Excerpt:
Before the passion-packed, chronic-chasing wolves pinned the Bar Stool Stella nickname on the most beauteous babe this side of Timbuktu, no pulchritudinous dame who ever decorated a bar stool with a well-rounded derriere could pose like this delectable dish. She was a tallish brunette, full-breasted, widow of about twenty-nine, with that let's-get-acquainted glint in her big brown eyes; and every third-rate Casanova with a throbbing tool inside his pants hungered for the opportunity to thoroughly explore her body and turn on her erotic dynamo for a flesh-to-flesh festival. But Stella wasn't her real name. It was as phony as the liquid that moistened her luscious lips when she graced a bar stool for a sizable percentage on fancy drinks.
