I was stocking frozen food a couple of years ago; specifically the Hanover broccoli florets on the bottom shelf, so I was kneeling. I looked forward to see a pair of long legs striding toward me, not at shopping pace, and not bird legs either, but “get him done” cowgirl thighs. I followed the denim line up to a work smock and realized that this was probably a new deli employee, as all the other girls in the deli had an ass that was at least two feet wide. I was then pleasantly pleased to notice a double-D rack, then thought to myself, “She slowed down and you’re staring idiot—look at her face.”

As I looked up to her face I found the escape hatch pinned to her smock, the name tag that read “Helen.”

I stood and resurrected my nearly extinct managerial face, glanced back at the name tag, and said, “Good morning, Hellen, welcome aboard.”

Helen smiled a welcoming vivacious smile, and continued on without the smile leaving her face. She was a tall attractive brunette with long thick hair and an Amazon body, which pretty much covered my base requirements. I was currently avoiding intimate contact with women. There was Megan who I drank and lunched with once a week—but I was celibate as a monk, not even getting erections anymore—and mighty pleased with the banishment of that little demon from the pantheon of evil spirits that whispered in my mind.

Part of the reason I had retired and impoverished myself was the discovery that I could not resist all advances by attractive young women looking for a sugar daddy. I said “no” to most chicks most of the time, but had my limits, and they were largely aesthetic. This girl I could resist, being in her early forties and beginning to fade. As I noticed her speaking about me to the women behind the counter, I knew she was going to ask me out as soon as she figured out that I wasn’t going to ask her out, which did not take long.

Helen was a tall, confident, outgoing woman who had an easy way with men and women. She was definitely a feminist who had come from somewhere other than the grocery business and was acting, curiously enough, as if she had landed on her feet. Most of our people are beaten down and bitter. She was all positive. My avoidance of female companionship had left me with scant sources of feminine opinion to feed my nonfiction writing and help flesh out fictional female characters. She would make a nice character study. She is, in fact, the model for my Joan Henderson character from the Sunset Saga.

Helen did not sing, “I am woman, hear me roar,” but she was ready—of that I was certain.

A week later, Helen asked me out “for some adult beverages and conversation.”

I handed her one of my cards, and said, “Read five articles on that site, and if you still want to talk to me give me a call.”

She looked at me intrigued, “So, Mister Interesting even has an online pussy filter?”

She offered me a ride home and I declined, to which she wrinkled her nose and blew a kiss.

She called me and we set a date.

I was to meet her at the McDonalds at 2 p.m.

I sat reading The Professor and The Madman.

A black dude came in and walked over to me. “Excuse me, sir, but there is a lady in a car out there—a nice looking lady that wants to see you, and she really wants to see you.”

The interior of her two door coup looked like a boutique that had been ransacked by a pack of third world orphans. She wore tight jeans and a low cut spandex top, her breasts spilling out in tanned profusion.

I sat down, looked at her loads of wrist jewelry, then up at her heaving breasts, and then into her eyes, and she said, “I didn’t think you’d miss the name tag,” and sped off into traffic and out toward the waterfront where no buses would provide me easy egress from her clutches.

She took me to an upscale waterfront bar where all of the good looking women and rich guys knew her. Two guys came by and gave her a hug, shook my hand like just being with her made me somebody, and bought us drinks. I learned that she was between barmaid jobs and was soon getting on the staff of one of the better Baltimore area upscale spots.

She questioned me about dating and found out that I had been stalked by a few women and was leery about getting intimate. She said, as she knocked back a shot of tequila and chased it with a beer, “Oh, no money, and women stalking you. You must be a sexy little freak under the sheets. What are your plans for tonight?”

“I find you to be an interesting person and would like to interview you about your life. What are your plans, for tonight?”

“Get you drunk so you’ll fuck me—drink up Mister Interesting!”

A couple then came over and said hello, a couple she knew. As I greeted the woman the man was whispering something in Helen’s ear. When they were back at their table and the guy was buying us a round of tequila and beer Helen sneered, “Can you believe that pig asked me to fuck him after he takes his wife home tonight? That girl is sweet and beautiful. Part of it is undermining you, you intimidate men. But little does he know you could give a shit who I fuck—so long as it’s not you!”

She knocked back more booze and launched into her life story, including giving birth while she drove herself to the hospital, the cocaine operation she inherited from a sugar daddy when she was in her 20s, about how tough it was to deal with black distributors when you were a white woman running a drug wholesaling operation, etc.

Helen had seen a lot, but had not seen anyone like me—a “book person” who was not afraid around criminals and tough guys, a guy who liked her but wouldn’t bed her. This was new to her. The evening reeled drunkenly on and she was beginning to get me really inebriated, so, on my next trip to the bathroom I called my sister and pleaded, “Terry, this hot Amazon is drinking me under the table so she can get me in bed—I need an emergency evac ASAP!”

Two hours later Helen the Ready and I stumbled out together—I put her in her car, retrieved my pack, and fell into the minivan driven by my brother in law and occupied by half the family, who had made something of a family outing of rescuing me from my date.

Through it all I had been a gentlemen, even called to make certain Helen had gotten home safely, smiled at her at work, and told no one about the date. While leaving a minimum of malice in my wake this did set me up for something far more dangerous than waking up next to Helen tomorrow, the fact that she now held a high opinion of my character and decided that she would like to wake up next to me—forever!

I shall conclude Helen’s story with Steak and Eggs for Breakfast.