There is nothing small about Lexington and I end up there a lot. Perhaps too much, but then work takes me there on a routine basis. I get a lot of overnights in Lexington. There are multiple theaters, fine places to dine and a good selection of dance floors, bars and other hangouts. I'd like to admit to a puritan life style and tell you I never frequent such places. Of course, I'd be lying, so why bother?
I got to all those places, some more than others. I enjoy the secret feminine pleasure of allowing a man to buy my dinner, hold my chair, pour my drink and select my wine for the evening. Sometimes the men will get a reward. Sometimes they do not and that is completely up to me to decide. A man can spend $250 on a dinner date, a movie and a small gift if he chooses. He might get nothing while the guy who is charming, plays himself well and treats me to nothing more than a great grilled burger at a little hamburger and fry place just off Main Street will get the screw of his life.
Go figure, but from my point, that's why you guys keep asking us girls out. You like the feeling of the chase, of sitting there wondering if we will or if we won't while you shell out and fall all over yourself putting your best foot forward. I'll tell you though, just be yourself – honesty is a wonderful attribute and will win me over quicker than a $500 trip to the race courses opening meet – which is where I spent the first Friday in April.
the race course is the horse racing world's Mecca. It is THE place to be on the first Friday in April. And being there can cost no more than the $12 to park and another $20 for a couple of beers and a dog on a bun. Or, it can cost some bucks. I've had race course dates drop $1,000, all without knowing if they were going to get into my pants or not.
Actually, I should say without knowing if they were going to get under my skirt or dress hem because grown up big girls don't wear pants to the races. No, it's a skirt and heels, bare legs to the sun type of place. On this trip it was pushing 80 which means spaghetti straps, strapless bras and a dab of sun screen rubbed in well before arriving at the gate. The worst sun burn of my life came at the races, sex that night was awful. Thank goodness I left before sunup because I felt like absolute shit the next morning and screamed like a belt-slapped bitch when the shower hit the back of my shoulders the next morning!
And the first Friday in April 2010 was a beautiful day. A day meant to be enjoyed by kings and their queens. As well as by the minions of those among the commoners who found their way to the races for the sport of kings on that day.
I went with a girl friend and her daughter and the date of the girl friend. The daughter is one of my young mentors. At 21, she can wear a lot of my clothes but won't for long if she keeps eating and avoids the gym. She got her father's genes and his family leans towards heavy where her mother is one of those damn women who never exercises and looks great. Me, it's the gym, the bicycle, the rowing machine and any other torture device known to man to keep a hard, flat stomach and long legs. Shit, folks, let's face it, when you wear an A-cup bra, you can't afford a roll in the middle above the belt line!
But the daughter came to my house the night before our trip and she was dressed properly. She had brought a black bra and panties for the big outing. I put those beneath a pale yellow sun dress which her mother would never approve but hey, my house, my rules. A pair of three inch heels that she loves to borrow and her hair up in a tight twisted french braid hanging down to her bra strap with a touch of lipstick and make up to add flavor. She's a pretty young woman, not the little timid virgin her mother believes but not an out right slut. So I dressed her to draw a little attention, just not a lot of it and besides, with me as a chaperone, trust me, the looks could be turned on, or off.
As for myself, I dragged out a dress I only wear when I don't anticipate finding a lot of people from our little home town. It shows a tremendous amount of leg, in fact, it will show the bottom hem of a pair of bikini panties if I am not careful – or on purpose if I wish. The dress was a pale blue and I wore midnight black underwear and a strapless bra under it. I could have gone without the bra, but not with my friend and her boy friend along. Hopelessly high heels pushed me towards 5'10'' or so and enough lipstick to qualify me as a made up girl and we were off. That dress is cut low, but the only sight one gets is my bra, unless you happen to catch me leaning forward and sitting down. You might, might mind you, see a slope of a pale breast or the leading edge of my nipple. But it's a big might and you better work the angles really, really well guys.
