A mature fellow.

...the older gentleman whose eyes haven't left my rack since I walked in. Based on his looks, he's about my Dad's age. Sorry, bad habit. That's "around 50" for your sake. His face and neck are starting to droop and his hands are getting veiny. The black hair could throw off someone else though, if they completely miss the strands that are colored like a candy cane. He's carrying a little extra, but he's wearing loose business attire to try hiding it, and he'd probably be succeeding if he was on the other side of the bar; since he's right next to me, I can see his belly consuming his blue silk pants. But it's just the bump earned by people who don't exercise regularly, not hardcore to the point of man-boobies. And that loose skin isn't excessive and pouring over his cotton shirt's collar. It's just apparent.

He's not ancient or ugly, is the point. He's not winning any awards, but he could easily attract sober suitors on a superficial level. One of five reasons I'm choosing him. The second is the expensive, thoughtful clothes. In addition to the silk pants, he has a matching waistcoat on and the jacket is draped over his chair, as well as tasseled loafers of fine leather expertly dyed brown. It's the sort of outfit no law-abiding police officer could realistically afford. While it could be that one good suit every man owns for formal occasions, most men his age know enough to get a three or four button waistcoat for eveningwear; his is a six-button daywear. The solid tie in a gentler, paler red omits him from the haphazard group that would make that mistake.

Fuck, I keep slipping into store habits. I feel like I'm trying to sell him to you guys. Eh, I guess I am in a sense. Anyway, what that mess means is he's well dressed in pricy duds that don't fit the atmosphere or time of day. In all probability, he came here directly from an important business meeting. And that leads me to "Reason I Want Him" number three: he's here alone holding a drink in front of him. Normally, a successful meeting translates to a night out for all parties involved. Either his tanked and he's looking to forget his troubles, or the group went off without him assuming he's too old for a night out. In both cases, the comfort of a woman goes a long way. And that's reason number four. The wedding band on his left hand hadn't escaped my notice. The fact that he sought solace from the bottom of a glass instead of his wife means either she's a ways away, or he knows he won't find the sympathy he needs from her. A prime mark if ever there was one.

The fifth and final reason I like him is that he sharply looks away whenever my gaze goes anywhere near him. Officers of any honesty radiate confidence and attempt to meet the temptations head on, as do guys accustomed to free pussy who want to pay me the wages of a crack whore. Then again, the creeps who always gawk from across the room usually don't respect boundaries or price restrictions. This is complicated, I admit. It's a matter of experience to separate the good ones from the bad ones by sight alone; even I'm not perfect. Best advice I can give for any amateur: pick your mark, and then sit down and talk. Conversation is a lot more reliable than body language. Even I still use it if I'm not sure. It's also a great way to lure a mark who's more on the shy side. Speaking of which...

First, his attention. And this is the only misery of a hotel bar associated with a grill for working girls: no complimentary nuts. Thankfully though, The Borealis isn't stingy on the napkins and uses proper coasters. As soon as my drink is ready and money has changed hands, I reach my across the bar to get a napkin. It's a bit of a stretch, especially since I refuse to walk around my admirer. So I try to stretch myself by placing my left hand on the bar.

"Sorry," I say smiling coyly.

Get your mind out of the gutter. I only touched his hand. Forcefully, but only for a moment. For a slightly veiny hand, it actually felt really young. Taught skin and silky smooth, as if he'd never worked a day in his life. The veins may be visible, but I definitely didn't feel them. Even as I twisted my hand along his, the only bumps were the very pronounced knuckles and his wedding ring. I don't even think he had any hair on them, not even the short, nearly-invisible strands everyone has.

But what's really important is it worked. He turned towards my touch almost instantly, and I finally got a great look at those hazel eyes. Finally, he looked me in the eye. Well, briefly. As soon as he turned to me, before I even muttered a word, I already directed my gaze back to the napkins.

"N-Not a problem," he says.

I abandon my quest and walk across to an open table, angling my head down slightly as my hips sway. I carefully sit myself down, being sure to only part my legs slightly while I put my coaster down. I'm pretty sure nothing was visible, but the intention was only to make him curious. And that I did. As I posture up, I see him looking my way, his eyes very clearly snooping up my dress until I close the gates. Now that the show's over, his gaze pops back up and we lock eyes briefly again. He goes to turn, but I'm not going to let him. I snap my head away first, smiling and blushing slightly as my head returns to its embarrassed position. Without missing a beat, I twist and twirl my drink's straw as I "unconsciously" cross my legs before sipping. Out of the corner of my eye I see him stand up.

I got him.