I’d been following his career since I was a pimply-faced teenager. Heck, he wasn’t much older than I was when he stormed onto the scene, that velvet voice of his flowing like honey from the radio, the family gathered around, my mom and dad on the couch, us kids sprawled out on the floor, me already eighteen and preparing for college. They’d listen absent-mindedly, Mom knitting, Dad reading his paper, my sisters fighting, and then me with my front-row seat. Man, oh man, I’d just sit there, staring at that big box of oak wood and chrome dials, my eyes and ears glued, hearing nothing but that rich baritone of his swirling around my head, a noticeable stirring in my shorts, my mind wandering to less-than-wholesome thoughts.
Of course, back then, I bought all the star rags. Silky Sal they call
