from view. I held up a hand, waved, gave our bartender a nod – all to no avail. The woman beside saw I was having trouble.

“Here, let me help with that,” she offered as she uncrossed her arms and slightly pressed her cleavage together, forming an impressive valley between her breasts that any man would have stopped the presses to stare at. With her chest pressed together she stood up just a bit and leaned over the bar to get the bartender’s attention. It worked; within seconds he was front and center.

“Something I can get for you, maam?” he asked.

She nodded in my direction to indicate he’d been had by the bait and switch, and resumed her original position in the chair while I spat out my rye and water request to a now dejected bartender. He turned with a ‘harrumph’ and fetched the whiskey.

“Thanks for that,” I told her, giving a slight nod. “What’s your name anyway?”

“Why?”

“Because I’d feel really bad saying ‘hey you’ whenever I address you.”

She laughed and smiled for the first time. It was a warm smile, inviting and everything a smile should be. It was the kind of smile a person is taught, the kind an actress is trained to deliver on cue.

“Stephanie,” she replied, extending her hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Reed.” I took her hand in mine. Soft and silky. Hours upon hours of lotion and conditioning crème I was sure.

“Reed. Huh. That’s a name you don’t hear every day.”

“Well I’m not the kind of person you meet every day,” I responded. I let the bad pickup line sit for a moment and then began laughing. “I’m sorry, that sounded like I am so full of myself. And it was cheesy.”

“Yeah, very cheesy.”

The bartender interrupted, reaching between us to place the drink in front of me. He eyed me quickly with a little bit of envy and then quickly disappeared into a sea of people looking to get in their drink orders.

I took a slow sip of the rye and shared a few moments of uncomfortable silence with my tanned chairmate who had suddenly become interested in her own cocktail, a fruity pink thing that looked like some martini derivative. The opposing wall of the bar had mirrored tiles placed randomly and through a few we could see ourselves staring back at each other, both wondering who would be next to attempt to help along the short conversation we’d begun.

As she swirled her drink with the pink plastic stirrer I decided to step up. “So this guy, what’s the story? First date or someone you already know?” I paused. “By the way, if I’m prying just tell me to fuck off and that will be that.”

She laughed as she waved her hand. “No, it’s not private or nothing. It’s somebody I know – somebody who I work with sort of – we’ve been fooling around here and there and finally decided we should go out on a proper date.”

“So you’re doing this bass-ackwards. Work colleague, hmm? That’s something I won’t do. I have a strict rule: Don’t dip your pen in the company ink.”

“I know, my friends have told me the same thing, but there’s just…something about him that I can’t deny. ‘Dip your pen in the company ink.’ I like that! I may have to use it.”

“So you two got together on a couple of occasions, and you’re being secret at work. Stuff like that?” I took another sip of the rye while awaiting her response.

Stephanie looked towards the door for any sign of her date before responding. “Yes, but no slinking around in private. We don’t work a whole lot together anyhow. We see each other from time to time. He’s a director.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Ah, a director. Big Hollywood type. And you’re an actress?”

Stephanie again looked towards the entrance. After seeing no sign of him she turned back towards me. “Yes, but not Hollywood. The Valley.”

“The Valley? I don’t follow.”

She sighed. “He’s an adult entertainment director and I’m an adult entertainment actress.”

“You mean porn? You’re kidding, right?”

She frowned and crossed her arms over her midsection, pushing her breasts up in her dress. “We prefer to be called adult entertainers.”

“I actually knew that. Sorry,” I replied, doing my best not to stare into her top. She uncrossed her arms and returned to her drink. Another uncomfortable silence passed.

“So,” I continued, “he directs videos and you…act in them? And now you’re going to try the dating thing?”

“Yeah. I mean no. He hasn’t directed anything I’ve done. Not yet at least. You do so many scenes that somehow your paths will cross.” She tilted her wrist to look at the pale silver watch around her thin wrist. “He’s so late,” she wondered aloud, “what’s keeping him?” She started fishing around in her purse as she continued talking. “Do you think you can watch my seat? I’ve got to call him and there’s no way I’ll be able to talk to him with the noise in here.” She found her Nokia and slung the purse strap over her bare arm.

