A Latina Patron

"Hola, chica."

Lois Lane blinked and turned. A woman hung off the bar there...tall, able to stare the reporter in the eyes even though Lois was sitting on a tall stool. Black tights gripped muscular calves and thighs, and stretched up over a thick waist with wide hips. Her shirt was a white, long-sleeved blouse that was open to show she wore no bra to contain her breasts. The reporter felt a flush of jealousy, as she always did, when she first met a woman with larger breasts than her own—and the shirt was thin enough she could see the outlines of this Latina's dark nipples through the fabric.

"May I buy you a drink?" The woman said with an easy smile, her eyes so dark they were almost black.

The reporter felt her cheeks burn, realizing at once what was going on.

"I'm sorry—I'm not really into women." She said.

The Latina made a gesture at the bartender, who returned with another gray cocktail for Lois, and a beer with a wedge of lime jammed in the bottle for the woman standing next to her.

"Have you been with a woman before?" The Latina asked.

Lois weighed how to answer, but picked up the cocktail.

It's just a drink. It would look weird if I didn't at least have a sip. She thought to herself. In truth, her mouth felt dry, though her throat was still filmed by the last strange grey cocktail.

"No, not really," Lois said, a moment before her lips touched the cold edge of the glass and sipped some of the grey, salty mix.

"Then how do you know?" The Latina said. "Come, let us be friends. There is no harm in talking, is there? My name is Valeria."

"Lois," the reporter said, before she could think of a lie.

The Latina smiled, pulled the lime from her beer, and took a swig.

"Lois," she said, savoring the word. Her dark eyes flashed. "I like you Lois. I have been watching you since you came in. You are very...intense, yet elegant. Like a lioness on the hunt. You know it is the she-lions that do the hunting, don't you?"

The reporter nodded, warily. Wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate pick-up line, and how she could best extract herself. She sipped her cocktail again, surprised at how warm she suddenly felt.

"Like someone who is looking for something. I do not think you came here looking for some polla."

Suddenly, Valeria stepped close, her breasts invading the reporter's personal space. A warm hand pressed against the reporter's knee.

"I can help you," Valeria whispered. "Find what you're looking for."