Charles Bukowski was a sex-obsessed, well acclaimed, yet very controversial writer. He slouched in the dim pub, eyes bleary from too much whiskey. He watched the young waitress, who moved with a flirty, Lolita-esque grace, her youthful allure mocking his age and weariness. “Hey, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. "Another whiskey," he muttered, smirking. Bukowski's smirk deepened, savoring the fleeting connection in his booze-soaked haze.