She looked up and saw him, and then quickly lowered her eyes. Well-dressed man, nice haircut, expensive car, obviously a family man. He represented the essence of goodness. He represented what she could never hope to be. There existed a wide chasm between her, not just her, but what her “profession” had made of her, and what accepted morality said she was. One of her kind did not, could not, mingle with one of his kind.

Yet, she swayed her ample hips, encased in a red sheath and sauntered away, her body moving to a special rhythm, a rhythm all her own, the rhythm of the night.

And yes, oh yes! his eyes followed, followed and followed, while his heart beat fast, faster and faster still, like it would burst out of his body. His heartbeat became cultural drums beating wildly in his ears, beating a wild tune which vibrated from the masterpiece his eyes feasted on, intoxicating his senses and pushing him beyond the brink of reasoning, pushing him until he could take it no more.

“I say, I say, sister,” he called out tentatively. She paused in mid-step, half-turning, those ample hips turning along with her, as if they had a life of their own, a seductive smile playing across her lips. “Yes?” she purred.

“I . . . can we . . . I mean . . . I want,” he stammered, groping for words, out of touch with his reality, nervous sweat trailing a path from his neck, down the middle of his back and into his black linen pants, and he remembered his faithful wife, pressing those pants that morning, pressing them into creaseless perfection. It did not matter now, he was a long way from his sheltered life, his life as he knew it.

The goddess turned around, slowly, aware of her mighty prowess, her enchanting effect on the one who sought her out. Moving ever so slightly, those luscious side-pieces doing a hot exotic dance, she began a catwalk towards him, the dance of her “profession,” that ancient dance of provocation and seduction, she catwalked towards him, body language calling, “Come and get me . . . if you dare,” bold, brash, assertive, all the while holding his eyes and soul captive, now that she had succeeded.

He stood motionless, his heart and soul bewitched by the Venus who now approached. Perfect hour-glass figure, showcased in a tight and flimsy red number, hair cut low, in skin style, like a man, but miraculously amplifying her beauty, earrings dangling from her stretched ears, like chandeliers from a ball room ceiling, full African lips painted a bright Jezebelic red.

She pouted and blew him a kiss. She covered the distance between them, slowly, tantalizingly, heart-achingly, while his heart and body melted into a million drops of lust, fire running unbridled through his veins. He was completely oblivious to the world which existed outside of his all-consuming desire, his ears stopped to a small still voice, bidding him to flee.

“Yes, my sweet, yes we can,” she whispered, brushing her blood-red lips against his twitching ears, searing his tormented flesh, her hot breath unleashing a tsunami of emotions across his heart and hapless soul. She took him by the hand and led him like a docile child, led him, him a father and a husband, led him, him a leader of men, led him, him a church elder, loved and respected, led him nonetheless, like he led his little Jr. to bed at night, led him like an ox to the butcher and he followed, like a deer, willingly going to its death. She led him to her lair, up a dark flight of stairs, to a room, among a long row of rooms, led him in darkness and into darkness.

And there in the darkness, for he would have no dealing with the light, he fumbled with his clothes, desire, haste and nervousness rendering his hands useless. She put him at ease, murmuring sweet nothings to him, coaxing him along, and teaching him to take complete delight in her, the full embodiment of sensual pleasure.

There in the pitch darkness, she made his senses reel with her expertise, bidding, no, commanding him to cross waters formerly forbidden to him, indulging his taboos. There in the black darkness, she made his fantasies real, brought down his veneer of respectability, aroused and sated his most primeval desires, while he babbled and mumbled incoherently, his words coming out in soft sputtering gasps, like an infant at its mother’s breasts. There in the heat of that dark night, she reigned over him.

After two full hours, he reclined on the bed, still out of breath, in some kind of sleep-wake state, his bones having long turned to water, and he sighed contentedly. She peered at him from beneath her extended lashes and was satisfied with what she saw. Maybe this one would realize her true value. Maybe he would recognize her worth, her ability to satisfy him in a way that few women could. Maybe, just maybe, he would appreciate her, appreciate the ‘gift' she offered him, appreciate her inner and timeless beauty, the rhythm which flowed from deep within her and rocked his world. Maybe he would.

He didn’t! Like the countless, faceless others before him, he didn’t. In the aftermath of their coupled frenzy, in the lull of satiation that followed, his conscience hit. Like war in a time of peace. What, what was he doing here? He of all persons, how did he even get here?

