Chapter Five

For the sake of variety, I ventured back to Slay Queens for a few days, just to cool off a little and dust myself down. It was a pretty hard fall, but not one I hadn’t experienced before. Like Forrest Gump, I was always running.

Running to escape the hurt, erase the humiliation, and forget. The antidote was always the same too.

The first woman I ever ran away from was Stacy, who remains the love of my life. If she were to rock up at my door today, more than a decade after we parted, and asked me to run through a brick wall for her, I would do it. No question.

Every password on my computer is a variation of her name. Stacy is literally the key to my life, and no woman on the planet could replace her, not even Lisa.

I first met Stacy at the local watering hole in my hometown, where I had been out to watch a rugby game with William, my closest friend at the time.

William and I were at one end of the bar, watching the Springboks lose to some or other opponent, probably the All Blacks, but I don’t care enough to remember. In the greater scheme of things, the defeat was of little consequence anyway.

The Springboks were the defending World Cup champions and had just won the Lions series. As far as I was concerned, every match between then and the next World Cup was purely preparation, nothing worth fussing a tremendous amount about.

Most people in the bar area seemed to feel the same way, but Stacy wasn’t one of them. She could not for the life of her understand why Morne Steyn was not on the field, and as far as she was concerned, that was the only reason the national team lost this particular outing.

And, boy, did she make her feelings known, although I suspect a little liquid courage had helped her along.

“Oh great, another Blue Bulls fan,” said William.

I had a good chuckle.

The thing about Bulls fans is they think every Bulls player should be a Springbok, and they are pretty vocal about it, too. Suffice it to say, Steyn was the darling boy of Loftus, home of the Bulls.

While I appreciated William’s sense of humor, I did think there was something more to Stacy, but I had no idea just how unique she would turn out to be. Stacy was an older coloured woman. If this was a race, she already had the inside lane, even if she didn’t know it.

Just two days later, not knowing if Stacy would recognize me in her sober state, I made the bold decision of walking straight into her office unannounced, and before I knew it she became the most important person in my life.

We went to work together, spent lunch hours (sometimes two hours) together, went home, went out, and drank together. While we met at a bar, I wasn’t much of a drinker at the time, but under Stacy’s tutelage, I evolved into a fish, a drunken master. It felt like an accomplishment.

Oddly enough, amongst all of that, I only ever slept with Stacy twice in two years, and the second time doesn’t really count because neither of us had a clear memory of it. But it was one of those relationships where sex hardly mattered anyway, and my entanglement with Lisa reminded me a little of that.

When I reflect on it now, I am prepared to accept that perhaps it should have mattered and that maybe, just maybe, we would have had a chance. I read something to that effect in Cosmopolitan.

It did get to a point where I was searching for something more from the relationship, but Stacy was never on the same page. My massive insecurities exacerbated things, as I never thought I deserved Stacy from the outset. She was breath-taking, and I was Shrek.

Sensing that there was no future to be had, after two incredibly memorable years, I started searching for my distance. In a crude attempt to justify my running, I have always sought to blame Stacy for pushing me away, but in reality, I am the one who pushed her away.

I was bringing nothing to the table physically or materially, and because I couldn’t face up to my own failures and shortcomings, I decided to create some distance by moving 1000 km away.

I had moved to a new job, which was the perfect justification for migrating to Cape Town, but deep down inside, I felt like I just needed a fresh start, and Cape Town was it.

When I walked into The Cage for the first time, I was a wounded animal seeking refuge, not realizing how much I would come to rely on these houses of ill-repute for the next ten years of my not-so-precious life.

Strip clubs and brothels had become my drug. If it wasn’t The Cage, it was the Honey Pot. If it wasn’t the Honey Pot, it was Slay Queens.

And Slay Queens was merely the next stop on my depressing journey.

***

Slay Queens was better stocked than any other strip club I had visited, but there were tremendous drawbacks. The patrons weren’t just a rowdy bunch but also pretty comfortable with pickpocketing and outright mugging. The place was unsafe, but I never expected it to be safe.

The service from the bar staff was also lousy as if they were doing you some kind of favor by being there.

As bad as all that was, the women themselves were the major drawback, believe it or not. No effort, no wit, no charm, no professionalism. I get it; by being there, I was the pathetic one, but losers like me are also paying customers. The least the so-called Slay Queens could offer me in return was some value for my buck.

Splashing the cash usually solved all my problems, but not at Slay Queens. Most of the girls in these parts, probably because they were so stunning, felt like they didn’t even need to try.

One of the older Slay Queens (Maggie) caught me off guard at the bar though. While age was no longer on her side, she was still a seasoned pro, a rare breed in these quarters.

The younger men might not have been chasing after her like dogs in heat, but she could still snuff out a wounded puppy in need and knew exactly how to tend those wounds.

I honestly can’t even remember what Maggie and I spoke about. In fact, I don’t even think there was much of a conversation. She merely produced a masterclass in seduction, although it generally didn’t take much to seduce me.

Maggie was in her mid-to-late forties, a real industry veteran. The beauty about it was that she knew it. Without any warning whatsoever, Maggie swiftly crept into the stool next to mine, like the Scarlet Pimpernel.

I initially ignored her as my mind was still set on Lisa… discarding her from my memory was proving impossible. Slay Queens was merely meant to be a distraction, visual stimulation at most, and nothing more.

I was never really that interested in the shows - and this goes for all the strip clubs I would go on to frequent in my life. If I wanted to witness a stage performance, I would have gone to the local theater, where I was guaranteed much better quality.

Scantily clad girls swinging on poles and dancing around chairs in silly costumes didn’t really cut it for me.

