A haze of vice clinging to a sea of lurid delight

Bright lights are impotent to penetrate the shadows of this space. Darkness clings to the walls and lurks under chairs, throbbing with suggestive malice. The room is cool and damp, like a rain storm recently passed through. The women move indifferently from patron to patron, unphased by the heavy atmosphere. Their deft fingers pluck offerings from the hands of jaded men. Neither recognizes the other when they lean across the bar to meet in the middle; they see only an opportunity for worldly fulfillment. Drinks are poured and they are costly, but quenching.

On the altar, while thumping music thrashed the air, the dancer gyrates and poses. This dancer changes, but she is always some shade of self, some uneven mix of sultry idol and weary worker, yet the ultimate result is always ultimately desirable. Nearby and outside this particular temple of sin, other buildings host other girls of lesser grace and greater age, so I will continue to haunt these Risqué halls when I crave a beautiful face and shapely form.

A coffee colored girl in pink silks takes me by the hand toward a shadowy alcove. I make an offering to the bouncer first, and when we sit she presses her pleasing flesh against my chest, my thighs, my hands. Her dance is practiced and practical, but I am lost in short order, and time passes. She is careful to ask permission to continue at the end of each song. Her body glides effortlessly over mine, and I am transported to a temporary state of elation.