Casually Compromised - Book 1

The Observation

Alone. I knew that drill.

The club lights shot in every direction yet it remained the familiar sight of purple and blue, likely some formula of enticement. At this point I had done my share of research on the effects a club has on the brain.

I'm a technology guy, behind everything is the science of it, and when you lack that, there's always rampant theory.

Everything plays a role, the music, the lights, the allure of a beautiful woman, your fantasy for the taking.

See it starts in your brain, the imagery is one thing, but compounded against the intoxication of your prevailing spirit, in my case bourbon, and then that thump of music and bam, one helluva combo.

All of this allows the brain to release that oh so sexy dopamine, a kind of lube for the mind allowing for a rapid exchange of reward and pleasure thoughts along that cerebral cortex.

Add a dash of oxytocin, the chemical that encourages and assists in social bonding, sexual reproduction and your brain is poised to make one of the best cocktails you'll ever experience and in this environment.

The club aka the strip club is designed for this. Its wonderland of fantasy, the whole experience here is especially constructed to make sure get hammered on it.

It was happening to him.

A lone patron in a booth, downing a beer. He was changing and he didn't know it. At the mercy of these neurotransmitters raging through his mind, he pondered his options while adjusting his thick black rimmed glasses.

He was having a good time.

Was I having a good time?

I enjoyed watching him. Observing from my ledge of auspiciousness awe. My little command post, in the far back. An old fashioned by my side, ice melting and that feeling of i'm just here to observe.

I'm not like everyone else.

I was gathering material for reflection of sorts- another product or startup to review. That seemed incomprehensible. But yeah I was here for the demo.

I look forward to your momentum. I thought to myself raising a glass.

Perhaps I'll even invest...my inner monologue jousted in..

No doubt the man in the black thick rimmed glasses had talked to a girl or two, these merchants of pleasure that walked the halls. These masters of oxytocin. They'd weave a story, or simply fill out the mad-lib crammed into your mind already.

Brush up your skills big boy, she's coming for you.

No doubt he had seen her.

She'd stand tall with perfect posture at the end of the booth allowing the fullest of her real estate to be absorbed in a glance. She would be confident and this man would be no match for her. His mad-lib would soon come pouring out of his mind and he'd make little sense not that it mattered.

She would be used to awkward chat.

She could do it blind folded sky diving at 20,000 feet while counting a pack of 100 one dollar bills.

This was cake.

A simple game of fill in the blanks, make some chatter, create connection and let the dopamine and oxytocin do their thing as you parted with the cash, trading your green for fantasy fulfillment.

What was his fantasy I wondered? The girl next door, a girl at work, something exotic, untouchable, barely legal, or was here by mistake?

Like me, how'd I get here?

Or was he out just to relax, chill, and enjoy the view.

I wanted to rationalize and reframe the club into something just like going to park. Ya know to walk your dog and oh hi there naked girl slamming a shot of tequila. Don't mind me as I throw a pack of one dollar bills at ya and can I see that backside one more time please, thx.

The man got up. He appeared confused as he roamed the edges of the back stage with a drunken sustainable swagger.

That's impressive.

His legs worked in unison yet clearly fought him as he walked. He was looking for something or someone, hard to tell. No doubt there were plenty of girls to look at.

At any one time there were some 15 girls roaming around. Two usually dancing on the main stage with one or more on second stage. A few in the VIP rooms at the front of the club, three or so mingling in the bar, then another four or so in the far far back dance rooms while the rest littered the main club area, staking gold claims feverish lonely men.

Perhaps one or so in the Chair of Misery, located on the second stage in the far back corner. It was always dark back there, the chair looked like it had seen better days.

I called it the Chair of Misery because I'd never seen anyone happy on it. They're always sad sitting there, looking lost, angry, unleashing a total distain for the environment around them and or the lack of acceptable customers.

At this point the chair itself had become a kind of horcrux out of Harry Potter or something. Yes, surely it carried a slice of some souls in this place. But you couldn't destroy the club without destroying that chair first and releasing the souls within. Weakening the structure of the place.

This kinda of lunacy relaxed me even more.

The man's glasses made him think- he's an architect, or a owner of a retail establishment, something distinct, credible. He had a good face about him. Like he'd bail ya out of jail, but only once or twice and then you'd be on the street.

A nobleman.

He leaned into a pack of girls near the second stage as if to say "where did I park my lovely?" they shrugged, the bouncer right next to them didn't flinch, no threat. The man blankly smiled spinning around and continuing his edge exploration of the back stage area.

I lived for these for a time.