.

There is no wound whose pain cannot be salved by the soft touch of a beautiful woman.

For me, it’s more like a little bump-and-grind, beauty optional.

It’s a good thing I’m not picky because Candy, the little filly rubbing up on me like buttered toast, wasn’t gonna win any beauty pageants. Short and a little on the bony side, sporting a wild mane of greasy hair, which failed to cover the pockmarks on her face, she wasn’t exactly a model of attractiveness. But that’s okay. You can’t feel ugly in the dark.

Not that I was bashing her, or anything. I was still there, right?

We both understood it was a business transaction. We weren’t looking for love. I was just renting a good time from a woman who wouldn’t bat an eyelid when I broke out the vat of Jell-o and a snorkel. She didn’t care about my broken heart or want to hear how my day went. She wasn’t looking to be the next Mrs. Trigg. All she cared about was the big, hard bulge pressed tight against her sweaty little hand.

My wallet.

Not in the mood to play games, I grabbed her hips and pulled her to me, leaning close to her ear so she could hear me over the throbbing bass of the club’s sound system. “You want to take a walk?”

“Already?” She plucked her glass off the table, taking a slow sip. “I’m not even finished with my drink.”

“What, you gettin’ paid by the hour?” I knew the routine: buy her a bunch of overpriced drinks and keep stuffing dollar bills in her skirt until closing time before I’d be given the pleasure of emptying my pockets for a quickie out back. Not up for the soft sell, I cut out the middle man. “Just chug it and I’ll throw in an extra hundred so you can drink to your heart’s content afterward.” That worked.