Cyndi, Sandy and Elvis

I recently wrote about Dave, my friend from whom I bought my first motorcycle. He read the story and emailed me. Dave, now living near Baton Rouge, was my best friend when I worked at Texas Oil and Gas. The rock and roll world of the last oil boom was hell on marriages, including mine and Dave's. Both freshly divorced, we became running buddies and Dave's email reminded me of one of our adventures.

Between us, Dave and I knew practically every female that worked in downtown Oklahoma City. One night, we were talked into escorting six gorgeous oil and gas secretaries to see an Elvis impersonator. Three of the ladies were crazy about the recently departed Elvis. The band, backup singers and Elvis impersonator sounded exactly like Elvis - well, if you'd had a few drinks and were sexually excited because of being the center of attention of six adoring ladies.

The concert was entertaining, further enhanced when one young lady in particular began hitting on me, another on Dave. When we returned to my apartment, Dave and five of the ladies departed while Cyndi (not her real name) came inside with me for a nightcap. Hell, it was two in the morning! We both had our intentions and for the moment I assumed that they were the same.

We were sitting on the floor in front of a fire that I had hastily built in the fireplace and we were groping around on the rug like a couple of boa constrictors in heat when the phone rang. I have waited to say that Cyndi was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Mike (not his real name). Mike was married, Cyndi only his girlfriend, and it is safe to say that he had no intentions of ever marrying her. Cyndi and I were both single.

"Have you seen Cyndi?" he asked, she's not at her apartment.

"Maybe," I said, our legs encircled and my hand under her blouse, still clamped on her right breast.

I began to smell a setup when he asked, "Is she at your place?" Cyndi, I suddenly sensed, had used me to make Mike jealous. Still very much engulfed in the throes of extreme passion, I said, "She was here but she just left. I think she’s on her way back to her apartment. You need to go home," I told her after hanging up the phone and zipping up my pants."

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, standing and adjusting her own clothing.

"There's nothing I would like better than spending the night with you but I think we would both regret it."

Cyndi must have agreed because she was gone in less than fifteen minutes, leaving me to contemplate my unexpected predicament. After all these years Mike is still my friend, as is Cyndi, although their relationship ended years ago. I never made it with Cyndi but later I had a little fling with Sandy, one of the other girls that Dave and I took to the concert. How did Dave do that night? I never asked and he never volunteered the story.

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