Satan and the Thousands of Girls

The final tapas were canned olives but I drank Green Line and talked trash about frugal mutual friends.  It’s your upbringing, I screamed to the first girl, in fancy fishnets.   

Then I saw Satan.  He gave me a tour and made sweet shots appear at every bar.   

The second girl had immigration problems and the third was a boy in a leather hat who directed the video and was a cool 37. Satan gave me a fat bourbon and said he saw I was old when I walked in.   

Girl 4 was tiny and swarmed like a scented mosquito; her girlfriend was the video and the entertainment, teased hair and sleeveless union jack.   

I told girl 5, with silver knuckle rings and fingerless black leather gloves, who compensated with her camera, that she wasn’t supposed to be more glamorous than the singer; she tossed her wild mane of slippery ice locks but I could smell her skin.  Satan plied me with more drinks which clinked between my teeth and made my eyes begin to roll back.   

Girl 6 sang as if flooded with orgasms, her teeth bared and her gold tassels swung in an arc around her nestled breasts.  

I was 4! shouted Girl 7, when I inquired among her clouds of waves where she was 16 years ago.   

Girl 8 was a blonde snarl.  I just couldn’t keep track anymore, even though there was dancing and everything was very, very small.