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  • Our parents were going out for a night on the town in Memphis Tennessee in the early sixties. We were kids, just ten, nine and eight years old, my sisters and me. Our older cousin, Sally, had come to baby-sit.

    After our parents left, Sally proudly announced that she had a special presentation; a show for us, a preview of her “act”. She was competing for the title of “Miss Grenada, Mississippi” beauty pageant and this was going to be her talent portion.

    She sat us down in the living room and had us wait while she changed into her costume and gathered her accessories as well as set up the tape player for music.

    We had never been part of a “preview” before. We squirmed in our seats, anxious to find out what she was going to do.

    We heard bags being opened, the shuffle of clothes being put on, the sound of snaps, buttons and zippers, and the hiss of hairspray.

    With a final “click”, the tape player was turned on and we held our breath as the music began.

    “Gold Finger. . . the man with Midas touch . . .
    . . . a spider’s touch . . . “

    The hall door opened and in swirled Sally in a gold flame’ and sequin bathing suit, gold fishnet hose, twirling a gold baton. Her hair had gold sparkles in it; her eyes glittered with gold eye shadow. She was swaying and spinning her baton to the sounds and erotic lyrics of “Gold Finger”.

    “Oh my”, I thought as my mouth dropped wide open.

    “Gold Finger, beckons you to enter his web of sin . . . “

    I was mesmerized; my face flushed, I had never seen anything like this. Uncomfortable seeing such gyrations that I crawled around behind the couch and peeked out getting a glimpse of her baton spinning at the ground, rising slowly up between her fishnet hose-caressed legs, across her bedazzled breasts then up over her frothy gold head. I wanted to look away but I kept staring, unable to resist.

    “Pretty girl beware of his heart, his heart of gold, his heart is cold . . .”

    She bent over backward, kicked her gold high heels up high, somersaulted, bent forward showing the gold dust trailing down into her bosom. My pulse raced, my head was hot, I couldn’t bear this, I was going to pass out!

    She spun and spun her baton furiously!

    “He only loves gold . . .
    he only loves gold . . .
    he only loves GOLD!!!”

    The music came to a climactic end as she dropped, doing the splits on our living floor!

    After a brief silence, putting our senses back in place, we jumped up, cheering, whistling and standing in ovation.
    Bravo for “Goldfinger”!

    A couple of weeks later we were sad to hear that her reception at the Miss Grenada pageant was a lot less enthusiastic than ours.
    She didn’t even place.

    “It’s the kiss of death
    from Mr. Gold Finger . . .”
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