Well the weather is warming up so the poultry man's mind turns to sex.  (as if his mind stays chast in the cold weather months.  Pshyeahhh) 

   I remember June -- we had one date, in the year of our Lord 1983.  She came to one of my gigs with her boyfriend, a fellow pianist.  During that gig she flirted innocently (or so I thought) with me.  She ended up giving me her number on some pretence which at the moment escapes me.

    I called her the next week and we made a date to go out to a seafood restaurant in Venice, CA.  June was an older woman -- she had achieved the ripe age of 38, which for my 23 year old self was incredibly exotic.  She was a thin, lithe woman who smiled easily and had a kind of half-stoned, hippy-dippy air about her.

    I arrived to find her attired in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings.  We sat down, made nervous small talk, and she offered me a joint.  When we went out to my car to leave for the restaurant she kissed me long and hard on my mouth, telling me that she was wanted to get it over with so that we could dispense with nervousness.  That line may actually be from a Woody Allen movie, but bear with me.  She really did kiss me, however.  More in part two...