It existed adjacent to the lobby of the Tesla Hotel, a place that had once been known as a "flop house" and continued to struggle along as a relativel... cheap yet dependable place to stay. When the lobby expanded into a little place called the Club Tesla, local connections to America's jazz world proved kind, and Ella Fitztgerald and Sammy Davis Jr. had been known to stop by. Eventually it became a strip joint, and the place's reputation, like much of Downtown, suffered. There were violent. I was lying on a table, my hands spread over my head clasped by metal holding them tightly. My legs were spread as well, widely, with my feet raised in stirrups holding them up and away from my body. I could feel a sensation between my legs; a wetness, and something touching me. Looking down in my haze, I could see a figure shaving me. My legs, my crotch, even my ass. It was a surreal sensation, in my still d**gged state, feeling a hand testing the smoothness of my legs, even as my crotch was. More

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