One thing for sure, Babette thought. He sure did not need that fakey motorcycle punk look.

She saw the white-blonde roots of his hair under-lining the dyed-black punkish crest that Babette thought made him resemble a rooster. He stripped the sweat-soaked teeshirt from his torso.

Babette took in his tits. Brushed his navel with her eyes.

Took eye-travel down his thighs.

"So you want to take a swim, Babette? Let's dive in-as soon as I strip down."

"Not right away. And don't bother to go all the way, kid. No skinny-dipping today."

"Balls."

She noted the muscular curve of his haunch as he jack-knifed his body to pull off his boots. Then stood straight up, legs apart.

His physical trappings certainly weren't the problem. He was well-endowed there.

No, Babette, reflected. Rudolph had no kicks against that hardbod of his.

Rudolph in the flesh was best. You did not see his problems if you were so diverted.

They were all in his head.

"What's that there?" Babette said.

Rudolph fingered the bulge in the pocket of his discarded leather jacket.

"Cassette player."

"And?"

"Tape."

"Of what?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. It's a song I wrote."

"What's it about?"

"It's-uh-about you, Babette."

"Really?"

"Thought maybe you could listen to it. Tell me what you think."

"You wouldn't by any chance want Darleene and me to do it in our band."

"You could if you want."

"Well, you know our group is concentrating on original material. Stuff Darleene and I write, mostly. They're all band compositions."

"So just listen and tell me what you think "

"Okay."

Rudolph extracted the portable cassette deck and snapped it on. As the tape began to roll, Babette swung her eyes down Rudolph's chest.