Southern Heat


I  pick up my rental car at Memphis International Airport. The beautiful dark girl, in charge to dispense the cars for the rental company, highlights a red Nissan: “Is she good enough for you, sir?” She looks at me questioningly. I actually find the car too sports car-like, but the other three available cars in my agreed and prepaid rental class are smaller and not at all my taste and color (black and green). So I nod and ask if she will be so kind to install my navigation (I give her the address of my hotel in Clarksdale, Mississippi). She starts putting in these data right away, in squatted position. This gives me the opportunity to have a look into her white blouse. “You like what you see, sir?” I: “Yes, sure do! It gives me a great and warm feeling!” If I ask her to hand me the car keys, it turns out that these are no longer needed. She says: “Like every woman it has a start button, sweet heart! You make sure to use it, baby!”










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