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The Lady and The Con
by
Victoria Anne Mitchell
...Jolene was on her feet, whooping and hollering along with
the rest of the audience which had suddenly been transformed
into a harem of hotheads. Shrieks and groans and weak
attempts at wolf whistles greeted the arrival of the next
man on stage. "Finally!" Jolene added to the uproar, "bring
on the beefcake!"
Margaret turned her attention to the stage. Immediately she
found herself sitting up straighter in her chair as she
watched the man on the stage in front of her.
Much as Margaret hated to admit it, there was no denying
this man’s looks which set even her stoic heart
aflutter: raven black hair sweeping to broad shoulders,
bronze skin, full lips uncovering a brilliant white smile.
Large, brown hands, matching his tall, well-proportioned
height. Long legs, with muscles rippling the fabric of his
pants. "All these women panting in their seats is raising
the temperature level in here," Margaret mumbled to herself
as she continued to watch this magnificent specimen of a man
stride across the stage.
Whereas the other men had seemed anything but comfortable in
a tuxedo, this man looked as natural in formal wear as he
would in jeans and a T-shirt. Or in nothing at all.
That was something else Margaret hated to admit, even to
herself as she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. This man
radiated a brand of dark sexual energy, the kind Margaret
only felt when she watched Clark Gable in Gone With the
Wind, no—Marlon Brando, in A Streetcar Named Desire.
Raw, animal energy. The room was seeped in it, the women in
the room overpowered by it. Including herself.
Margaret brushed the thought away. "All of these women are
acting like Victorian ladies when someone mentions the word
'sex.’ After all, he’s just a man." But what a
man, the thought slipped by her. "Jolene, for Heaven’s
sake, would you please calm down?" She watched helplessly as
her friend jumped up and down in her seat, reaching for the
man like a lovestruck teenager at a rock concert.
"Buy him for me as my birthday present, oh please Marge, you
promised, any man I wanted for my birthday present." Jolene
shrieked just before the man came closer to her, reached
down, and extended his powerful hand, along with a genuine
smile. "Ooooh, I want you," Jolene crooned.
"I’m all yours," the man returned in a deep voice that
all but overflowed with masculine sexuality and sent shivers
down Margaret’s spine. "Stop it," she told herself.
"You’re a mature woman of 35, an established professor
of English Literature at a prestigious university.
You’re not a young girl in the throes of her first
crush."
But as the man broke from Jolene’s grasp, he flashed a
wink at Margaret. She gasped, opened her mouth to speak, but
then fell to silence as he strode away, moving like a
panther back on the hunt.
Within seconds, the bidding began, fast and furious. And
expensive, astronomically so. When the bids reached $1000,
Margaret slammed the bid paddle, a silly, bright red
cardboard heart on a stick, down on the table.
"Jolene, I may love you like a sister, but I am not—I
repeat—am not—going to bid more than $500 on a man
just so you can go out on a date with him, even if it is for
charity! And anyway, I already made arrangements for a
perfectly decent man for your birthday—for the
perfectly reasonable price of $100. Including the
limousine."
"$1100," the auctioneer, a statuesque woman in a beaded blue
evening gown, announced.
Jolene’s blue eyes widened like saucers, her lips
forming an O of disbelief. "But he was such a nerd, Marge!
And a nerd who’s going to take me out to dinner in a
limo is still a nerd! I want that man," she said, pointing
to the panther, who was watching the bidding with a smug
grin on his face. "You promised, anything I wanted for my
30th birthday, and I want him, Marge!"
"$1200!"
"No, and that’s my final decision." Margaret grabbed
her leather purse. "Now come on, we’re leaving this
place," she surveyed the scene. "Such an embarrassment,
grown women acting like hyenas at feeding time—"
"$1500," the auctioneer cried.
But Jolene was quicker than Marge expected: in the blink of
her black eyelashes, she stole the cardboard paddle from
Margaret, scrambled to the top of her chair, and began
waving the heart frantically, even as the numbers continued
to escalate.
"$1750!" the announcer screeched above the roar of the
crowd. "Do I hear $1900?"
"Jolene, get down from there," Margaret ordered, her own
heart racing faster. "Or I’ll make you pay for him
yourself! And heaven knows the only investment you have is
in credit card debts!"
"You won’t go back on a promise, Marge, best buddy,
best pal. I know you too well. $2000," she yelled, "$2000
yes, right here!"
"$2000? Are you crazy? No man is worth $2000 for one date,
not even John F. Kennedy, Junior! And stop calling me
Marge!" Hands on her ample hips, Margaret came to the
decision that the only way she’d stop Jolene’s
foolishness was by tackling her like a linebacker. That
little twig of a body was no match for Margaret’s
generous bulk.
$2000 once," the announcer hollered, "$2000 twice ...." 
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