Here I am, in the smoky half-light of this suburban sauna club, immersed in the usual random thoughts of a womanizer, sitting on this flat metal perch—so uncomfortable that calling it a stool would probably be an offense to the far more comfortable chairs I’ve sat my ass on over the years while waiting for the usual mediocre coffee.

I sip this espresso which, for some strange reason, tastes a lot like the terrible coffee my American friend used to serve me years ago at her place in Colorado. I’ve rarely met other women with the same passion for sex— with her, I did everything, absolutely everything— and deep down she was a good person, apart from the fact that she was a bit out of her mind, but maybe that’s exactly what made her interesting…

I look around and see men wrapped in long bathrobes and naked women—lots of young naked women. They’re all available, ready for use, fine cuts of meat on display, and just like at the butcher’s, all you have to do is pick the cut you like best: tenderloin, shank, round, brisket. Some go for tongue, a few connoisseurs sometimes prefer brain, and the most refined gourmets ask for the heart—but that one’s always already reserved by someone else. Maybe they should finally change butcher, at least they’d stop making the others wait in line for their turn.

I set my eyes on a blonde. She’s perched on ridiculously high heels, yet moves gracefully, like a gazelle hopping through a pride of lions. Her proud, haughty gaze seems to say, “You’re not on my level—you’ll never have me,” while that sinuous young body of a prostitute is whispering instead, “I’m here, I’m yours, take me now.” I go over and take her. It’s that simple. No need to speak, just a gesture, and she’s mine. She’s half my age—almost twenty years younger—but she’s here for me. With just a flick of my hand, she offers me her company, her time, her beauty, her sex—everything. Everything except her heart, but I don’t care. I’m not one of those refined gourmets always shopping at the wrong butcher’s.

The blonde gazelle takes me by the hand and, like a reinvented female Charon, ferries my tired limbs through that murky half-light… I think that two decades ago—or better yet, at her age—I might have met her in a very different situation, and a mere gesture wouldn’t have been enough to make her mine. I would have had to talk to her, venture into the forest of her thoughts to find a path, sail the ocean of her blue eyes searching for the right course, and I might even have been willing to patiently wait for her trust before venturing among the soft dunes of her breasts and into the moist inlets of her body. With a bit of luck, I could have even melted the ice in the frozen lands of her heart if need be.
And yet here I am, in this hell of lustful souls that seems like paradise on earth and offers sins to sinners in exchange for the vile money that can do everything. Standing before that door, I grow uneasy and wonder what the purpose is of this banquet of naked bodies offered to the god of money, which turns me into a predator of butcher’s meat and, at the same time, prey to my own prey…

“Oh fool, do not grieve: thus it is willed where what is willed can be done, and ask no more.”
(a famous line from Dante’s Inferno, Canto III — not by chance I was born in the house next door to his ^^)

Uh? …Could it be my conscience trying to show me the right path to follow in this delicate moment of confusion? Is it possible that all of this has a deeper meaning, that it’s a sudden illumination, an unexpected turning point?

“No, impossible. You like easy pussy too much for you to have doubts like that in a whorehouse. Besides, I’m your Royal Bird — you lost your conscience back that day at the FKK Colosseum in 2007, remember? Now snap out of it and follow that blonde chick beyond the door—besides, I’m pretty damn eager to get cozy in there. I wouldn’t even mind if it’s in the mouth, have you seen those nice, plump lips she’s got?”

Ah. Okay, now I remember. I came here to get laid.

“Hey blondie, how about a nice blowjob? I think I drank a bit too much tonight, you gotta wake me up.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of it, I’ll eat you all up. If you want to come in my mouth, go ahead—but that’s extra, you know.”

–“Yeah yeah, I know. But now take care of my little friend down here who wants to stay warm, meanwhile I’ll lie back and enjoy the moment…”

-“Oh come on, finally some fun, thanks Fava bria’a, better late than never. Anyway, I’m rooting for the blondie, just so you know.”
(“Fava bria’a” is a Tuscan expression meaning something like “drunken fool” with no exact equivalent in English—and even not in italian to be honest ^^.)

…I think I better avoid alcohol — I don’t handle it like I used to anymore… At least that’s what I keep telling myself.