It was partly why I was never really that interested in pornographic films, bondage, or role-playing, or any of that weird shit. It is either you were seductive or not, and no bunny outfit was ever going to change that for me.

At least Maggie seemed to understand that. I always give credit where it is due. Come to think of it Maggie wasn’t even scantily clad the day she snuck up on me.

She just got straight to the point, and I appreciated that. She was also coloured, with strong shades of Aunty Mavis about her, and that helped her cause a little. I might have ignored her otherwise.

“Can you smell that?” she asked.

“What?” I snapped back.

“Can’t you smell anything?”

Okay, I take it back; she was beating around the bush a little bit.

“I smell beer, some tobacco, possibly some marijuana, and a lot of stale perfume.”

“No, man, can’t you smell it? It smells like pussy.”

“I don’t doubt that at all. The place is full of it.”

She chuckled.

“Smell this. Here, smell my fingers. It smells like pussy, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing some soap and water can’t take care of. No need to panic about it.” 

“Do you like the smell of pussy?”

“Depends.”

“Perhaps you could smell mine. Tell me how it smells.”

“I think I already know.”

“And do you like the smell?”

“Manna from Heaven,” I said with a straight face.

“Then you should come upstairs with me.”

“Nah, I would rather just sit here and drown my sorrows, thank you.”

“What’s wrong? Women trouble?”

“Something like that.”

“She doesn’t deserve you.”

“Honestly, I don’t deserve her.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking about Lisa or Stacy.

And as I said it, Maggie’s hand slipped down towards my crotch. Was there some kind of stripper training manual for this?

Hers was a similar technique to Lisa, but a little fuller. A lot less ambiguity and certainly no attempt at discretion. Maggie knew what she wanted, and she was certain to get it, as my manhood stiffened immediately.

Man, I was weak… I still am.

“Ah, there we go. I knew what you needed.”

And in a flash, she wrapped her entire hand around my shaft…I was doomed, as all manner of resistance failed. She loosened my zip a fraction and slipped her delicate hands down my trousers, and just like that, the screen broadcasting the Premier League football just above the bar faded into this massive blur.

“Do you feel a little better?”

I just groaned a little, the pleasure outweighing the shame of it all. I let Maggie work, as disrupting her made no sense anymore. She rubbed, and she rubbed, and she stroked, and she rubbed. My goodness, such a simple yet critical skill.

She never stopped until I was completely satisfied.

And for her extensive efforts, all she asked for was R50. I was on the other side of town now, shopping at Hillbrow’s very own Bargain Wholesalers.

“Thank you,” I whispered after letting out a light groan. Now, this was a pure transaction. No emotion involved whatsoever.

Maggie walked away, chest out and satisfied with her work. As far as she was concerned, the mission had been accomplished. Little did she know that she had merely reeled in the fish for somebody else, a lass from Laos called Minjee. Not a woman of many words, I might add, but who needed words in an environment like this?

“Do you want to fuck?” she said.

“Hi, my name is Wolf. How do you do?”

I also did that racist thing of speaking slowly, as if it was going to make any kind of difference here.

“Do you want to fuck?” she repeated.

I could see there wasn’t going to be much progress. I just nodded my head and followed her lead. Who needs words at a time like this?

For all my strip club adventures, I hadn’t actually shagged anybody yet. I could tell that this was going to be a first, and a voice inside my head told me it would be worth it.

Minjee was honestly spectacular looking and properly fit in every place that mattered. Her calves, thighs, and breasts were immaculate. Some parents merely produce offspring, while others produce art, and Minjee was a work of art.

It was all-natural, too. I could tell she wasn’t one of those gym types based on her flat butt cheeks, the only drawback on her otherwise spectacular body.

Minjee had many redeeming features that more than made up for it, including the most stunning mound I had ever seen between a pair of legs. I cupped it at the first opportunity I got.

Neither of us bothered with the small talk as she swiftly removed her clothes, exposing the most beautifully shaped breasts I had ever seen. Not too big and not too small. They were about the size of a lawn bowl, fitting perfectly into both my hands. And they were so firm, too.

What witchcraft was this?

Minjee then pulled me closer to her bed, slowly but decisively, and the moment she sat down on the edge, I collapsed onto my knees. I wasn’t weak or anything. I just couldn’t wait to stick my tongue between her thighs. This vagina was unlike anything I had ever encountered before. Perfect in every way.

“Ohhh, ahhh. Yes,” she said.

At this point, Minjee whipped herself into quite the frenzy as if I had done something out of Hogwarts. Tongue work had become a signature of mine now, and Stacy deserved all the credit for it…out of sight but not entirely out of mind.

“You are very good,” added Minjee.

While it was likely she said this to everybody who paid for her company, I didn’t doubt my skills in this sphere, which made up for all my other physical shortcomings.

Once again, I wasn’t actually interested in penetration, and there was none in the end despite all the preamble, much to Minjee’s confusion.

“I thought you want to fuck?”

I didn’t answer, and thankfully she didn’t press me too hard on this.

I never saw Minjee again. In fact, I was pretty much done with Slay Queens after my encounter with her. Physical perfection isn’t always enough. It was time to return to women who knew how to handle broken toys. It was time to face my Honey Pot return.

Chapter Six

The Honey Pot had two distinct sections. 

There was the main stage, where the girls marketed themselves on weekends when you had all the big shows, and then you had a secondary stage, which was actually in a separate room that hosted men Monday to Thursday.

The secondary stage was much more intimate and had just two poles. There was nothing particularly compelling about it, and likewise, the shows there were half-arsed. It was a much more intimate environment, though, and one always got the sense there was a genuine shot at meaningful conversation.

