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Next door, a greyheaded man has lashed his partner to the X-shaped cross of St. Andrew.
She's pantyless and facing the wall, the taut skin on her face contrasting suspiciously with the flaccidity of her backside—if only they did Botox for buttocks.
As the old boy flails her with twirls and whirlybirds and other tricks of the whip, she gasps 'Oui! Oui!' and even 'Encore! Encore!' while the 'Walrus of Love' croons 'Let the Music Play.'
One voyeur starts grooving in unison—before stopping self-consciously.
Steve and Fanny have disappeared from the bar, and I wander upstairs to see if they're still here.
I turn the corner to have a look in the bedroom and—whoa!—see more of Sex Action Man than I ever wanted.
Steve is naked, kneeling with his butt to the doorway, while Fanny whips him between the legs… and gazes over his shoulder at me.
I shrink away.
TOO MUCH HEAVEN?
By now, the air in the club is the usual Metro stew of alcohol, sweat, smoke and garlic, plus a queasy soupcon of bodily secretions.
Over in the ob-gyn clinic, the bulbous woman with the trussed tits—she of the hot-waxed nipples—is lying on the examination table, her feet in the stirrups.
'Le Marquis Noir' guides a rotund blonde into the room and positions her between the patient's legs.
She begins administering cunnilingus, while the black woman's fat, ponytailed boyfriend kisses and fondles her and the usual crowd gathers round.
One of them starts humming along with the lush melody winding its way up the stairs.
(To answer that timeless question posed by the Bee Gees, I'm guessing the lickee's love is about six inches deep.)
Out in the hall, I've been cornered by a little guy with porthole glasses and a tubby sidekick wearing a toupee that wouldn't fool a blind man.
The elderly fellow in specs pauses to put on a tight leather glove, as if preparing for a rectal probe.
'What's that for?' I ask.
He blinks at me obviously and nods toward the blonde. 'For ze lay-dee.'
Ohhhhh.
Back in his shiny fetishwear, Sex Action Man materializes out of the funk, ready and more than willing to assist in Operation Ecstasy.
Steve's standing behind the kneeling woman with his arms at the ready, and at some mysterious signal—maybe it's a nod from the Marquis, maybe it's the beginning of 'Too Much Heaven (Nobody Gets Too Much Love Anymore)'—Steve sticks his fingers up the latex expanse of the fat woman's skirt.
She doesn't balk—then again, her tongue's otherwise engaged—so he enlists another guy to lift up her skirt with a plastic snap! and Steve's hand disappears up her bottom.
Despite the black woman's moans of ecstasy, after many minutes of lap licking, it becomes clear she can't muster up a crowd-pleasing climax.
Her boyfriend asks the blonde to stop.
'I'm doing my best,' she protests.
'Thank you, but I think she's had enough.'
And with that, the Terribly Nice Sadists disperse.
* * *
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