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The club reeked of incense that killed the smell of weed, fuck and liquor. It was a rundown building in the midst of Kingston, on the back road where respectable men took their Downtown Girlfriends and came for the occasional ghetto slam. Men would be seen filing in and out of the club twenty four hours like an ATM and the Go-Go’s came out in full swing to get some air in the daylight. It was a sight to behold, variety on top of variety of bodies from scrawny to mampy, every flavor of the week, different sizes and shapes for every male folk. This was not Fiction or Usain Bolts Tracks and Records, you did not need any status to be admitted to this makeshift sex shop. The cheap carpet had more holes in it than a test picture at a gun range, the sofas were scuffed with weed and cigarette burnt and the stools had seen more sexcapades than a porn director.
