The fourth Mrs. Brantmyer is out there somewhere, says Brantmyer, assessing the crowd at Platforms in Ybor City. For the first time tonight, Brantmyer makes a strategic maneuver, sidling up to a cluster of blonds. He makes no disguise of eyeballing a woman in a white nylon midriff. Towering over her by two feet, his open stare travels down her dark roots to her bleached strands, and then farther south, coming to rest on what could be mistaken for two suspiciously large water balloons. Soon she edges in behind her friends, using them as a buffer.
Girls travel in groups.
They're sort of self-protected. He moves on, positioning himself so he can peer out a window above the entrance. He adjusts the blinds so his view is unhampered. Watching the women approaching and entering, he takes swigs of draft beer from a plastic cup. I go out to have a good time and know that I could get laid.