Before I could respond she stood up and moved the chair out of her way. As she brushed by me in the direction of the door the crowd along the bar parted for her and stood with their mouths agape as this vision in a slinky, provocative dress made for the exit. While she was outside a few people came by to inquire about the empty chair beside me and I shooed them away like the murder of crows they were. When she returned five minutes later she wore a look of disappointment that I almost didn’t notice at first. As she approached I was completely taken with her look, this Hollywood-femme prototype with a dress suggesting every sexual innuendo ever mentioned in an Adam Ant song. He legs were perfectly toned and had just the right combination of flesh and muscle. Her chest softly bounced in time with her steps, and I softly licked my lips for a few seconds before realizing how obvious I looked. If Vic’s was a jungle and she was the jungle cat, Stephanie could pounce on her pick of the room – man or woman – and I don’t think a single person would object.

“All I got was his voicemail!” she huffed as she slid into her seat. I stole a quick look to see if her already too-short dress had hiked up as she sat but it amazingly stayed in place with her ass. She sat in silence for a moment, awaiting some consolation remark.

“Maybe he’s on the way over?” I suggested. It was a dumb return and I knew it, but I had been temporarily blinded by her raw sexual energy when she came through the door. I had to shake it off. I was acting like she was the last beautiful woman I’d ever see, which was stupid to think because if I took two minutes to look around the room I would find another five or six of near-equal beauty. I was in Beverly Hills after all.

“No, he always answers his phone. I mean always. He better not be blowing me off! I went to a lot of trouble to make myself look this good.” She grimaced and finished off what remained of her pink drink.

“I get the idea it would take very little time, if any, to look as good as you do Stephanie. That’s not a come-on line, that’s just the truth. And I know you know because there is no way you could have been blind to the attention you just got as you sacheted in here.”

She ignored the comment. I was probably the billionth person to have said this to her and she’d heard it so many times it was no longer necessary to respond, regardless the sentiment.

“The thing is, why would he chicken out now? And like this? You’re a guy – why do guys do that?”

“Thanks for noticing my gender,” I replied. “Seriously though, let’s not count your chickens before they are hatched. He could be in traffic, running late, cell phone battery dead. It could be a number of things.”

“I don’t’ know, this isn’t like him at all.”

“If it isn’t like him then why don’t you at least give him the benefit of the doubt?” I suggested.

As if deflecting the comment she only replied, “I need another drink. How about you?” Stephanie reached over my arm and grabbed the Trader Vic drink menu. “What else do they have,” she said loudly, “I don’t want that pink thing again. It was too sweet.” When she found her poison she snapped the booklet shut and let it fall flat on the bar.

“So what do you do?” she asked between bursts of impatient drumming on the bar with her thumb and forefingers. If this guy didn’t materialize in the next few minutes she was going to explode.

“Right now, nothing. I was in advertising prior to that. I got back from spending the summer in Europe.”

“Sounds fun,” she responded, half listening.

“It wasn’t a pleasure trip.”

“Oh.” Another burst of drumming. “What the fuck? Where is he?” By this time the crowd had thinned enough to be able to carry on a cell phone conversation and so Stephanie again dug her phone out from the purse.

“You don’t want to do that,” I advised, “you’ll appear clingy and overbearing to him, even if all you want to know is where the hell he’s at.” She threw me an angry look. “Hey, you wanted a guy’s point of view, so that’s what I’m offering.”

She shoved the phone back into the purse. “Okay, we'll try it your way.” She tried to simmer down and changed the topic away from her date-in-waiting. “Advertising, like…commercials?”

“Yes, and print and outdoor billboards.”

“Funny how we’re in related industries. We both try to get people to spend their money on unnecessary stuff. But it figures I guess. La la land.”

“Yeah, la la land,” I repeated. I flagged the bartender down and gave him our drink orders.

“So I suppose I should ask what screen name you go by. Is it some clever pun like the others?”

She smiled tightly, her mouth closed. “Afraid to disappoint you, it’s pretty plain. My name is Sunrise Adams.”

I sat back in my chair and thought about the name. I racked my brain for any kind of instant recall. Truth was, I had never heard of her.

She deciphered the same as we sat in silence. “Never heard of me?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Really? Have you seen anything made in the past five years.”

“I’m sure I have.”

She brushed some hair from in front of her face. “Ever hear of Vivid Video?”

“Who hasn’t?” I replied.

