It was a time when men and women dress up to go out, men in their casual dress pants, hot silk shirts, women showing their figures and maybe some skin.
I went with a friend and we wanted to dance. He was so handsome, in his sailor whites, oh and so polite.
He danced most of the night with me, his southern accent chilling my spine. His voice, gentle politeness, sweet conversation, and the feel of his body when we slow danced. “They” had always made “picking” up someone in a bar or night club sound so crude, so low class, but what was happening here was magical. Who are “they?”
We went for a walk, and when he kissed me, the fire in my body could not be control. “They” could go to hell.
Twas a night of little sleep and uncontrolled passion. Was it fucking or making love? Is making love because you love the person, or because you are so completely in tune with the person that every need and desire is answered? I was not in love, but I could not call this just fucking. Oh how well we looked after each other.
I made him breakfast and returned him to his ship and learned that you can have a night of passion so fulfilling and wonderous with a stranger, and what “they” taught me was a lie.

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