Upon my return to the Honey Pot, Lisa was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. Her absence made it easier for me to try to connect with other women, and on that night, I bumped into a most agreeable alternative, a girl who called herself Miranda.

She was shorter, darker, and fitter than Lisa. And unlike Lisa, I would never know Miranda's real name. Miranda was beautiful, but she also had tremendous sex appeal. 

Everything from the curvature of her hips to the fullness of her thighs made me salivate. Her breasts were also full and propped up perfectly by her navy lingerie. The bump on her buttocks was also more pronounced than Lisa’s, which was very inviting.

Despite my best intentions, I didn’t waste any time conversing with Miranda, who left you in no doubt as to why she was there.

Where Lisa made the advances upon my first visit to the Honey Pot, I walked straight up to Miranda, and without feigning any interest in her wit or intellect, I asked her to secure a room.

The intensity was immediate, and to Miranda's credit, she embraced it wholeheartedly.

This dancing business advertised on the strip club menu had always been somewhat of a myth to me, but Miranda helped eliminate any lingering doubts.

The moment the music started, I sat down, grabbed both her butt cheeks, and dragged her triangle towards my face. Not a word was shared between us.

I didn’t attempt to remove any of her lingerie - I was always the kind of guy who preferred to keep it on anyway, as it left a lot more to the imagination and made a more positive contribution to the vibe.

I just pressed my face hard against her kickers, before lifting Miranda ever so slightly to kiss her lightly all around the front of her waist, above her waist, on her tummy, all the way up towards her chest, and then her breasts.

And with her bra still on, I pressed my tongue hard against her nipples, which were erect and played with them through the lingerie.

If Miranda was in any way apprehensive about what was going on, she surely wasn’t giving off any signs of that. I could feel her breathing heavily, her heart beating faster, as she let off the occasional moan. She had embraced this episode wholeheartedly as she quickly unbuttoned my top.

There was every indication we were going all the way here - and we did. By the time we were done, her hair was a complete mess, and she wasn’t in the least bit perturbed by it, even though there would be some serious explaining to do in front of her bosses.

“You were pretty intense,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“No, that is exactly how I like it. I haven’t enjoyed a session that much since I started here.”

“You’re the most stunning woman in this place. An African Queen.”

“I thought Lisa was your Queen?”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“Are you ready to go again?”

“Tonight?”

“Now. Tell all your other clients you are going to be there for a while.”

“Sure thing.”

For the remainder of my time in Johannesburg, I was Miranda’s keeper, leaving me almost penniless, but she felt worth every penny. I even managed to convince myself that I now had a girlfriend, which felt a whole lot better than being in love.

How surprised would you be to learn that Miranda and I have never contacted each other since I left Joburg? I wonder what she would say if she bumped into me sleeping on the pavement outside the Honey Pot on her way home one day.

The jeopardy is fascinating.

Chapter Seven

My return to Cape Town was inauspicious. I didn’t actually have a place to stay and lived out of a Long Street backpacker for a solid four months. During that time, I befriended a German girl called Doreen, with whom I created some pleasant memories before she was eventually deported.

In Doreen's absence, I then moved on to her friend Tatyana until she was also deported.

Sure, both of them were on "African safari", but I could never quite wrap my head around why Europeans seemed so intent on overstaying their visas in this country when so many South Africans seemed desperate to leave.

Doreen had once hinted at something about South Africa providing a much better quality of life than her home country, which I thought was for the birds. What on earth could possibly beat German efficiency?

Nevertheless, being in the Cape Town city bowl was the worst thing that could have happened to me, given how susceptible I was to its underbelly.

Doreen and Tatyana might have sheltered me for a brief period, but there was ultimately no distance between me and the myriad of adult establishments scattered throughout the city, and I endeavored to inspect them all; such was the state of my mind.

It did not matter to me that The Cage had shut down - I had moved on from Sky anyway - as there were just so many more sophisticated options available. All of them had hundreds of women who could easily have been Sky, too. The golden skin tone, the firm physical features, the accent, all of it.

There was Sky Lounge, there was The Harem, there was Phat Angels, there was the Embassy, there was Beaver Bar, and there was the White House.

All of them were compelling in their own way, but there was also a little dark hole, in a dark alley of Cape Town that captured my imagination more than anywhere else, called Majestique. The best part about it is that there was actually very little about the place that was majestic at all.

The signage never worked; there was a long climb up a dodgy staircase, the bathrooms were putrid, the bar was poorly stocked, and the speakers gave off the worst sound. Majestique was a glorified tavern, but it was good enough to become my second home for a sustained period.

The cover charge was just R30, and the girls were sporting. What more could a desperate man ask for?

What I loved most about Majestique was how loose the rules were, providing the ideal setting for timid fellows like myself. I could tell pretty early on that I would love it there and wasn’t in the least bit bothered by how ratchet the place was.

The first time I saw Megan, I decided she was mine and flung a few hundred at her while she was dancing on a rickety stage. Megan stood out because she was energetic. She always chose upbeat music, and her moves were athletic. 

With Megan there was none of that slow pole-hugging crap, and she was clearly there to party, which I always felt was the right message to send customers.

Megan picked up the hundred rand notes and stuck them in her knickers, pretty effortlessly too. 

I was impressed. I also flung out the notes, knowing pretty well that I was sitting among a group of misers. Anybody who enters a R30 strip club is probably a cheapskate, and I knew it wasn’t going to take a lot to get Megan’s attention.

While I expected this to pay off in the long term, when Megan recognized that I was a potential cash cow, I could not have anticipated just how quickly those hundreds would work their magic.