“Well I’m one of their girls, so you’ve had to see me in something.”

I shrugged, disinterested. “Maybe. Nothing rings a bell. How long have you been in the biz?” I asked.

“Five years.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” I exclaimed. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she responded.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I again said. Truth was, she looked more like 25 or 26, but I wasn’t going to say that. No woman wants to hear she looks older than she is, especially when she is done up to the hilt in an outfit like this and already in a vulnerable position given her no-show beau.

As the bartender returned with our drinks and placed them in front of us – a regular vodka martini for her and another rye and water for myself – she fished around in her purse until she produced a small cigarette-style metal case, the top of which was covered in a zebra-like fur. She popped it open and handed me a card.

“Here, take a look for yourself,” she said, handing me her driver’s license. I looked at the laminated Texas issued card; her picture wasn’t all that different from how she looked right now, save for the shorter hair arranged in a different style. Her name read ‘Stephanie Thomas,’ with a Como-Pickton, Texas address and a 1982 birth date.

I handed the card back to her. “Well okay Stephanie Thomas, I believe you.” She flashed a smile of self-satisfaction and returned the license to its place in the card case before dumping it back into her purse.

“So how did you come up with the name?” I asked.

“Well, my aunt was in the business in the 80s, and her name was Sunset Thomas, so it just seemed logical to have a similar name like Sunrise.”

I shook my head. “I meant the last name, Adams. How did you settle on that?”

“Oh that? I don’t know, I think one of the directors of my first or second movie gave it to me in the credits and it just kind of stuck. They liked it because it was plain and Caucasian and it matched my look.” She paused and tapped her forefinger against the stem of her martini glass. “So you’ve really never heard of me?”

“I’m sorry, none of it’s ringing a bell. It should; the timeframe and the producer and you being this golden-haired seductress all should fall in line with what I’ve seen, but I can’t place the name, Stephanie. I probably wasn’t paying attention, I was probably, um…preoccupied with other things at the time.”

She smiled triumphantly. “Say no more, I understand. I guess that’s mission accomplished on my part, huh.”

I looked at my watch. An hour had passed since I’d first arrived and there was no way any guy looking to date a woman who looked like Stephanie could run this late. She was officially stood up, and I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her.

The crowd had now died down to a respectable size, the size I had expected when I first arrived. Stephanie polished off the last of her martini and signaled the bartender for another. She might have decided to drink the night away but there was no way I was going to keep up with her by drinking rye and waters. It wasn’t the sort of beverage you consume quickly. It demanded time and patience. I took a final big swig of my drink and asked the bartender to change things up with a Jack and Coke. Beside me Stephanie sighed.

“I can’t believe it, he stood me up. Why would he do that? Why now? He knows me, I know him. Hell, we’ve already slept together!”

Bingo, I said to myself.

“Does he think he can do better?” she continued. “Why? What’s wrong with me? Gawd, I’m so stupid!” The bartender arrived just in time with a fresh martini and in one fluid move she took it from his hands and brought the glass to her mouth, smearing a faint trace of lipstick along its rim as she took a large gulp of the drink.

“Stop, stop, stop,” I commanded. “Don’t beat yourself up like this. Every woman does this to herself, thinking the blame is with her. It’s all on him. Don’t worry about it.”

I must have said the wrong thing because my remark opened the floodgates.

“It’s not just him, it was another guy before him and another before that. Do I wear a sign on my forehead that attracts these guys? What is it?” She turned to me and put her hand on my arm. The booze had loosened her up. “Tell me what it is. You’re a guy, so lay it on me. Be honest.”

“Again, thanks for noticing the gender. For the second time.” I paused and studied her for a moment to make her think I was diagnosing the situation, even though I already knew the problem - more of it was due to her than any guy she ensnared in her net.

“Okay, but I’m not going to hold back. And all I have to work with is what I know about you right now and what I see you wear and how you act…”

“Stop making excuses,” she said, moving her hand in a circular manner to get me to hurry up. “Just tell me!”

