She wears a black dress. My favorite. It's skin-tight and lined with lace. Her face is made up as they always are; powder, liner, and a smudge of color across the lips.
She doesn't even look at me as she passes - her jacket brushing my chest - and heads towards the cloak room.
There is a ladder in her stockings. I can see it as she walks away from me. It leads from the scuffed heel of her right shoe to the hem of her dress. She probably doesn't even know it's there.
I push off the wall and follow her into the club. The noise and the flashing lights are insulting, but I'll stick it out, as I always do.
I lean against the bar and watch her move through the crowd like oil through water. I could buy her a drink, ask her to dance, but I know that's not what she wants. Not a girl like that.
She's very young, probably a student let loose for the weekend. Her mother and father are probably at home on the sofa drinking tea and watching the news. And here she is, looking like this.
She makes me sick. She's dirty. A thousand showers couldn't wash the cliche stench of cigarettes and cheap perfume from her body.
Her long blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail in a masquerade of youth. It's laughable. An imbecile could see the sins of an adult festering behind those dull, baby-blue eyes.
Every second I look at her I grow ever more repulsed. She embodies everything that is wrong with the human condition. She is Satan in stilettos.
But I want her.
So I wait and I look, my eyes raking across her body, until she notices my gaze. She does the usual; lowers her lashes, offers me a transparent, coy smile and then shouts her excuses in the ears of her friends.
She sashays over, all painted nails and chewing-gum, and slurs something supposedly seductive. I grind out a smile.
It doesn't take long. I have all the mystique and charm of the slightly older man, and she is drunk. We're in the bathroom within thirty minutes. That's how easy it is.
She bends over so I can't see her face. It's the kind of position that renders the most intimate of human activities completely impersonal. I don't mind.
The noises she makes are disgusting, and I grasp her shoulders, even her neck, for leverage, or perhaps just the silence her moans.
Soon it's over, and she is unraveling her stockings over her creamy legs. They're in shreds, but she doesn't seem to mind. I watch.
Out flips a mirror, and she touches the corners of her lips uselessly, fluffs her hair like it'll make a difference.
Finally, she stands, placing a manicured hand on my chest. I resist the urge the shudder away as she leans forward, breathing spearmint into my face and rasping, "Thanks darling".
She places a revoltingly warm kiss on my lips and vacates the cubicle.
I turn, and empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet, to mingle with rest of my bodily fluids.