Scrimmaging through the jungle of bodies at the Hash Express during the late evenings when the club was packed full with people; gentleman daddies and their little, always exhausted, Samir.
The cold stinging odor of cigarette, the traveling smoke wafting through the air from the burning tobacco and cured paper was a bad mixture which made him queasy.
The faces at the club, some strange and some familiar, were all too eager to find themselves something for the night, sure left him bored.
He wondered how long he could keep up with the act, the human spirit never satisfied, always longing for something refreshing. It was like praying for rainfall in a desert, it might happen but there were no guarantees of change from the harsh reality.
“Excuse me” he said, shoving through the small spac
