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I’d go out with friends, see girls in booty shorts shooting pool with cues that as big as they were.I’d walk past a bar in the middle of the day, see the skeletal silhouettes sitting inside, slumped on stools, trails of smoke rising from cigarettes.“It’s way less creepy than I thought it’d be.” “Yeah,” he nodded, glancing around.
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They slouched in plastic chairs, picked at their nails, crossed and uncrossed their toothpick legs.
I’d see a Western male tourist by himself and think, “Hmmph, I know what you’re up to.” I’d finish my evening run and walk past a row of bars called Horny Bar and Heart Break — or walk past the infamous and unironically named nightclub Heart of Darkness — and I’d think they were the harems of Western-fueled iniquity. Without having ever gone inside one, I thought I knew what was up.
But I ended up inside them, without really meaning to.
Not the worst of them, the die-hard spots, but there was a gradation I discovered.
The nightlife existed on a spectrum and very few were the bars that had either girls for sale.
But like everything else that existed without a buffer, these sights became normal.
Normal enough, even, that I thought I knew what was going on.
Neon shadows slashed their skin, deepened the dark places, made their bones look sharper than they really were.
Men filtered through the open-air patio, Western guys in flip-flops and shorts.
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