Rule Number Three

"While I'm in Tampa you can call you old high school and get your transcripts sent down, or have them faxed to the hotel's business center. They have computers there, so you can go online and check out the University of Miami. I added off-handedly, "You know, check out the campus, find out the curriculum requirements for an art degree, check out dorm housing. Just charge everything to your room. Food, whatever."

She gave me a big grin, looking excited about the prospect. "I don't know what to say. This is all like a dream. I start out the day wandering South Beach, and then suddenly I feel like I've stepped through a magical doorway."

I was pulling on some clothes at this point, smiling back at her. Chloe had begun dressing, and after she pulled her shirt over her head she commented, "Chris, I know that you didn't mean to scare me when you tied me up...that you didn't actually believe that I'm a virgin and all. I don't blame you, I swear, and I'm not mad at you. I made a mistake, and you made a mistake. Simple."

"OK, Chloe. Thank you. But I've got to warn you again. You're not in Nebraska anymore. You can't just expect that everyone you meet is honest and trustworthy. I could easily have been a psycho rapist. And I've got to tell you something else.... Now that I've seen you without your baggy clothing --- you're one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. You're gonna have guys on you like white on rice. You can't just be as open as you are, you know what I'm saying, sweetheart? I'm flattered that you find me attractive enough to do what you did, but if you give head to every hot looking guy you see down here, you're jaw's gonna be sore as hell."

I looked over to see her blushing once again. I was beginning to doubt my earlier concern that she may be setting me up because I doubted anyone could fake embarrassment that way. Can they? To the point of getting red in the face?

She scowled for a moment as she considered, and then rejoined with, "I told you I didn't do that just because of how you look!. It was because I wanted to thank you for saving Benji, and for being so nice to me. When we were walking through the mall and talking about art and passions, you made me feel like I'm --- I don't know what word to use --- maybe worthwhile I suppose. That I'm not stupid A Man Duh after all."

"Honey," I chuckled, "with your looks, you'll have guys falling over themselves being nice to you. I'm just the first one you ran into. And that makes me feel honored on the one hand, and damn lucky on the other. And I'll tell you something else. It's like I said to you before. I'll never forget that blowjob, just like I'll never forget what you look like without your clothes.

We were both fully dressed now and in the bathroom brushing our hair. She stood next to me, and suddenly turned to face me squarely.

"Chris, I know this sounds like more of the Midwestern hayseed you were complaining about, but I'm wondering about something."

"Yeah, what's that?" I asked, my curiosity aroused.

"Well, I've always thought that girls should save themselves for their husbands on their wedding night. I mean, that's what my mother always told me, so I believed her. But now I'm not so sure. It seems kinda old fashioned, don't you think?"

"Jeez, I don't know, Chloe. I guess it's up to each girl to decide when and who she gives herself to the first time. I will say this, though. It's a real special thing for a girl, and invariably she falls in love with whoever the guy is, even if he's a real dick. So I think you should be very selective. Either you should just do it with somebody you like, but don't have any great feelings for, just to get it out of the way, or you should wait like you've been doing, and give yourself to your husband."

"Really?" she asked, looking at me again.

"Yep, because I'll let you in on a little secret. Most guys are pigs. They don't give a damn if it's special as hell to you. They just want to get laid. And if they can brag to their buddies that they nailed a virgin, all the better. Guys don't think too much about the emotions involved with sex. They only want the visuals and the friction. If you keep that in mind you'll save yourself a lot of heartache."

"You're saying that all guys are like that?" I had given her a brand new toothbrush, still in it's packaging and she had been fumbling with it trying to get it open.

"Not all guys, but the ones you'll meet if you're working at a nightclub or restaurant will be, that's for sure. Some will be players – guys on the make all the time. They try to get with as many girls as they can to prove to themselves and their buddies what studs they are. Then there's the nice guys.... They see a beautiful girl like you and act all goofy, convincing themselves that they are in love. These guys get the shit worked out of them by the hotties. They give away their money, loan out their cars, do the girls' homework, all because they are dying to get some nookie. The nice guys. And you know where nice guys finish...."

