MEMOIR

The Allure of a Lustrous Night

An evening spent at the nightclub

I felt the subtle graze of Hedone, the goddess of pleasure and delight.

In an unfamiliar land, my identity and history remained veiled, granting me the freedom to explore my innermost cravings and forbidden desires. Here, I could succumb to the allure of my darker fantasies, knowing that I would return to the spotlight of my known life once I journey back home.

I met up with my cousin who lives in the night.

Do you want to go to an underground club?

The compulsion to agree was undeniable. My inner desire echoed that sentiment. While I held no affinity for cigarettes or alcohol, the camaraderie they forged and the rich ambiance they conjured were irresistible elements that held a unique allure.

Yes, I’ve been dying to meet some women.

Though an unvisited club in a foreign land, years distant since stepping foot in the nation, faces in the crowd felt like old acquaintances. Bodies surged with desires, their neurochemicals on ecstatic rides, and my yearning to join this intoxicating journey united us as kin.

I smiled and bowed my head past every turning head to let them know I was their friend who sought what they were after.

We headed towards the dance floor, where women aimed to allure their companions. Their dances held a subdued fervour, but their eyes lacked the expected delight. Later, I came to know they were club staff, which cast a slight shadow on my expression.

Their eyes carried the weight of untold stories and sorrow, devoid of smiles. Yet, their swaying hips seemed to extend an invitation to my hand. Strangely, my thoughts didn’t race with their usual passionate imagination. Instead, my heart resonated with the profound sorrows they harboured within.

Let’s get a booth, I asked.

I found my place and in mere moments, I was encircled by women of diverse backgrounds. Some spoke my language, while others did not.

I settled into a booth alongside four other women, yet the anticipated sensation I had imagined was absent; there was no trace of lust. I reached for a glass, not to indulge in the liquid but to obscure my reflection, a barrier between their souls and mine, allowing me to engage in a carefree manner.

A pill was handed to me, and its nature seemed clear — a stimulant, I presumed. I washed it down with my vodka on the rocks.

Give this one to her and have some fun, I was told

I cast my gaze upon their souls, only to find an absence of joy or amazement within. They appeared as individuals attempting to flee from something. In contrast, my intention was simple: to relish the night and immerse myself in a form of happiness. Unlike them, I wasn’t seeking escape; I was seeking a genuine experience.

I swallowed the second pill as well, a decision I would later come to regret. I couldn’t bring myself to surreptitiously administer one to any of them; such actions were considered commonplace in their world.

I consumed a few drinks, and a mild tipsiness began to settle in. To my right, one of the women lit a cigarette and gently placed it between my lips, her touch grazing my thighs.

With my left hand, I tenderly explored the woman beside me. Her raven-black hair bore a resemblance to a past flame, and an air of maturity surrounded her. A wise smile graced her features.

Nonetheless, my attention was fixated on the woman adjacent to the one with the dark hair. She conversed in my mother tongue, a connection that drew me in.

While my thighs were being gently caressed, I summoned the courage to ask a daring question to the woman who seemed uninterested in my presence.

‘How are your parents?’

What the hell, Frank? What kind of question did you just ask?

I chastised myself within the confines of my own thoughts.

To my surprise, she responded with genuine interest, offering insights into her personal life. However, it wasn’t long before she sensed that I was different from the typical men she encountered. She gradually distanced herself, yet remained in the booth.

Another vodka on rocks

The effects were finally taking hold, a merging of the intentional pill and the unintended one. Their presence became undeniable.

Stubbing out my cigarette, I redirected my focus to the women flanking me, my head swaying in sync with the music’s rhythm. Despite my inability to engage in verbal conversation with the women by my sides, I allowed my hands to become the storytellers, communicating through touch.

With a tender caress from my right hand, I reached for her hip, my curiosity piqued about what lay beneath her attire. In response, she bestowed a smile upon me and drew nearer, closing the distance between us.

Shifting my attention to the left, I gently stroked her black, wavy hair, and she leaned her head onto my shoulder. In that simple moment, I found the solace I had been seeking.

I engaged in conversation with her, even as someone’s hand ventured to a part of my body that had been overlooked for quite some time. She reached out to gauge my level of enjoyment, a tactile check to assess my experience.

Women on the right asked, Are you not in the mood?

I was caught up in a whirlwind of pleasure, being caressed by women I had met just an hour ago. Their faces were but fleeting impressions, intentionally blurred in my perception. I desired nothing beyond this moment. My mind found tranquillity as the music enveloped us.

Contrarily, my body didn’t mirror the emotions swirling in my mind, which was exactly what I had intended. I craved to be amidst multiple women, their hands tracing my form, while my thoughts wandered in the realm of contemplation, disconnected from the physical world.

I remained silent, unable to respond to her question, as I knew she wouldn’t comprehend the complexity of my emotions.

I smiled and kissed her cheek.

The music played as I slipped into the abyss. They stayed and my body with them. My mind was elsewhere.