Like a siren calling

So, I’m sitting my hotel room & the air conditioner is running full bore. I’m in a frigg’n meat locker. My mind wanders. Are there any strip clubs around here? Can I find flesh and attention? Can I find a hot touch and a fantasy?

I click on the web to find local clubs. I find four within 25 miles. The reviews aren’t all that promising, but often reality isn’t matched by words on the web. Some guys can’t find the diamonds ‘cause they’re spending too much time trying to avoid the shit. The night is dark and I remain huddled at the desk, my computer casting a pale hue throughout the room. I contemplate the list; I contemplate bugging out and jumping in the company car and finding companionship.

But I don’t. The siren’s call isn’t strong enough, isn’t loud enough, isn’t clear enough. I remain rooted to my seat, and my mind wanders. Hot red lights. Deep shadows. A sensitive hot touch. A swaying hip. A smile and a sparkle in the eyes. All imagination.