Sex for the Millennium - Excerpt

Nine-Inch Heels-

Where di we meet?  The health club.

She was on the stairmaster in a hot pink leotard and black tights with matching pink socks, looking sexy and a little silly, earphones on her head, cracking her gum, striding like a maenad, dyed-platinum ponytail rhymically swishing, her firm and fully packed heart-shaped butt sticking way out.

What was she listening to on her Sony Sport Walkperson?  The score from Pulp Fiction.

Or maybe it was Trader Joe's.  She was wearing fuchsia clogs and those faded torn jeans young people wear.  And she wasn't all that young.  MAybe 34.  Browsing through the wine section, bending in that was attractive women do, legs straight, rump high in the air.  When she straightened, I saw that she was clasping a bottle of California Cabernet.  Good label, too.  She was no dummy.

Anyhoo.  I displayed my charm.

She tossed her auburn shoulder-length hair and assessed the merchandise.

We converged at the juice bar.

Scratch that.  Juice bars suck.  This is the Millenium.  Coffee rules.  Starbucks.  Espresso macchiato for me, double cappuccino for her.  One of her "very few vices,"  she confided.