I took a look around the room, making a mental inventory of the people who remained in the bar. In one corner a group of 30-something country club wives were huddled closely around a table, cackling and bursting with laughter every so often. Somewhere in another part of the city their husbands, all probably doctors and 25 to 30 years older than these women, were wrapping up another day in the office and giving their 20 year old receptionist/secretaries a quickie before hitting the road. This night out appeared to be the lone thing keeping this group of wives going, as if it was the one thing they lived for, the one thing they longed for the entire week. In another part of the room two men were commiserating over a lost business deal and the untold thousands of dollars in quarterly bonus money it would have netted them. Neither of them would leave sober tonight; theirs was a demoralizing pain, the kind which only alcohol could remedy. A few seats down from us at the bar a woman in a slinky black cocktail dress sat alone, and though it was clear she was waiting for her date to meet her, she occasionally peered over at me, making eye contact and frowning plainly in such a way to suggest that you fucking men, you're always keeping us waiting.

When I turned my attention back to Stephanie the look on her face was equal parts hope and desperation as she awaited my assessment.

“It's two parts: Mental and physical. Let’s tackle the mental parts first. I know you got into this thing with him all backwards, and that being the case if you’ve slept with him once you’ve probably slept with him twice, right?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“So the rules are off the board, and the way the guy was approaching this was like ‘hey this is all easy going, no expectations, no labels, so let’s take it as it comes.’ I mean, your profession alone is enough to relax some of the relationship mores, wouldn’t you say?”

Again Stephanie silently nodded.

“Your taking it to the next step is causing him to back off a little. Granted, it’s a tiny step, but telling him “let’s make this thing official and go out on a date” has scared the guy into thinking you want to put take this thing on the fast track towards the status of a relationship.”

“But I don't!”

“Maybe. It’s just hang-ups over semantics. You could have easily said ‘let’s hang out sometime, maybe drinks or something’ and he wouldn’t have been put off by that.”

“Even though that’s all we were going to do here?”

“Right. Like I said, semantics. Venus and Mars. He-said, she-said mumbo jumbo.”

Stephanie shook her head and laughed. “You men are really something. That is nothing to get scared over.”

“Some of us can roll with the punches. Others throw up their hands and run for the hills. You won't know which you are dealing with until it happens, unfortunately. That's that.” I wanted to switch topics because I was eager to talk about her outfit. The thing was so borderline inappropriate for a place like this that I wondered if she took the dress from the Vivid wardrobe department.

“Now for the physical, in your case the clothes. We’ve established the guy has already seen you naked. He’s been pressed against you between the sheets.” She giggled as I said this. “That being the case, this outfit isn’t necessary. What fruits do you have to tempt him with that he hasn’t already tasted?” She frowned when I said this, more saddened than angry or disappointed.

“Okay, that might be a little harsh,” I offered. “My point is that you don’t have to go to this length to tease him. No point in looking like a tart. Why not go the other way and dazzle him with some sophistication? Nobody expects that out of a porn st – sorry, adult entertainer. A little mystery is good, you know?” I took another gulp of my drink. "Instead of messing with him here -" I held my hands out over my chest to simulate boobs - "stimulate him here," I said as I gently tapped the side of my head above the ear. "The right guy will respond just as well."

Stephanie’s demeanor suddenly took a turn into the seductive, the flirty: “So, if you were dressing me from head to toe, what would you cover my naked body in?”

Through the accumulating haze of rye and waters and Jack and Cokes, I had to hold back the visual to keep my head focused. “V-neck sweater showing a touch of cleavage but really accenting the curves and breasts under the sweater; some type of casual jeans – not frayed or ripped, but casual – like Lucky 7 or the like, and some heeled boots to draw attention to your height and the entire package. There’s no way you can set foot in here wearing that sort of outfit and not have every guy checking you out.”

“Hmm, that’s something to think about,” she mused. “You’d think a guy would want to see me the same way he does on video.”

“Nah. Besides, that’s what the video is for,” I added with a wink. “Give them a chance to wear out their hand in the privacy of their own homes. When you are wearing something like that what do you think guys are going to do? They make a mental note and save it for the right time.”

She laughed. "Good point. I suppose I don't need to make it look like I'm at the AVNs." She paused. "That's the Adult Video Network Awards."

"I know. I'm not that out of it."

“So is that what you do too?” she giggled.

“I’ve had two hours with the real thing. Is there any comparison?”

She smiled. “You’ve been a real help. I’m still pissed, and he’s still a jerk, but even drunk I can see the whole picture. You’re like my helpline operator.”

I raised what was left of my drink and clanked it off hers. “Cheers.”