<div class="floatright">(http://snarkerati.com/profile_pics/Melinda-Clarke.jpg)</div>Club 215 was a new one for Sophia.  New was good.  It meant none of her girlfriends would be there, no whispering behind hands about each other, rumors spreading like mold.  It meant no one would know her, no men having seen her night after night and heard the same excuses.  Sophia liked to flirt, liked to flirt quite a bit, but nothing more.  And that only really worked the first time or two, and then the men either left you alone, or stopped believing you when you said no.<br/><br/>But no was the answer.  Sophia was not going to have an affair, no matter how lifeless her sex life might be at home.  Not because she felt any guilt, really.  But she had tried it once, with a younger man who knew how to hit all the right spots.  She'd been able to keep it under wraps, keep it under control, but he hadn't.  He'd become infatuated, obsessed, and it had been a rather difficult and delicate six months to get rid of him without Norman finding out.  Never again, she'd promised.  It seemed despite the stereotypes, men weren't any better at sex without attachment than most women.<br/><br/>A determined vow didn't erase her feelings though.  The clubs were where she scratched them, dancing flirtatiously with man after man, letting men buy her drinks, chatting and smiling and letting them brush up against her at the bar.  It made her feel alive, sexy.  Like the bartender she'd been flirting with all night.  He looked when she made a show of her cleavage, he smiled when she made a double entendre.  Tonight she would go home and imagine it was more than that.  She'd imagine what they would have done if she was as wild and free as she wanted to be, and he was too.  She'd pick from her variety of vibrators, the mechanical husband, as she and her friends called them, and that would be that.<br/><br/>Sophia slid away from the bar.  She'd been having Justin make her 7-ups all night and she needed to hit the restroom.  Taking care of business she stopped to wash her hands and fix her makeup.  She was 45, and makeup was no longer a luxury, it was a necessity. Anything to cover up the crow's feet, some vivid lipstick to draw the eye away from the lines around her mouth.  More importantly with a man, a dress that will keep him looking down there.  Sophia was an expert on this matter, and tonight wore a black silk number that dipped open to her sternum, showing quite an expanse of skin and breast, highlighted by a wonderful pendant she had bought at a friend's studio.<br/><br/>There was of course a line of women doing the same at the mirror, and Sophia found herself standing next to one dyed blonde who was chatting animatedly with a friend while fixing her mascara.  Sophia found herself meeting the woman's eyes briefly in the mirror and the woman stared back.<br/><br/>"You've been chatting up Justin something fierce," the woman said to her, and Sophia remembered her then, she'd been sitting several stools down with an Italian looking fellow.<br/><br/>"You know that he's a giggolo?"  Sophia gasped and so did the blonde's friend.  The blonde smiled but nodded her head vigorously, pausing in her eye work.  "I'm serious, Abby hired him once."  Her friend shook her head in amazement but this seemed to convince her.  "It's like the perfect man, you know.  Does what you say, when you want it.  And he knows how to fix a drink too.  Teach him to clean the bathroom and I'd take it."<br/><br/>The two laughed, and Sophia laughed, and all went on their way.  But Sophia found herself ruminating on this as she returned to the bar, having to stand and make her order, her stool long gone.  "I'll take a 7-Up," she told Justin with a smile, looking at him with renewed interest.  She hadn't really thought giggolos were real, and had never thought twice about them, but suddenly, she saw the appeal.