There had been, perhaps, as many as ten invitations to parties… and Arnie was not sure how it had happened that he ended up going to a posh party in Newport. Maybe it was because of the woman who had given him the invitation. She had pressed in close to him, as he had backed into his dressing room, trying to answer news reporters' questions and being filmed for a T.V. news release. Flash bulbs had been popping, and the noise had been tremendous, the press of the crowd almost unbearable… but she had stuck with him, shouting in his ear about her party and pressing a piece of paper into his still bandaged hands. That wasn't the only message he had gotten from her. She had been busy, down below, as she had undulated up against him, her loins tight against his thigh. It was an invitation that had been hard to pass up… after all he had been pretty hard up… and when a voluptuous woman makes it that plain… Hell! What could he do…?

He had hung onto the address… and after his rub-down and shower, he had dressed, gotten into his rental car and had driven down to Newport.

The party was going strong when he arrived… of course, he hadn't known any of the people there. They all seemed to be fans, and he felt comfortable; especially after he had downed the first two drinks, in rapid succession. He was there to have some fun! Christ! After living in a training camp for two months, he had been ready to break out and have himself a real ball… and a party… drinks… a willing woman… were some of the things he wanted for relaxation.

She had been there, of course. Her name was Carla… Carla Reynolds, a ravishing, auburn-haired beauty, with the clearest complexion Arnie had ever seen. He did gather that she wasn't the hostess for the party; she had been sent by someone else… to make sure he would come. Whoever sent her, Arnie decided, had chosen his messenger well… and she hadn't wasted any time in letting him know that that little thigh-rubbing deal in his dressing room was for real.