"But you're a nice guy, Chris," she protested.

"Yeah, and I've been worked like nobody's business, too." I agreed, smiling at her as she brushed her teeth. "And I probably will be again. I hope that it's more because I try to be generous and good hearted, and not because I'm a dumbass trying to get laid, but I've deceived myself before, so I may just be doing it again."

"You mean with me?" she asked in a small voice.

"The thought has occurred to me," I answered truthfully. "One part of me tells myself that I recognize your talent and your need to get away from your father, and that's why I'm willing to go out of my way to help you, but another part of me is sitting back laughing when I make the offer to help you shouting, 'SUCKER!'"

"Why? Because you think I'm beautiful?"

"Exactly!" I agreed. "Because every time I look at you a little voice in my head tells me to do whatever it takes within reason to get you into bed."

"So why didn't you just take me when you had the chance? I couldn't have stopped you. And with your money and success even if I had claimed you raped me you could convince everyone that I gave myself to you willingly."

"Ahh, that's the rub!" I said nodding my head. "And don't think I wasn't considering that, even after I became convinced that you were telling me the truth. The devil in me was shouting to go ahead and rip your panties off and plunder your treasures. But then thankfully for you, and for me I suppose, my conscience kicked in. You know, the 'Nice Guy'. He told the devil to get back in his corner and leave you alone." I gave her a long appraising look, letting her know how close I was to going the other way with her.

"Thank you," she said meekly. "I'm glad you're a nice guy, Chris." She rinsed the toothbrush and put it in the holder next to the sink. "In case I ever get over here again..." she said with a lopsided smile. "I kinda hope I do. You know" she said, stopping to turn back and look at me, "I think you are the man I'd like to ... you know," she stammered, looking embarrassedly at the floor, "...have sex with, but I wouldn't want you to want me that way only because you think I'm pretty. I'd like to think that you saw other things about me that made me special to you, just like I've seen other things about you besides your looks."

For once I was speechless. Well, almost anyway. I smiled at her said that I'd be better off not thinking about sex for awhile, but that I was honored by her compliment.

She scooped up Benji who had been watching us intently from his perch on my bed. We left the house by the front door this time, heading for the garage where I keep my car. I swung the right side's door open and stepped into the shadowed coolness. Chloe waited in the drive for me to pull out. She pulled the garage door closed, which I thought was pretty nice. I've been with some girls who wouldn't even consider doing anything so strenuous or helpful. I couldn't help liking this girl, but I was determined not to get carried away until I could do some checking on her background.

She hopped into my cherry red Mini Cooper and smiled over at me. "Was that a Ferrari I saw in the other half of your garage?"

"Yep, a Testarossa," I explained. "It's not mine, although I get to drive it whenever I want. It belongs to a buddy who has a condo on the beach. He wants to keep the salt air off it as much as possible. Plus he's gone about 25 days out of the month on business. I'm not sure why he even lives in South Beach, other than to rub it in to his partners up in New York."

"Wow, this is some life you're living, Chris."

"You won't hear me complaining," I agreed. "Other than about the traffic. That's why I have my scooter and this little badass Cooper."

"It's really cute," she said as she looked around at the interior. "Is it pretty fast?"

"Man, where you been girl? Didn't you see the movie 'The Italian Job'? The gold heist in LA using 4 of these cars? Mark Wahlberg, Charlize Theron....?"

She shook her head no.

"Well, these British Coopers are engineered by BMW. Supercharged engine, superb brakes, high performance suspension, computer assisted steering and traction controls for high speed cornering, with a gearbox that shifts like butter."

"Like buttah!" she corrected, mimicking the old Saturday Night Live skit with Mike Meyers playing the matronly Jewish talk show host describing Barbra Streisand's singing voice.

"So what's your secret to making all this money?" She was turned sideways in her seat, with Benji on her lap.

