Desire And Danger 18+

Nineteen

Through the cold streets of Berlin, I drive the vintage Porsche toward an upscale strip club I remember by heart. A few minutes pass until I hear upbeat German music that stirs the feeling as old as time. The big bouncer at the entrance gives me a tight, questioning gaze as I walk by. I fetch a few euro bills from my wallet and hand him over without a word.

Same old taboo. 

That's when he sees the ring on my pinky finger—the one he easily recognizes. I could swear to have enjoyed the little cowardly look manipulating his bold facade as our eyes meet this time, and frankly, once in a while, I do employ the privilege of being the underworld prince in one way or another, even though it's an ancient song now.  

The bouncer mutters his rushed assent in German, letting me walk in with no further judgment on his face. They are not amiable with Americans here unless you have a role to play in the ring. Although it's a legit club like any other, with a buzz of the seasonal influx of curious tourists, it has off-limits access for the sake of discretion on Pentagon affairs.

For over twenty years, this place has remained the same. It looks crappy from the outside; a worn-out building with a dead paint job. But from the inside, it's a sanctuary for high-class businessmen and crime Lords. It's an information den, too, with classy drinks, fine music, and killer whores of all types–the ones who are proud to be whores. 

But perhaps some things have changed. The classic vibe is now modern-retro: crystal chandelier, new wallpapers, and smooth lighting system resembling summer moonlight. I stop at the bar, a wooden shelf of expensive liquors facing me as I pull a stool for a quick chat with an old acquaintance I hardly thought I'd see again. 

"Looking good." I set my boots on the spindles. 

"What an honor to have you back," Johnny says in German, a spreading grin on his wrinkled face capped with graying black hair. I nod mutely. "Business or pleasure?" he adds.

"Pleasure." I keep it short, sitting down while keeping tabs on my surroundings. 

I need no attention.

"Hmm." Johnny is still grinning as he grabs a glass. "Same American hard rock stuff?" he asks me, this time in English.

"I could use a beer." Germany is the only place I'd order and enjoy a beer.

Exotic music outruns my thoughts as I gaze toward the garnished stage. Long legs in high-heeled glass shoes are curled around a pole and a slender brunette dressed in tiny black lingerie is busy doing a strip tease to a pack of customers ogling her cherry ass. 

"Does Blossom still perform?" Turning around, I ask Johnny.

"Of course." He smiles fondly. "And you're in luck, her show starts in a few minutes. She's a premium now, and she never gets old." He pours me a huge glass of cold beer while looking me in the eyes as he says this.

He knows we have history, me and her.

"Hmm, I see." I grab the handle and yank the glass closer to me.

Moments fly until I down my drink and head straight to where I intended to be. In a small lounge free of strippers and noise. Right from the entrance, a butter-smooth croon pulls me in like a siren song. I stalk in so slowly, staring at the spotlighted stage via the dimness surrounding it. I let the voice bewitch me just as it used to before, and she's the one singing so gracefully as though it was only yesterday. 

Mary Anne, also known as Blossom, is holding a mike, now humming smoothly. Her glorious body that's wrapped in a shimmering black dress moves delicately with cadence. I inhale sharply, eyes on her. With puffy curly blonde hair, a 90s touch, and bold lipstick on her plump lips, she is a semblance of Merlin Monroe. Indeed hasn't aged; a few lifting surgeries, I presume, but she looks natural.