“Now!” she screams and they’re off, the man pushing and grunting for all he’s worth as the girl clacks along in her high heels and then hops in. Swinging the door shut behind her and steering straight as an arrow shot by Cupid himself. The man congratulates himself as he slams against the trunk again—he was smart enough to put down the top so she could easily get inside—and heaves with muscles that haven’t been used in this fashion since high school. The lights of a big rig in the distance give him a sharp thrill but they make it to the gas station–food mart with no problems. Together, they’ve traversed the fifty yards or so of open ground with surprising speed and grace.

“Jesus, that was …” The man stops, unable to finish because he is winded. He leans up against his bumper for support.

“Fun, right? Good job!” says the girl, giving the man a little hug. Not anything sexual, but like a young gym-nast reaching out to her coach after a fine performance on the balance beam. “Now you’re all set. Got yourself covered …”

“Yeah,” the man puffs, still sucking down air in an attempt to regain some composure. “You do this often?” he jokes, trying to keep it light.

“Once or twice,” she murmurs. “A couple times.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, if somebody needs help you give it, right?”

“I suppose …”

“You’d do the same thing,” she whispers, not checking to see if he agrees. Without thinking, the man reaches out for her and returns her hug. She allows it, but this time he can feel that she is pulling back a touch. Just a bit, but the way she might if she had just been pressing her backside against his lap and he’d tried to slip a bill inside her g-string. “If she makes contact then it’s OK” is the hard and fast rule at the club—apparently it applies outside The Blue Empress as well.