"Hmmm," I responded, thinking about it for a moment. "I guess first of all it takes hard work. For me it was seeing something in the lab at school and recognizing that it could fill a need. That was the barnacle glue. I share patent rights with UM for that, and believe me, it took a lot of hassles to get any of the proceeds, even though it was all my research. That taught me a valuable lesson, which is to keep your ideas to yourself. Once I got some royalty money I leased space in a lab off-campus and worked on plant fibers, first as insulation, then as flooring and roofing, and finally as a renewable building component. I've made a ton of money, but I swear I was in that lab 20 hours a day from the time I was 21 until early last year. Then I started working on the barnacle glue again, adapting my original research just enough so that I couldn't be charged with patent infringement. Isn't that a joke? My original research and labor, and I have to work around all that so I don't get sued by the school. I guess they see it that they provided the knowledge and the apparatus for me to develop my ideas, so they should get the bulk of the profits. I don't quite agree, but I suppose I could be wrong."

"So that's why your school buddies called you middle aged before you got out of your teens? Because you were driven to succeed?"

I smiled and nodded.

"I think I have a knack for making money. Part of it is knowing when to invest and when to back out. I keep my eyes and ears open and do a lot of research before I spend my dough. Like the house. I love it, but it's really only an investment for me. Same with the race horse me and a few other friends went in on together. He's a two year old from great bloodlines, but had a couple of poor showings at his first few races. We brought him down from New York last year, started working him with a new handler and trainer, and now he's kicking ass on the track. Heck, maybe he just didn't like the Brooklyn accent of his former owners!"

"Wow, you own a racehorse, too!" she enthused.

"Only a fourth of one," I corrected.

"So what else is there to making a million by the time you're twenty-five? You don't think being handsome has helped at all?" she challenged.

"Part of it may be because of my looks, I'll admit. They open the front door for you and that's no doubt. But unless you're a model or a whore, that's as far as they take you. While I was in college I worked the summers and weekends as a cabana boy at the Fontainebleau Hotel. I worked my ass off, and along with the good tips, I started selling sun care products on the side. It was stuff I mixed up in the lab at school after hours and had bottled over in Little Havana on the west side of Miami. I made the lotions thick and creamy, with a great smell and full of stuff like jojoba oil, aloe vera, tea tree oil and a really good form of PABA for sun protection. Then I made an after-sun healer and skin conditioner with 70% aloe vera gel. They sold like hotcakes under the name Solar Essentials. Word got around and pretty soon a guy came around who offered me a deal I couldn't refuse, if you get my meaning. He bought me out and now they're marketing the stuff all over the country. That was a fortune I let get away...."

I shrugged my shoulders and looked over at her while we were stopped at a red light. I could tell she was fascinated.

"My looks help because they make a good first impression on people, so I learned to use them to my advantage. I work out regularly, keep away from alcohol, tobacco and drugs and I brushed up my language skills so I could speak with tourists from just about anywhere. Credibility came with all these factors – my looks, my vitality and my charm. The only people who didn't like me were the jealous husbands; usually fat guys with attractive wives. I learned more about sex in three years than most people will in a lifetime."

"You see!" she exclaimed. "I knew you were a beach stud! Maybe not a model, but pretty close. You used your looks and they helped you make money."

"Sure," I agreed. "That's just good marketing. But like I said, I busted my ass giving great service to the tourists on the beach. And I fulfilled a need by providing a product that they wanted."

"Are you talking about your stud service here, or your suntan lotion?" she mocked.

I made like I was going to hit her, causing Benji to growl at me. She reassured him that everything was all right, and I reached over and scratched his muzzle, causing him to forgive my transgression.

"So, you've been with like a lot of women?" asking the question all men hate to answer.

"Yeah, I guess I was sort of a player and a nice guy for a while there. I convinced myself that having sex with those chicks was almost like part of my job. I was on the beach to set up their lounge chairs, bring them towels, keep them from getting sunburned and to make them feel welcome at our hotel. In the evenings, it carried over to fulfilling their fantasies while they were on their vacations. Lots and lots of girls have a thing for lifeguards, and because I worked the pool deck too, I always wore a whistle, which I'd blow to keep kids from running on the deck, or to remind them not to stand on the rope that marks off the deep end. I think that stupid whistle got me more nookie than my looks," I laughed. "The lifeguard fantasy. It's funny, too," I went on, "how many girls about to get married want to have one last wild romp before they settle down to whiter whites, scuff-proof floors, second mortgages, and same old sex ...." (I think I'm paraphrasing John D. MacDonald's great character Travis McGee here.)

