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The writer was a wanderer, a roaming scribe who changed locations like a chameleon changes its colors. Staying in the same place for too long made her writing and her life stale. She had been living in New Orleans for about a year. Having gotten bored with San Francisco, she wanted to go to another port city, and New Orleans just felt right. Port cities seem to attract exceptional people, most of them with dark pasts. Sometimes they arrive in these cities like beleaguered battleships trying to escape enemy ships. Sometimes they arrive there to re-invent themselves. The writer fell into both categories.
She had been working for a local magazine in the city for about six months. As was her custom, she wrote all day about all manner of city-friendly subjects. But, by nightfall, she often lost interest in the magazine fodder she was working on. Such was the case this Tuesday night. She rose and went to regard her image in the mirror. Looking in the glass, she thought, "still beautiful, still a bit of a mystery around the eyes." She stroked her long raven tresses. Her skin, the color of a pale peach, looked so soft, so sensual. Her body was richly made, consisting of dangerous curves, and hips that seemed to invite others to touch her.
Tonight, she wanted to put a little gamble into the mix. She had grown bored of her usual haunts–the Old Absinthe Bar, the bookstore, the spa. She wanted something brand new, something wild. She put away her lap top, put on some lipstick, and went to the red light district.
She wore a beautiful topaz blue shirt that clung to her full breasts and revealed ample cleavage. Her white pants hugged her tight, heart-shaped ass, and her pumps gave just the right amount of bounce to her shapely body as she walked down Chartres Street and headed west toward Bourbon's intriguing inlets. It was nearly dark and the sky was almost violet. She could smell the oysters at Felix's. She heard the voices of the night's revelers singing a drunken song. She could feel in the air an electrical force that emboldened her. Suddenly, she smelled a soft, musky perfume and she turned to see a voluptuous brunette standing in front of a strip joint. The woman was wearing a nude-colored lingerie ensemble and a pair of platforms with a strap that wound up around her ankles. What was arresting about the woman was her frankness. She just stood there staring at the writer in a way that made her feel almost naked. The woman's blue eyes seemed to undress the writer. They didn't say anything to one another, but the woman opened the door to the club and motioned for the writer to come inside. Following the woman, the writer fell under the spell of the music within the club, like the sirens' cries drawing Odysseus into their exotic embrace.
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Sitting down at a table, the writer looked around at the women dancing erotically for men who seemed to be in some kind of a haze. She ordered a vodka martini and watched the women with hungry eyes. This was like the bower of bliss in Spencer's "Fairie Queene." This was a place where all that mattered was pleasure. This was like an escape beyond all escapes, a place where names meant nothing. Only dollars and sex mattered there.
The first woman approached her and with heavy-lidded eyes asked the writer if she wanted a dance. The woman was like a living flesh-and-blood fantasy come to life. She wore a little white button-up blouse, a very short Catholic-school-girl's skirt, and white thigh-high stockings with black pumps. Her long blonde hair swept away from her face revealed exotic features–opiated brown eyes, long lashes, full pinkish lips. Her body was sublime. Tan all over, smelling faintly of amber, with full, ripe breasts. She said her name was Kimber.
Her smile was innocent, but her dance was not. As the music played, she looked into the writer's eyes and did not move her eye contact throughout the dance. She removed her clothes piece by piece, so slowly, but she wore very little, so the clothes were gone soon. She rocked slowly to the sound of the music. She pushed the writer's legs wide open and came in close to her, putting her breasts to the writer's lips–not touching, but so close she could feel the heat from her body. She turned and revealed her superb ass to her–full, voluptuous, soft. The writer could see the dancer's sex...open, ripe, pink. And, then, like a perfect teardrop, a strand of cum ran down the dancer's inner thigh. She turned again and rocked until the song ended. Kimber smiled, replaced her clothes, and kissed the writer on the cheek as the writer put the money in the little garter around her upper thigh and Kimber walked away.
The writer fell into a kind of sweet womb of pleasure. Dancers–blondes, brunettes, Spaniards, Italians, Asians–came to her all night and on the many nights after that when she went back. She found new meaning there. This place, formerly unknown to her, was a wonderful parallel world where all one's senses were gratified. It was a mythical feminine world where all her illusions became real.
The writer thought, "Oh my God, I'm lost." The women, their bodies swaying naked before her, gave her all that she needed—a place to hide—somewhere between their bosoms and their groins, their asses and their thighs. She would not soon be freed from the allure of these sirens.
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