At every strip club I had been to, the girls tended to stick to the stage, and nobody was allowed to touch anybody. Thanks to Megan, I was about to find out that Majestique was different, sooner than I could possibly have bargained for too.

As soon as the second of four songs started, Megan hopped off the stage, walked the floor, and was on my seat in a flash. Her knees were on either side of my two thighs - in front of everybody. Straddling me, Megan dragged my face into her bare chest and made sure she got every inch of my face too.

She then lowered her lips to the side of my head and whispered something in my ear. Whatever it was, I never heard it, and for all I knew, she was just blowing into my ear.

Both thoughts had an equally compelling effect on me.

Megan then turned around and sat on top of my crotch, grinding her butt cheeks on me aggressively, as she placed both of my hands on her breasts. She then took one of my hands and forced it under her knickers, and together we rubbed her clean-shaven mound for what felt like a lifetime.

As if she hadn’t done enough to stimulate my senses, Megan then hopped off and gave me a little peck on the lips before returning to the rickety stage. Every other chap in the place cheered. I felt like a king.

Megan never took her eyes off me for the remainder of her routine. Now that is how you stroke a man's ego!

Once she was done, Megan went backstage to catch a quick shower and put on a fresh set of lingerie. I didn’t think I would see her again until the next routine, but she was back in a flash and chose to sit right on top of my hardened penis.

With the music a little softer now, she lowered her lips and whispered in my ear again.

“Don’t mind me, I am just marking my territory.” 

“You won’t hear a complaint from me.”

“I’m Megan, by the way.”

“Wolf.”

"I thought I saw a blue corn moon tonight." The Pocahontas reference flew completely over my head.

Megan then reached down behind her with one arm and fiddled with my penis before undoing my zip a little. She then maneuvered my penis just enough to slip under her knickers.

“How do you like my fish?”

I had never been asked such a bizarre question before, but felt compelled to play along.

“Feels soft, warm and tender.”

“And your rod feels very hard. I think it is time to reel me in. Shall I find us a room?”

She tugged at my penis again, popped it safely back into my trousers, and zipped me up discreetly. Standing up, she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the exit which led to the rooms.

Before we went down the corridor, I paid R300 to the cashier. I wasn’t sure how much of that Megan would get and decided to top her up in private, once behind closed doors.

When we entered the room, Megan grabbed and shoved me against the door before sticking her tongue down my throat. This was passionate, dogs-in-heat stuff, where Megan was rough and firmly in control, and I just surrendered.

In all my sexual experiences, I only had fellatio performed on me a handful of times, but Megan took me to a place I had never ventured before, right there and then, against the door. Now this is what Chris Rock was talking about...

The feeling was so intense and so satisfactory that I felt compelled to return the favor immediately. I devoured Megan like I was sitting at the last supper, and the sex that followed was the wildest I had ever experienced in my life.

We tried to finish the whole box of Contempo Condoms I had brought into Majestique with me that day, and with time, we would go through many more.

Suffice it to say, I visited Majestique almost every day for the remainder of the year, even after I had moved out of the city bowl and north of the Boerewors Curtain. I visited Megan before my work shift started, and straight after my work shift ended.

Twice a day, six days a week for a pretty sustained period.

Some people are addicted to drugs, others to alcohol. I was now addicted to Megan, and for a fleeting moment, I thought this entanglement could be taken beyond the walls of Majestique, which is a testament to how comfortable we had become with each other.

We spoke about everything, including her boyfriend, as if he were the third wheel in this whole arrangement. However, I was soon to learn that he was, in fact, the primary wheel, and I learned that lesson in the harshest possible way.

“Wolf, I’m pregnant,” Megan blurted out one day.

“How?”

“Through unprotected sex, silly.”

“I know that, but with who?” I asked, completely ignoring that she was actually spoken for.

“My boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

I was, but I really shouldn’t have been. Megan already had two young children, and there was never any realistic prospect of me embracing that. Megan was never going to be anything more than a playmate for me, and news of her latest pregnancy confirmed that. 

Chapter Eight 

After a couple of weeks, Megan started to show, and before long, she was no longer at work.

Megan and I never communicated much after she first broke the news of her pregnancy to me, but I am pretty certain it had nothing to do with any sort of ill feeling toward each other.

I might even argue there was no feeling at all, which, on the face of it, seemed like an extraordinary reality to be faced with, but perhaps reality was the operative word here.

Shortly after Megan’s departure, a new girl rocked into town, but I would only learn about her much later, once I had completed my two stages of grieving for Megan.

The first stage was acceptance - accepting I wasn't Megan's North Star or anything remotely like it. Megan's professionalism and diligence helped build up my ego to toxic levels even, but her pregnancy swiftly reminded me of my own insignificance. It is an astonishingly long way to fall.

The second stage was denial, which involved severing ties with Majestique, in what some might argue was pretty dramatic fashion, before exploring what else the City of Cape Town had to offer men of culture.

There were no goodbyes, and no promised returns, despite having built up healthy relations with all the staff at Majestique. I needed to convince myself that I was worth far more than what Majestique was offering.

Part of that meant frequenting more upmarket establishments.

***

The first new establishment I visited was Sky Lounge.

It was pretty astonishing that I hadn't visited Sky Lounge before, given that it was the best-marketed adult establishment in Cape Town. It was not unusual, for example, to see a Sky Lounge banner flown over Newlands Cricket Ground, where I was a regular visitor.

Sky Lounge was just down the road from Majestique, but the location was just about the only thing the two establishments had in common. The facility was honestly a tremendous upgrade, providing more secure access, a classier interior, better music, and more imaginative stage performances, although those still weren't really my cup of tea.

