The club was named, aptly, Mascara, after the black half leather masks the dancers wore as part of their undress. To reach the entrance, Kenzi and Lauren turned into a very slender alley, more of a seam really, that lived in the shadow of a turn-of-the-century building enlaced with stone, curlicue sculptures of muscular he-gods and she-gods and cherubs adorned by carefully draped ribbons that covered just enough of their figures to convey strength and modesty with droplets of temptation, much like the barely-clad girls inside the club. Lauren and Kenzi opted for table service, which afforded them an uninterrupted view of the main stage and two mini-platforms, one on the east and the other in the west. Music pumped overhead. Taut and rounded bodies slithered between tables and Lauren gorged her eyes on the swelling female figures, sensing her own arousal but wishing to take her time and enjoy the parade. This was a welcome show of the burlesque, a dark never-ending circus of the bump and grind, where one could sink into a wasteland of pleasure a few hundred duckets a pop. In front, a leggy thing in a leather bra and boy shorts contorted on a chrome pole, sliding and twisting and rising, exposing flesh and creativity in rhythm to the drumming music; and to the east and west, on the two side stages that sat closer to the floor, smooth bottomed courtesans curled and opened themselves, yearning, teasing.

Lauren sat back in their booth, arms spread out like wings on the backside of the banquette. A very leggy and ample-bottomed pony gyrated on her lap, her palms on Lauren’s shoulder for leverage. She was in the midst of waxing Lauren’s entire front side with her torso. Lauren moaned and smiled, an urging for the woman to continue her ministrations. “Just like that,” she ordered and peered into eyes most definitely blue. “There.”

Kenzi moaned, too, taking a big bite of the fried fritter she had in her hand. “This is possibly the most delicious thing I’ve put in my mouth. What are these?”

“Bacalao.” Lauren focused her hips on meeting the ass of the girl squirming on her lap. “Salted cod. A local delicacy.”

”Deep fried creamy goodness, come to mama.” She took another big bite, talking with her mouth full. “Can we order more?”