The ride up to Lexington was fun, the younger girl and I had the backseats of a Chevrolet full-size pick-up truck. Even the rear-ward opening doors didn't keep us from putting on a show. Myself, well I yanked that hem up, showed a flash of panty and climbed aboard and then laughed as my young backseat cohort tried to get in.
Finally, I suggested that she either show her mom's date what she was wearing beneath the dress or he could turn his head, take their pick, but I was ready to go. The man turned away and the young girl hopped in. Her mother had no problem getting into the front seat – pants are that way. Darn pants anyway, as I hate them, but wear them a lot. It's a business world you know? And, well, if you aren't using the tools it's best to cover them up to keep the male minds somewhere close to the business at hand.
We had a great lunch and the younger lady did things for my own dress I can only dream about. I mean, I looked at her with a bit more hunger than I should, considering my mentoring role. But she really filled that dress out. A dress that is cut for an A girl worn by a baby B with a push-up bra. Well, you guys and girls can figure it out. Darn, she looked, well, great. I've heard that look described as “table grade”. I have heard it described in a lot of other ways, as well!
Getting in and parked was a snap with my friend's VIP parking pass. That's one of the things that deters me from the track a lot. Parking is rarely simply, today is was so easy as to make me wish for the good life. With no coolers or purses on wheels, we breezed through the entry gate and made our way to a nice boxed seat area. Not exactly the home of high rollers, but a far cry from the cheap seats. Looking down and out, we could see the occupants of those seats. The view from above looking down on a bunch of those low cut dresses was, well, stunning.
And the little slice of Kentucky we could see was equally pretty. All green with touches of early spring flowers popping up in groups around the grounds.
The stands filled and the first two races left my young charge with a few dollars to blow so I went with her down to the $2 window. As we stood in line, I noticed a man in a beautiful brown suit with a wonderful fedora hat watching us. I looked away, then back. Then I blushed. Yep, I actually blushed because a woman standing in the $2 line with a 20-year-old charge has no business casting eyes on a man in the $50 betting line. That would have been my entire stake for the day, $50 bucks. And he was fixing to blow it on one race. Hopefully, he knows more about horses than I do.
We both made our wagers and returned in time for the start of the third race, I lost again and yet another ticket found its way to the pitted concrete pavement beneath my heels. I could feel the wind tugging at my hat by this point and I secured it with a chin strap. Don't ask me to explain, guys, but I also know that a chin strap can be positioned behind the ears – aren't ears the handiest thing you've ever seen? Make good ankle rests, or so I'm told!
After the fifth race I excused myself from the group and went to the bar. Although my young friend could go legally, I don't teach that little experience in life. Somethings, a woman growing up just has to learn on her own. Oh, rescue her if she plays the game and loses, you bet. But this chick wasn't drinking on my watch. Her mother and date weren't either, so that meant Paula got a drink at the bar. Alone.
Well, I thought alone. As the barkeep pushed the glass towards me and said $5, the man in the suit and hat slipped in just in time to make an offer no lady refuses. “May I,” was all he said, with a smile and the simple passing of a $10 to the bartender. The man with the mop brow started to make change, but the hat man simply smiled and waved him off.
“Do you mind if I join you, lady?” he asked. A nod and he took the stool adjacent to mine. Now, the dress I had on wasn't meant for clubbing, not exactly at any rate. There was a slit up each leg that stopped about five or six inches below my hip bone. Had I worn anything other than high-cut bikini panties, they would have shown. As it was, I had an inch of wiggle room and midnight blue would be peeping out around the edges.
We talked for a few moments and the sixth race kicked off on the screen over the bar. I was swallowing a sip of alcohol when I felt the man's hand on my bare thigh. He had not the least hesitation as he rolled his finger tips to the inside of my thigh and then upwards to where the dress slit stopped his advance. Right there, with me and a glass in my hand, he pinched the absolute shit out of me. I found the bruise the next day. Right then, I just did good to swallow without choking and keep my pissed off attitude from showing.
“I was wondering from my seat if you were actually wearing underwear,” the man said, the question in this tone. “Now that you lost that extra inch of hem, I can tell that you.”
I looked down and realized that his pinch had caused a jerk on my part.