The Sky Lounge girls generally weren't really my cup of tea either, reminding me too much of the Moody Muse. Sky Lounge had an actual restaurant with wholesome meals on the menu, and the least they could do was feed the girls an occasional sandwich.

While I have made quite a meal of the subject, physical features have never actually been dealbreakers for me during my strip club adventures. The one thing I have never been able to tolerate is the cold shoulder or anything resembling it, and there was a lot of that at Sky Lounge.

The first Sky Lounge dancer to approach me never bothered to introduce herself, never offered a smile, and made no attempt to converse. I had a good mind to reject her advances immediately, but I have found you can't allow emotions to cloud your judgment on a fact-finding mission. And so, I ventured into the Sky Lounge cubicle with her for a more detailed report.

I'm afraid to report that the findings were grim.

The three or four songs allocated to a private session usually fly by before you can say table or lap dance. However, during my first Sky Lounge encounter, I couldn't wait for the last song to end.

The cubicle we were allocated was far too clinical. and we were locked in by a door with a timer on it. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched and monitored throughout the session.

Not a word was exchanged between the two of us the entire time, and I didn't even bother to thank her once we were done. She couldn't really dance, she never touched me, and the entire setup was exceptionally rigid.

I decided there and then that I wouldn't return to this venue, even though I stuck around for the remainder of the evening, primarily because it still beat being all alone at home. But the stage performances at Sky Lounge were also pretty good, and I didn't want the cover charge to feel like a complete waste.

And that's all I have to say about my first and last visit to Sky Lounge. 

***

The next adult establishment on the itinerary was The Harem, directly across the road from Majestique. I can’t quite figure out why I hadn’t visited this place first, but I suppose there was just greater name recognition with Sky Lounge. I had always thought about visiting Sky Lounge, even before my first encounter with The Cage.

The Harem was immediately a more attractive option than Sky Lounge, though. The environment was far more relaxed, and the pond a lot better stocked, while the plates had more meat on the bones, as it were.

The Harem women also seemed to understand their clients a lot better.

While it is true that when you strip this down to the nuts and bolts, all of us were just perverts, most of us were also broken in one form or the other. We needed our sense of self-worth replenished, even if it was just for a few hours. The Harem girls understood that in a way that Sky Lounge and Moody Muse lasses didn't.

There were coloured women at The Harem, but an Eastern European woman first captured my imagination. She was wearing one of those black mesh fishnet dresses that tended to be a perfect fit for all body shapes and sizes.

It is the super stretch of that dress that really grabs a man's attention, as it hugs every part of the female form that ought to be hugged, accentuating all of her curves.

So, while she might not have been my first choice at The Harem, my new Ukrainian friend had made a strong enough statement with the dress.

I will only ever know her as Ana Ivanova, which is how she introduced herself to me. Unbeknownst to her, I was somewhat of a sports fanatic who knew who Ana Ivanova actually was, but this wasn't the time for cross-examination.

“You look far more breath-taking than the Bulgarian figure-skater,” I quipped.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“So, are you a fan?”

“A fan?”

“Of figure-skating.”

“Only at the Olympics.”

“We should find a quieter spot. Would you like that?”

“Sure. If not, why not?”

And so, we took a quick stroll to the entrance, performed the necessary transaction, and found a booth for ourselves. At this point Ana laid out the rules for me, and I am delighted to report that none of it was lost in translation.

“No kissing and no touching here,” she said, pointing at her vagina. Where's the fun in that, I thought to myself.

“So, to be clear, I can touch and kiss everywhere else?”

“Yes.”

“I can live with that.”

While this was a little more restricted than my two favorite establishments, I was encouraged by the open engagement. It suggested to me that anything could still happen here.

Ana jumped on top of me in a flash, swiftly unbuttoning my shirt and rubbing her hands all over my torso. The passion might have been fake, but it was better than there being no passion at all.

She wrapped both my arms around her back, encouraging me to engage fully in whatever this was. Ana also grabbed the back of my head and pressed my face into her chest, covering every inch as she rubbed her breasts against my face. 

This was more than I had bargained for, and then some, as we rolled around that entire booth. It was astonishing to me that nothing had been broken in the process.

“We need some condoms,” Ana whispered in my ear.

I pretended I never heard, as she reached into some secret compartment. These strip clubs have all angles covered, I thought to myself.

Ana then started to unzip my pants, and perplexed in the extreme I had to question what this was about.

“What happened to no touching here?

“I changed my mind.”

Trying not to overthink this anymore, I pulled the fishnet dress over her head, leaving just her lace panties that wore just like a G-string. I grabbed them with my teeth and pulled them down hurriedly, perhaps a little too hurriedly, for my own good.

"Kiss me," she said. She couldn't call my name out because she didn't actually know what it was, but 'kiss me' was sufficient for me.

I slipped my lips against hers before opening her mouth with my tongue. I could not believe this was happening, but I definitely flicked a switch in her, I just didn't know where and when.

Ana moaned and pulled her body tight against mine, skin against skin.

I sucked on her lower lip while running my fingers through her long blonde hair. I then placed my free hand on her breast, thumb rubbing on her nipple gently.

Ana moaned again...she seemed to approve. She was absolutely dripping, and I was hard as nails.

Sensing the enormity of the occasion, I decided to press myself against her opening and then hesitated while searching deep into her blue eyes.

"Yes," she whispered.

I kissed her ear as I entered her slowly.

I was nervous as a cat, but Ana helped calm me down by plastering her lips on mine and kissing me in a way I had never been kissed before. Was this a Soviet technique, I wondered, recalling tales of the famed Red Sparrows.