He scrambled to get off the bed, anxious to put as much distance between him and the sordid act, aghast at his weakness. Then he remembered the small still voice which had come before, the voice which brought a warning and a command, the voice his ears had blocked out. Then he remembered the height from which he had fallen, then he remembered what he had done to her, this nameless girl. She had led him into darkness, her darkness, but he could have led her into light, the light which had once pierced the darkness of his soul. But he had not. Shame washed over him. He knew that another man's lust for her flesh had first led her into the darkness she now embraced.

She flicked on her Nokia cell phone and pointed it in his direction. She looked at him, but he turned stiffly, not willing that she should see his face, but see it she did. She saw the embarrassment and shame, the anger and distaste, and most of all the regret etched across his features. Her heart froze.

He hurriedly put on his clothes, pulling several wads of twenty dollars bills from his back pocket and threw them on the bed. He paid far more than he knew he had to pay. But then he had to assuage his conscience. They all did.

His gold wedding band fell from his slim fingers, clinked to the bare cement floor and rolled under the bed. He did not even notice or hear the sound, his mind already in another place. He shuffled out of the room, trying to find the door in the semi-darkness, not even saying goodbye. At the door he paused and looked back at her spectacular body in the phone-lit glow, wondering why he had come in the first place, while admiring the work of art before him. He berated himself for allowing his desire to overcome him, hating himself for it, while he looked at her, knowing deep down in his heart of hearts that he would be back, again and again, till his fever was “cured.” He would be back, like a zombie, the living dead, his soul having died.

And then he was gone. She lay on the sweat drenched sheets, the bed cover sticking to her expensive flesh. She lay in all her magnificent beauty. A bitter taste lingered in her mouth, her victory a slap in her face. Was that what she had become? Merchandise? A piece of flesh to be used and discarded, even despised while being used?

Her thoughts wandered back to another life, a life of dreams, a life of becoming a nurse, maybe a wife and mother, dreams of having a home of her own, with at least a video, a living room set, a standing fan, and in the best of times, maybe a car. Was that too much to ask? But then, that was another life. She lived a different life now. If it was possible, she felt much lower than when he had come. Well, if that was it, then so be it. It’s not like she was a beggar or a thief. She had a profession, she was a worker. Life had to go on, man.

With grim determination which marred her exquisite features, she rose regally from the bed, ignoring her wages which lay on the damp sheets, and she lit the candle on the small three-legged stool beside the bed. The soft light from the red perfumed candle basked the room in a golden glow, adding more beauty to her perfect form.

Taking a small pitcher of water from the table against the wall, which held her food and other small items, she poured some water on a towel and cleaned her body, removing the stain of her recent “conquest.” Then she got dressed, this time in a tiny black skirt, barely containing her well placed slabs of flesh, a tight red halter, which struggled in vain to enclose her enormous breasts. Those succulent breasts, like overgrown and over-ripe melons, poured out of the confinement, jiggling sensuously as she moved about in the room. Red was her color, her magic color, the color of the night. In red she made a statement, a powerful brazen statement. Slipping on a pair of high heeled black slippers, she stood in front of the mirror, applied a coat of red to her lips and dabbed perfume on the back of her ears and neck, and the insides of her elbows. She looked herself over, from front to back. She was ready.

Within minutes, she was back on her beat, walking her seductive number, hips moving jauntily in her signature dance. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how her nameless visitor would explain the missing wedding band to his faithful wife. She uttered a short harsh laugh, devoid of mirth, as she contemplated his pitiful excuses. Maybe she should sell the ring or better still, melt it and make a fashion ring for herself. She deserved it. No, she decided. She would keep it. When she got home, she would retrieve it from under the bed and keep it, for she was sure that he would be back. She had seen it in his face, seen it in his posture as he hesitated at the door. Tomorrow, next week, next year, it did not matter. She would be waiting. And then lets see what became of his faithful and dutiful wife. Only an act of God could keep him away.

She continued down the partially lit street, half-walking, half-dancing, her body undulating like a belly dancer's, a woman aware of her power, a hungry feline on the prowl, in a jungle where she reigned.

“Hey, Mamie,” a male voice called out, “what you up to?" She stopped, turned and threw her head back in a fit of satisfied laughter. O yes, she reigned.