Don Juan in Hell.

Golden, wrinkled confetti lies restless on the barren, black floor. Your blood has been drugged. Either by alcohol. Maybe coke.

You found her. Or settled with her. You’re dazed. She’s dizzy. You made your choice. She made hers hours ago.

Your pockets are like a maze. Where the fuck is your credit card? She wants a light? Where the fuck did you leave it?

Her attention span is short. She’s still looking. For something better. You’re here. That’s ok. But not perfect. She has an idea of perfect. She’ll never find it. But hey, it never hurts to try.

Then you say the magic word: “Taxi?”

She’s still uncertain. But now, comfort just got in the picture. If she doesn’t like you, she can always stop by her doorstep. And say the negotiable “no.”

You’re hungry. You’ve just been at a meat-district. All the slender, sleek bodies in black gowns, the pearly skin, the fleshy cargo – your appetite has been awaken in the wilderness of the dance floor. And you grabbed one to satisfy your appetite. Here. Next to you. And you want to leave fast. Before you can forget. Before you can remember. Preferably with someone. The empty bed is scary. It reminds you of too much in the naked sincerity of the night. Maybe a broken heart. Maybe of that woman you try to run away from. Or maybe, city nights can get a tad too lonely sometimes.

You’re at the wardrobe. Now her purse is a maze. You wait for her to pick up the magic ticket… Her wardrobe number. You make idle conversation. The drinks you flushed down has fluttered your brain, all you do is mumble. But not something flattering.

You’ve been there before. Last night. Same scene. Same routine. You are cheap with the compliments. No hint of affection or silly puns of romance in your lines. She’ll see right through it.

It’s the night of masquerades and you’re a regular visitor.

You’re in the taxi. Her high black suede heels are digging a small hole in the ankle line of your leather shoes. Fuck. They were your favourite. Doesn’t matter now.

The road is long, tangled – the driver’s turns plays tricks on your stomach. Maybe a few miles but the small tension makes it feel like ages. She’s still calculating: yes or no?

The taxi stops, close to her place. Maybe by her doorstep, depending on the intersections. It’s pouring outside. You offer to escort her. The perfect gentleman. Or rather, a sex craved opportunist. Now, the stage is yours. You squander from sentence to sentence finding for words to unlock her “yes” or “ok.” You’re standing at the doorstep. Your eagerness is either charming or pathetic. But hey, you’re here and she could use the company. You’re not entirely repulsive.

The dawn lights up the clouds. The rain stops. You walk home. Satisfied. Texting your friends. Bragging like the aging lothario you are.

Next weekend. Same routine. It’s like a drug. A drug that’ll slowly but surely drain the redness from your blood. All the naked slender bodies that have left traces in your bed will never make it less empty.

More nights like this and you won’t be able to recognize love – even if she was to kiss you on the lips.