The friends they're talking on the phone excitedly, one laughing like Santa, other telling his story embarrassedly, proudly, happily. The story of his visit to a strip joint near LA called Layla. Pretty name. He sounded quite like that euphoric kid who sees the motorcycle gang everyday, with their silver-visored helmets and colourful gear, and somehow knows in his heart how the force of air must feel at ninety mph, how the pulsations of a powerful machine must feel, and yet can not contain the euphoria of a first ride on the open road.
But the gentlest thing I overheard was how that stripper, like a cat in heat, bared her privates to his excited but confused gaze and realizing the utter simplicity of the situation guided his hand so very angelically into her.
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