As I settled between Ana's legs, she moved her hips against me, offering a little more encouragement, as if I actually needed it. Cradling me with her thighs, Ana teleported me to a whole new universe as I slid deeper and deeper into her.

"Are you alright?' she asked me, sensing I hadn't been to many rodeos before.

Without waiting for a response, Ana arched her body and stretched beneath me. Her movements sent me deeper than I had ever imagined I could go, extracting every ounce of pleasure she could.

Another stripper prepared to break all the rules for me. Was it an extraordinary charm or just pity? Probably just pity…but I could live with that.

***

As magnificent and passionate as Ana, the Ukrainian Honey was, I would never solicit her services again. Ana just happened to be in my eyeline on the first visit, but there were more compelling options better suited to my tastes at The Harem.

The first of those options was Dilma, from Brazil.

Who needs to travel the world when you could just pop into The Harem? I was most taken by the level of professionalism and enthusiasm of the girls, too.

While Ana had a distinct Eastern European accent, she had a strong command of the English language. With Dilma, communication was more of a struggle. Despite this, we spent the entire first song of her routine seated next to each other in the booth, just talking.

She spoke to me about her hometown in Brazil and her family, and even started to sing a Brazilian folk song towards the back end of our conversation. I got the impression she was a little homesick, and to that end, I just let her dance.

No groping, no holding, and no rubbing of any kind. This prompted the most guilt of all the transactions I had now completed in places like these. For the first time, I started to wonder about human trafficking.

Was Dilma here against her will?

Sometime much later, long after I had stopped visiting the place, I learned that The Harem had actually been shut down. Curious about this, I investigated the matter online, where I learned that there had indeed been allegations of human trafficking and that two Ukrainian women were being held there against their will.

I don't know who the other Ukrainian woman was, but I certainly couldn't stop thinking about Ana; although I had never detected any discomfort from her that night, for all I know, she could have been drugged.

Strangely, there was no mention of Brazilians being trafficked, but after reading that article, I thought most about Dilma. What had I allowed myself to become a part of?

I was just as guilty as those doing the trafficking. Ignorance is not a defense.

***

Upon my third visit to The Harem, I bumped into a coloured woman called Madison, who I felt was right up my alley...or is that avenue?

From the outset, she had tremendous clarity on what she wanted from this transaction, too, as I had determined was the coloured way. It is the one thing I have always loved about the coloured women in my life.

There was never any ambiguity with them. I always felt I knew exactly where I stood, which is fantastic for insecure men like myself.

Madison was also the first woman to feed me the spiel about stripping (and everything else that came with it) so she could put herself through school. I played along. I had no reason to argue about this sort of thing. The fact we were having a conversation was all that actually mattered to me, and the substance of it seemed irrelevant.

She told me she was studying to become a nurse, which actually did all sorts of things for the imagination. It must be the whole uniform thing. The story immediately enhanced the entire experience, and it didn’t matter whether it was true.

I should point out that Madison was dressed nothing like a nurse. Instead, she wore a red three-piece lace set that included a lace bralette, matching mini skirt, and G-string.

While I detected some activity in my loins, which is why I was here in the first place, I was also quite content with conversation. Madison seemed to be singing from the same hymn book, too.

“So, where are you from?” asked Madison.

To anybody else, that might have seemed like a standard question, but I knew where this was going. I had been through it many times before, but I decided to play along anyway, even though I knew the follow-up question.

“KZN.”

“Oh…”

Here it comes…

“I thought you were from overseas...” and there it is.

I am an unremarkable human being in almost every respect, but I do have an underrated X-Men superpower - my accent. In my mind it is nothing more than the standard Durban accent, mostly associated with white South Africans from that part of the world.

Most of my childhood influences were white, and so the language and accent have filtered into me via osmosis. Contrary to popular belief, I have not gone out of my way to distance myself from my Zulu heritage. I just wasn’t raised in an environment that allowed me to explore and embrace my heritage.

Accents are also often used as a marker of intelligence, even in twenty-first-century South Africa.

Everybody I encounter seems to labor under the misapprehension that there is considerable substance beneath the surface when, in truth, I am nothing more than an empty shell.

“What made you think that?” I asked, knowing exactly what made her think that.

“You mos speak high English.”

“Dude, this is just a standard Durban accent.”

“No, you sound British or American.”

How does anyone even draw a conclusion like that? The British and Americans sound nothing like each other. Yet, strangely enough, Madison was not the first to think they did.

“Which is it, British or American?”

“I don’t know…” she burst out laughing.

I got the sense that some house rules were about to be broken again tonight, despite our pure motives.

“But you sound super smart. Where do you stay now?” she continued.

“Durbanville...”

“Oh wow. North of the Boerewors Curtain?”

“Dis korek ja!” Another outburst of laughter.

“You are catching onto the local lingo.”

“When in Rome, dear girl…”

“So, have you tasted any Afrikaans cookie yet?” It was such a crude question, but to be expected in an environment like this.

“Actually, I have, just not of the Cape Winelands variety.”

“Do they have Afrikaans cookie in the Kingdom of the Zulu?”

“They actually do, I just haven’t been exposed to it. My soul hadn’t been corrupted yet.”

“Well, it can’t be Bloemfontein cookie, President Steyn wouldn’t approve. It must be a Transvaal cookie.”

“Randburg, to be precise.”

“Honey Pot?”

“Dis Korek ja.”

“And, how was it?”

“Like a lion mating with a zebra...”

Madison burst out laughing.

“Not a complete waste. Oom Paul probably turned over in his grave. That should count for something.”

“I am pretty sure the entire zebra species disowned her.”

"I never knew zebras spoke Afrikaans..." she quipped.

