Glazed swollen lips synching alluringly or grotesquely through an Abba medley, My Way, Heaven (must be talking to an angel), Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend. The songs follow each other seamlessly, each one with its own costume change and choreography, each more dazzling than the last.
Perfect, untouchable bodies wrapped in shimmering clinging fabrics radiating feathers, glitter, gossamer. Narrow strips of fabric cover crotches lacking even Venus's mound. "Taped under ass" nods my guide assuredly. "I know him," she adds, pointing at one, "he has a big one".
I'm dazzled by the glamour, energy, femininity of it all. Helped by my 5th cocktail, the illusion engulfs me completely. I love it. I love them all, and they bask in our adoration.
At the end, they skip down the catwalk and form a line outside the bar, smiling radiantly, slim chests heaving inside padded basques. Our tips are the only payment they will receive tonight, and for every 20B note I offer, a smile, kiss, curtsey or hug is demurely offered in return.
One, after quickly quizzing my guide on our relationship basis, pulls me in for a 2nd, more meaningful hug. and her expression becomes more suggestive, predatory; male yet not masculine. How fascinating, these (lady)birds of paradise.
