His Southern Sweetheart

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The lights dimmed and Amelia sipped on her wine with her auction paddle in her hand. Not letting anyone in on her profession might be the smartest thing she could do. The way all the women groped Nate, word might spread around, and their behavior might become more blatantly obnoxious. Somewhere in the amount of time Amelia took to look her cousin in the eyes while they spoke, Nate’s tall, dark head had disappeared. Women lined the foot of the stage in anticipation, much like singles did at a wedding waiting to catch the bouquet.

Amelia sneered at the desperation and the gall of these women. This bid was hers. For one whole week, the purchased bachelors would do the bidding of the buyer. Everyone else probably had their bachelor in mind and had planned all sorts of sexual events. From the brochure handed out at the door, a few of the men appeared to be married. Amelia didn’t think a wife would allow some other woman to buy her husband for the week. She knew good and well the wife would be in the front of the crowd.

The music died down as a handsome man in a black tuxedo stepped onto the stage. The lights in the large club turned off except for the circular bright light on the emcee. Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” beat pounded off the walls as the deep, rich baritone voice of the emcee spoke into the silver-capped microphone.

“Ladies and ladies,” he yelled into the microphone. “I cannot tell you what a thrill it is to find all of you here tonight on a Saturday evening, when there are thousands of other places you could be.”

Another noise pierced the room and a light flashed down on the DJ who leaned in closer to clear his throat. “What?”

Laughter bubbled through the crowd. The emcee stood corrected and nodded his head. “Ah, yes, where else would we find such fine ladies but at our lovely Southern Charm?”

The self-promotion received a few catcalls and some bold shouts from a woman in the back, urging the emcee to get on with the show in a colorful yet vulgar way.

“Well, without keeping you ladies waiting, let’s start with bachelor number one.”

Bachelor number one strutted out onto the stage, now covered with a red carpet, in a pair of black fireman’s boots, suspenders and a jacket, no shirt. He could have been carved from rich dark chocolate. Not surprisingly, women hollered, but judging from the only woman at the front of the pack holding her paddle in the air, Amelia guessed the sexy fireman was her husband. Knowledge of marital rights didn’t stop the catcalls. He went for a hundred dollars.

The next bachelor on the stage, whether he was a real policeman or not, clearly was not married. The woman at the table next to Amelia’s began fanning her paddle so fast the Brazilian blowout Amelia had gotten earlier today began to poof. A brief bidding war got the amount up to five hundred dollars.

Overall, each bachelor chosen went for a high price. A lot of them Amelia found very tasty, but her paddle was ready for one bachelor and one bachelor only. The emcee teased the audience of women when after an hour of sexy men walking back and forth he began to close the auction down, thanking everyone for coming. For a moment Amelia feared there might a riot of unsatisfied women. Boos and hisses erupted, and there was even the noise of a broken bottle.

“Ladies, ladies, please.” The auctioneer patted the air in attempt to calm the crowd. “I’m kidding. I believe we have one final bachelor of the night. He’s a bit shy, so put your hands together. Let’s welcome Mr. Nate Reyes to the stage.”

Amelia gripped her paddle and almost came out of her seat when the spotlight shined down on what was most definitely the man of the hour.

* * *

He tried to keep his expression cool as hell, but deep down inside Nate dreaded the next few moments. An hour ago he’d wanted the right person to buy him so he wouldn’t be forced into being a weeklong sex slave. Now, after seeing how much money the crowd had spent on the men before him, he worried everyone had used up their money. The emcee, a deacon from one of the local churches, oversold him with flattering and inflated adjectives.

The acoustics behind the black curtain emphasized the cheering of the women out front, causing difficulties when they tried to hear everything the emcee said. Four of the nearing principals gave Nate the thumbs-up as they pulled either side of the curtain. Salt-N-Pepa’s “What a Man” pumped through the man-size speakers to his left and his right. The single spotlight momentarily blinded him. He refused to take a step forward for fear he’d fall off the stage; instead he stood stock-still with his hands folded in front of him. For some reason, no movement at all caused a bigger ruckus.

“Clearly this man needs no introduction,” the emcee joked. “Coming from Berkeley Lakes, Georgia, in case you’ve been living with your head in the sand for the last eight months, this Latino lover is Southwood’s newest resident. Judging from the applause, there might not be any need for him to walk the stage.”

“Get out here and take it off!” a woman yelled.