"Or indeed that lions spoke Zulu...you should hear me roar," I added.

"Meow..."

A smile broke out on my face. I liked this girl.

"You provide an important service to the community, you know,” I said, casually changing the subject.

“Hilarious.”

“Seriously, I am prepared to wager that 90 percent of the men who walk through those doors are completely broken. They genuinely need professionals like you.”

“Are you broken?”

“Beyond repair.”

“Who broke you?”

“More what, as opposed to who.”

“Hoe dan nou?”

“A faulty production line.”

“So, your parents are the reason you are here?”

“More the environment I was born into, but I am ultimately a product of their story. Both of them were pretty flawed human beings, and I see a lot of that passed down to me. Depressing, really.”

“Flawed, how?”

“An extremely low sense of self-worth on both sides of the aisle, actually. Distressingly poor social skills, that sort of thing.”

“I actually think your social skills are pretty strong. I can tell just by speaking to you.”

“With all due respect, you are paid to say things like that. Thanks for the kind words, though.”

“Well, actually, you haven’t paid me a cent. In fact, you might even end up losing me money tonight. We get fined for spending this much time with guests. I am here because I want to talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

“You are still going to book me for a booth, though, right?”

“Sure, we can continue the conversation there.”

“If you say so…”

The moment we entered the booth, Madison grabbed my right hand and pressed it against her triangle. Turns out she was extraordinarily efficient...

She then tugged at two of my fingers, which she used to help slip under her red knickers, before inserting both fingers into her vagina.

“Come on, don’t be shy.”

I followed the commands and then some.

“That’s good. Now, don’t stop. Just let it play,” she added.

The rest of the evening played out, and it must be said it was one of the more memorable evenings. So memorable, in fact, that we were in the booth well beyond the four songs. I had never had one of the strip club managers walk into one of my sessions. And frankly, Madison and I were nowhere near done either.

“Well, there’s the fine,” she said.

“I am so sorry,” I added, sounding as profusely apologetic as I could.

“I am not. I really enjoyed this. Never sell yourself short again; you did good.”

I slipped some banknotes into her knickers as she started dressing again, primarily to help erase the guilt and express my gratitude for what turned out to be a pleasant, magical evening.

Upon reflection, and although I hate to admit this, that is what all of this was about. It has always been about me seeking some form of validation from an attractive woman, even if it meant paying for it.

Madison made me feel good about myself. Money well spent.

As it turns out, I never saw Madison again. That is another trait that seemed to have followed me around on this strange sexual journey; I tend to move on very quickly. Yet I couldn’t quite explain why.

Was I searching for more?

Was I searching for less?

Was I just trying to make up for lost time?

Was I just ashamed that I had ventured down this dark path?

Whatever the answer, I was now done with The Harem but not quite ready to make my Majestique return, although that wasn’t too far off.

***

My next series of stops were outright brothels scattered all over Cape Town’s CBD. There was no dancing or teasing here. The moment you walked in, everybody was clear on why you were there.

The list of venues included Beaver Bar, The Embassy, Phat Angels, and the White House.  All four of these venues were actually pretty easy to find, but if you weren’t too careful, you could just as easily have missed the White House and Beaver Bar.

The White House was just a normal house next to a regular filling station. It had a nice picket fence and well-manicured garden. The only sign of any nefarious activity here was the regular stream of men walking in and out of the building.

There was also an element of convenience about the White House, which was located next door to a filling station. This had less to do with fuel or sustenance and more to do with easy access to additional condoms, should additional condoms ever be required.

Being a fresh part of my sexual journey, the jury was always out on how this would play out, but the filling station was there in the event of an emergency.

Despite the simplicity of the actual building, I soon learned that the place was better protected than the actual White House. I got the immediate impression important treasures were hidden within these walls. Before I entered the White House, the place had my curiosity, but now it had my attention.

The first room I entered was essentially the main lounge, which had no poles, lights, or bar. There was just an endless row of scantily clad women seated on leather couches that lined up all the walls, and every so often, you spotted a man seated among them. The environment was honestly pretty grim despite being in the presence of so many apparently loose women.

The seat I found next to the doorway gave me a full view of all the women there, but not one of them so much as looked in my direction, let alone struck up a conversation. The uninviting atmosphere was a sobering reminder of why I ventured down this path in the first instance; I needed validation, to feel wanted and loved, and I wasn't getting any of that here.

If all I wanted was some form of sexual satisfaction, a hand in the shower would surely have sufficed. I didn’t need to be out on the town for that. I craved female company, and the White House seemed completely oblivious to that.

But having paid the cover charge, I felt compelled to see this through. I was also pretty curious about all the black women inside the White House, which was a pretty unusual phenomenon at establishments like these in the Cape. I don't remember spotting any at Majestique, The Harem, or even  Sky Lounge.

In fact, outside of Slay Queens, I had not bumped into any house of ill repute that stocked so many black women. Yes, there was Miranda and Lisa at the Honey Pot, but they were exceptions that made the rule. They were also North of the Orange River.

And even at Slay Queens, which was absolutely choked with black women, I never actually transacted with one. Minjee was from Laos, Beatrice was Brazilian, and Maggie was coloured.

The White House had taken me into uncharted territory, and I was honestly having tremendous difficulty with it all.

Was I just petrified by black women, or did I petrify them? Probably the former. Or maybe there was no need to complicate this at all. Maybe I just liked my coffee with milk. Simple as!

This train of thought was reinforced when I finally decided to approach one of the women at the ironically named White House and endured the most unprofessional experience I had ever encountered.