I stared out the window, recollecting all the girls I had banged who were in Florida either on their honeymoons, or with their fiancée's Damn, but some of them were fun! I hope I will remain in their minds as they do in mine --- a good time in the sun and a great time in the moonlight. I certainly always tried to make each girl feel special. I tried to make her feel that by her allowing us to make love together I was winning a prize I would always cherish.

Chloe interrupted my reveries singing, "Chris is a beach stud... beach stud... beach stud! Chris is a beach stud!" The smile on her face was lovely and fresh.

"No really," I chuckled, trying to explain. "You'd be amazed at how many chicks are out to have a fling while they're on vacation. And I was an easy target. I'd get to know them on the beach or pool deck. We'd talk about what to do at night, and then one thing would lead to another. After a while I started feeling used by them."

"You poor thing," she commiserated in a jesting tone. "Being forced to make love to those horny chicks! I don't blame you for feeling used. So what was the youngest; what was the oldest; did you ever turn down a woman's advances even when you knew it would cost you tips later; did you ever get caught by jealous husbands, fathers or boyfriends; and did you ever do an ugly or fat one? "Oh yeah," she added, "and have you ever taken money for sexual favors?"

"Wow, are you gonna write a book on me or something," I laughed.

Her eyes were twinkling, but she only shrugged and gave me a who knows? kind of look.

Actually, it didn't bother me that she was asking all these rather personal questions; my life is pretty much an open book to everyone as far as I'm concerned. I don't have any skeletons which cause me great regrets, nor do I think I've done anything illegal. Moral might be another question however, and it's one that I ask myself about all the time.

"OK, well, no, I've never felt forced into bed with someone who I plainly wasn't attracted to, and that would include extremely ugly or grossly fat. I have turned down plenty of obvious advances, but always in a way which did not hurt their feelings, and which I made up for by giving even better service whenever possible, unless the woman was incredibly rude or crude. I've seen plenty of those types, too."

I took a deep breath and began answering her other questions. "The oldest was probably in her mid to late 40s, and was absolutely stunning. She was the mistress to an old geezer twice her age. I learned more about satisfying a woman from her than all the others combined. Mainly because she refused to let me leave until I got it right. Again and again and again and again...."

"Yeah, I think I get your point there, buddy," Chloe quipped. "And the youngest? Come on, be honest!"

"She was fifteen, but I swear I didn't know that until afterward. She looked every day of eighteen and that's how old she told me she was. It was only when I was talking to her father, who of course had no idea that I had boffed his daughter the night before, that I found out. I was a nervous wreck for a month after that. But that girl was hot, and I sure wasn't the first to scratch her itch."

"Pervert!" she shouted out her open window and laughing with abandon. "Help, I'm riding with a pervert!"

Nobody could hear her, either from being old and deaf and in cars with the air conditioning cranked to compensate for the Florida heat, or from Latinos and African Americans with music blasting so loud from their cars that they couldn't hear themselves yell, much less hear my little tormenter Chloe.

"You still have a couple of questions left unanswered, buck-o," she reminded me. "Did you ever get caught, and did you ever take money?"

I was quiet for a long moment, considering the best way to answer, which of course made Chloe think I was stalling.

"Come on, there's nothing to think about here. Did you ever get caught, and did you ever take money?" she persisted.

"I never got caught actually in the sack with a girl, but I'm sure there were a few fathers or boyfriends who suspected something was going on. I made it a practice to never allow myself to seduce or be seduced by married women in the company of their husbands. But ever caught with my pants down? No."

...I was thinking about the time I had to jump off the third floor balcony into a pile of lounge chair cushions to evade a girl's dad, and the time I hid in the hotel linen closet for an hour while another staked me out, finally growing impatient and cursing me for a solid ten minutes before returning to his own room.