I walked down the street, feeling the weight of the cold settle deep into my bones. The December air was thick and biting, each breath like inhaling shards of ice, sending shivers crawling down my spine.
The chill clung to my skin, creeping through the seams of my coat, yet I rubbed my hands together, desperate for any semblance of warmth. The once-familiar sting of winter felt sharper now, more unrelenting, like a reminder that things had changed.
The streets were bustling with the usual holiday fervor, the crowds swarming with the sort of cheer that only December could bring. The sounds of laughter and carolers filled the air, but I felt a strange detachment as I stepped out from the church's warm embrace. The festive joy of others seemed to fade behind me, leaving only a muted hum of celebration, as if I were watching it all from a distance.
I couldn't help but think back to when walking through these streets was once a more frequent part of my life. Two years ago, I had been a pedestrian, making my way from place to place without the luxury of a car, forced to endure the biting cold with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Back then, it wasn't an inconvenience—it was just life. But now, with my car parked just a block away, I rarely found myself walking anymore. It was a convenience, yes, but it had also changed the way I moved through the world. The walk felt more like a chore now, an interruption to the steady rhythm of my routine. My steps felt heavier than they used to, burdened not only by the cold but by the simple fact that I no longer had to endure this kind of travel anymore.
I kept my hands buried deep in my pockets, the rough edges of the card pressing against my fingers, grounding me in the knowledge of where I was headed.
The edges of the card were temptation, calling out my name with the utmost seductive whispers. Each fold of the paper felt like a promise—one that tugged at something deep inside, something raw. It beckoned to me, urging me to step closer, to give in to the pull of what awaited on the other side. The whisper of its invitation was impossible to ignore, like a siren's call, soft yet insistent.
To the Cathouse.
Cathouse was more than just a brothel, a hidden sanctuary tucked away from prying eyes. The Cathouse was a secret world—a haven where women of every race and background came together. On the rarest of occasions, you'd find a beauty so otherworldly it seemed out of place, but the price would always be just right for those who knew where to look. I respected them all, in my own way, but that didn't mean I didn't know how to show my appreciation. Sometimes, when the night was right and I felt moved by something, I'd slip an extra tip into their hands, a silent recognition of what they offered.
I longed for women.
The scent of strawberries mixed with something more, something unspoken—an aromatic allure that clung to their skin, their hair. I craved that fragrance, that essence of femininity that seemed to fill the air with the promise of something sweet, something alive. Oh, how I longed for them.
They were an allure. An undeniable, forbidden allure. Each step closer felt like crossing a line I knew I shouldn't, but the pull was irresistible. It wasn't just the women—it was the danger, the secrecy. The thrill of something hidden, something forbidden, wrapped around me like smoke, suffocating yet intoxicating.
I stood at the doorstep, hesitating for a brief moment, before I looked up at the sign: The Cathouse. To the untrained eye, it could have been any rundown motel—its exterior unremarkable, the kind you might pass by without a second thought. But for those in the know, it was anything but ordinary. A strange duality existed within its walls—on the surface, it was a cheap facade, illuminated by neon green and pink lights that flickered like the pulse of a broken heart. It gave off the vibe of a shabby bar, with a sort of sleazy charm that felt more like a front for something darker.
But I knew better. The Cathouse was more than it appeared, hiding its true nature beneath the garish glow. It was a sanctuary for desires—expensive desires. Women, wrapped in the allure of their own power and beauty, offered themselves to those who could pay the price. And here I was, a regular customer, stepping into this world where nothing was ever simple, and everything was a transaction. My animalistic cravings led me here, time and time again. I couldn't deny it anymore—it was more than just lust; it was a need, a hunger for something untouchable.
Women are expensive. Desires are expensive. And here I was as the regular customer, surrendering to my insatiable hunger.
How had I come to know about this place, the dirtiest of secrets tucked in the heart of the city? It wasn't through whispers in the dark or shady dealings; no, this was more accidental.
A regular visitor to a random bar one evening, I had been nursing my drink when a strange, drunken man had staggered up to me. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey, and his eyes were hazy, barely focused. But he had leaned in close, slurring out the name and location of this place as if it were common knowledge, as though everyone should know it.
A secret, he said. A place where no one judged. I'd dismissed him at first, thinking him just another lost soul, but something in his words had stuck with me. And soon, curiosity had tugged at me, pulling me through the streets toward the glowing sign.
Now, here I was, standing outside the Cathouse on Christmas, the city's festive cheer a stark contrast to the darkness inside. While everyone else gathered with family, exchanging gifts and laughter, I sought solace in the emptiness of my own desires.
I hadn't come for love, nor even for affection. It was simpler than that. I came to indulge, to escape the weight of the season with something more carnal, something without strings or expectations. Christmas, for me, had become just another excuse to lose myself.
I walked inside the bar, the heavy door creaking slightly as it closed behind me. The interior hit me with its odd mix of charm and grime. The low, glowy pink lights cast everything in a soft, eerie hue, making the space feel both intimate and offbeat. It wasn't the kind of place you'd normally want to spend your time in, but here, it was almost comforting in its own strange way. It looked like a cheap motel—small, unassuming, with mismatched furniture and threadbare carpets that told their own story of wear. But for those in the know, it was more than just a run-down building. In fact, it was a cheap motel in every sense, but only if you hadn't done anything sinful.
If you came here with the right intentions, it could be a sanctuary—or perhaps a prison, depending on how you looked at it. For me, it was both. A place where desires were bought and sold, where the dim light masked everything beneath the surface. There was a quiet tension in the air, a sense of secrecy that clung to the walls like dust. But it was home in a way. The smell of cheap liquor, the soft hum of voices that blended into the background, all felt like part of the ritual.
The same receptionist, the one who had been working here for ages, sat behind the counter as I walked in. She had a way of looking at me—sharp, knowing—and today, she wore her signature red-rimmed cat-eyed spectacles, the ones that always made her seem both detached and intriguing. The kind of woman who could hide her true thoughts behind a frame of vintage style.
"Hoffman?" she started, her voice cool but with an edge of familiarity. "After a long time… in fact, after two whole months?"
I hesitated before responding, scratching the back of my head. "Yeah... Things've been gritty."
She raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Things?" She chuckled, leaning forward slightly. "What things?"
I exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of the words before I said them. "Something that keeps me high," I muttered, my gaze briefly drifting. "And maybe a little alive."
Her expression softened for a moment, as if she could sense the truth behind my words, but it was quickly masked by her usual professional smile. She didn't press further. Instead, she gave a quick nod and gestured toward the hallway, her eyes briefly scanning me, as if reading between the lines.