During the trading week, thirsty young professionals, boys and girls alike, frequent the local well to enjoy a few pints of half priced ale. It's Five O'clock Happy Hour!
We enter high-stepping , no need to weave through the freestanding patrons, soon to be intoxicated and draped on each other. A swanky young yuppie loosens his tie while a young little thing caresses his chest, eyes locked on his mouth, head nodding, a hungry grin apparent on her flushed face.
Take notice of the "cougar" sitting on the bar stool, her left fingers wrapped around the stem of her Martini glass, her right fingers riding the rim. Forty-year old woman can be friendly and generous.
A perky blond winks to my right, a casual offering. To my left, a gnarly beast- "She's yours Jim". He agrees. The flanks acquire their targets and roll out as I approach the corner of the saloon. My back to the action, I slowly turn to the crowd and reveal my stance. I settle in and wait.
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