There was no attempt at conversation and no interest in the client whatsoever. I don’t even remember what her name was, and have no desire to remember either.

She even had the gall to tell me that I was boring, as if she had paid me for my time.

Also, when you go down on a woman, you almost expect to encounter something a little dodgy but nothing that cannot be managed. But the last thing you should expect to encounter when you pay to go down on a woman is the distinct taste of fecal matter, which could reasonably be labeled a crime against humanity.

Suffice it to say that was my last visit to the White House.

***

Next on the itinerary was Beaver Bar, which was a fascinating venue because of the winding staircase that took you upstairs. There was just an air of mystery and elegance about the place, which made it so inviting. But as it turns out, that was where the excitement would end.

The women at Beaver Bar were unresponsive to any potential clients walking through their doors - I actually got more love from the bouncers here - and I suspect the average age in the venue had something to do with that. These were not young women.

Despite all the lovely furnishings and the overall class of the venue, this place was dead. I could tell this brothel adventure was not going to last very long, as these places were no more compelling than mortuaries. In fact, I fear mortuaries might have had a lot more to offer in the way of sexual adventure.

I did select a Beaver girl in the end, a black woman, as it turns out, as I just felt like there was some unfinished business there. I was determined to find one worthy of the profession in the so-called Cape of Good Hope.

Despite the apparent absence of imagination, Beaver Bar was unique in some ways. Before you completed the transaction, you were actually furnished with a doctor’s note confirming that the Beaver in question had passed a recent Aids examination, which I thought was pretty refreshing.

There is obviously no way of knowing just how legitimate those documents were, but I was ready to play along anyway. In any event, condoms are something I never compromised on, and so I never genuinely felt at risk under these circumstances.

I know we now live in a society that has done its utmost to remove the stigma attached to the disease, but as far as I am concerned, it remains the least dignified way to go out, which is why I always brought my own condoms to these trysts, and they were never cheap.

Nevertheless, my new Beaver invited me to a nice open room with a massive bed and apparently flawless linen. This all felt like an upgrade, but I was still getting nothing in return from the girl. No wit, no charm, no seduction.

The experience was a dud.

We did what was required because I hate to feel swindled, but I walked out the Beaver Bar doors for the last time that night.

***

Next, I popped into The Embassy, just down the road, but walked out within minutes after deciding I was not up for this unresponsive fuckery anymore. While there is no doubt I felt some form of rejection, it became increasingly apparent that I was also governed by a sense of self-entitlement, without giving any regard to the nature of the work these girls do.

Despite being wholly dissatisfied with my brothel experiences thus far, I thought it prudent to see the project through by pressing on to Phat Angels. The last throw of the dice, as it were.

As I sat down at the Phat Angels bar, I did get some attention from a completely unexpected source; a middle-aged white man with interesting ideas.

Initially, I thought nothing of it, although it was unusual for men venturing into these establishments to interact in any way.

We did the usual guy stuff, like talking about golf, rugby, and cricket. The typical macho stuff, but I couldn't help but feel like my prospects of securing a decent lay were being scuppered by whatever this was. Anxious to move on, I decided to excuse myself and find a seat in one of the Phat Angels corners. Much to my horror, the dude followed me.

What witchcraft was this?

Noting my frustration, the chap finally decided to come out with it.

“So, I was thinking of getting two girls and sharing a room. How do you feel about that?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I will take a rain check.”

“Not a fan of stuff like that?”

“It has never crossed my mind... not really why I am here.”

“Why are you here?”

“To pretend I am loved and then move on once the fantasy is over. I am not trying to spice up my sex life.”

“Wow, that is pretty bleak, but I understand.”

As Tom walked away, I caught Angelique in my eyeline as she offered a generous smile. That is how you do it, I thought to myself. The game was afoot.

Angelique got down from her barstool, without me actually inviting her, and swiftly glided across the floor towards my corner.

I don’t feel like I need to say this, but she was obviously coloured, and that's not all. She was breathtakingly gorgeous, with curves in all the right places. She was also a lot fuller than most girls in these places, which was refreshing. I have always been a massive fan of the Plus Sized model, and this encounter felt like it had been written in the stars.

“You will never find a woman hiding in a corner like that,” she said. A mellifluous voice too, I thought to myself.

“And yet, here you are.”

“I am the one who found you.”

“Touché”

“What did Tom want this time?”

“You know him?”

“He’s a big spender. Girls always spot the big spenders. Dude loves the theatrics too. It is always an adventure with him.”

“Foursomes…”

“That is actually one of Tom’s more modest requests. The man loves a good orgy, and I have actually featured in a few. They usually have a lot of everything, too. Sex, drugs, and even some rock and roll.”

“When you say orgies…”

“Anything between ten and twenty girls. Raucous affairs.”

"I am guessing you have come to kidnap me?”

“More like a hijack. A couple of the girls had already been eyeing you out, so I decided to hug the inside lane.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. You just look like an easy target. A lamb to the slaughter.”

“You forget I’m the one with the sword.”

Angelique had a good chuckle.

“Excalibur, I hope.”

“Held down by two boulders.”

“Will I get a chance to pull it out…or is that in? These metaphors aren’t really working anymore.”

“Sure. I will even pay you to do it.”

Angelique smiled broadly. The rest of the evening worked itself out pretty well over several rounds, showers, and baths. The woman was honestly irresistible. I spent a few months coming back for more, three, sometimes four times a week.

Outside of Phat Angels, I was surviving on water and bread alone, pretty biblical, really.

I needed to strive for something normal again, and in the absence of Stacy Jantjies, the closest thing to normal was the workplace infatuation I had with Genevieve Harris. As it turns out, there was nothing healthy about that either.