Dim lighting, under lit from beneath. Red rope lights built into the floor guiding the way between tables and to other area’s. Giving an ethereal glow to the room. A mystical, removed from reality atmosphere, emphasized by the cloying heat and in no way diminished. Cheap perfume mingles with the masculine scents favoured by the gentlemen. Scratchy suits, polyester. Sticky carpeted flooring. All mixing together in a seemingly perfect , harmonized association to take us from the drab, monotonous ride of life.
Music, perfectly fed into the room from strategic, hidden places, lifts heart beats, makes feet tap unconsciously…heads loll seemingly detached from the necks of their owners. Grubby money is clenched between sweaty palms. Swapping hands so frequently it’s almost a dance in itself.
Lips part, breaths come shallow and rapidly. Pupils dilate…sense leaves the building….
On the platform metal poles would make it look like random scaffolding if it wasn’t for the ladies gyrating and flinging themselves around them.
She’s in front of me now. Eyes closed. Her lean body slides sensuously down the chrome pole, her legs part. Left hand bunches her hair as her tongue licks her sticky glossed lips. And back up she goes.
Black thong. Fake Louboutin’s. Down again. Legs part wider.
I sit, mesmerized by this forced mating dance. She smells of fresh sweat and expensive perfume.
Up and around she goes. Ankles above head. Now that is impressive. And down again.
Legs wider now, holding them in place as she shimmies her breasts alluringly. Is that a shaving rash?
And around and around she goes. A never ending merry go round. If I was her I’d vomit. I think I want to vomit now. Too much alcohol. Too much. Excessive. Too much of all mind altering options imbibed.
She’s slowing. Her routine is ending. Should I tip? How much? Shit! I wasn’t paying attention to her dance. Or her. How much is my drinks bill? Is 12.5% okay? Or is that too clinical…shit.
All sparks, they burn out in the end.