Some call those the good old days. You'd meet a snappy-looking whore in a bar, and after you had a few drinks and a hand up her skirt, you'd be discussing price. Chances are, however, the price didn't include four of your buddies waiting outside in the 1963 Buick LeSabre [with the driver's door missing], wondering who did or didn't bring the one condom you'd be sharing. But if you had met a stylish, with-it gal like Sativa Rose, there'd never have been an issue. Sativa might have drawn the line at the shitty automobile you were driving, but when it comes to numbers or battle gear, Sativa doesn't give a rat's ass. Regarding the happy hour between her legs, Sativa's of the belief, the more patrons the merrier. And when it comes to splooge, she wants to feel the warm drizzly plop settling between her thighs. [Who doesn't?] The only thing she might require is a bottle of Listerine to douche with afterwards. But what girl wouldn't?