Our room in the Pigalle Hotel feels distinctly Parisian: like the city, it is elegant and seductive. We walk into our room hand in hand, and are pleased by its clean and modern space.
"In Pigalle, the music does not soothe the beast."
The walls are hung with photos, posters and erotic drawings which speak to the history of the Pigalle area - of the bohemian studios where Toulouse-Lautrec painted the dancers of the Moulin Rouge, where Josephine Baker danced late into the night, clad in nothing but a skirt of bananas. We too want to move to music: we pour each other drinks and put 1920s jazz on the period vinyl player. The setting is perfect. I give my partner a mischievous look as I press him against the wooden edge of the gramophone. The music lifts us. He can feel the heat of my body against his. I take an ice cube from my glass and run it cold across his lips. We clasp each other and we kiss. I place a SKYN condom into the palm of his hand and lead him to the bed; he closes his eyes as his head sinks back into the softness of the pillows. The contrasting sensations delight us, and urge us on.
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