What can YOU say in six sentences?
Lust hung in the night air like cigarette smoke in a pool hall.
The young woman, fleshy assets barely hidden by geometric shapes, squatted in the doorway, spread her legs and tugged suggestively at the sequined triangle covering her ware. She’d locked eyes with a trio of men frozen in the middle of the street, neither she nor they aware that a couple of gangly 12-year-olds were struck mute during the auction.
Midway down that same block, a goateed man in a silk shirt rose from his stool and promised, “Ladies get in free,” while the stockinged legs of a mannequin on a swing shot through the opened upper half of a large window, almost in sync to the pulsating pole music inside.
Across Rue Bourbon and on the diagonal corner, Michelangelo’s David and his other brother David gyrated on countertops that seemed to float in a testosterone sea of dollar bills and taxidermy eyes.
Earlier that day, when many of these green-door establishments were closed and savvy dancers were sleeping (maybe alone, or maybe not), fat men with bad hair -- wearing “Repent or Perish” T-shirts -- wove around the empty beer kegs in search of sidewalk sinners.