sirkus

I think I've found my place here.

It's a dive. A sleazy little bar with a low ceiling, sticky tables and far too many people in it. It's called Sirkus, because the locals love all things American but don't care much about spelling.

It's a dive, and it's a meat market.

After a few weekends here, you begin to recognize faces. Regulars, here all the time. I've popped in a couple of times on weeknights, same faces then too, just not all at once.

If you ever decide to visit the place, I've got one piece of advice for you: don't worry about which is the men's room. The ladies will happily occupy the mens' for what will seem like hours and come out oddly more awake and better made up than when they went in... so turn about's fair play. But be a gentleman and don't pee all over the place. Bring a friend or two.

I've had good luck losing myself on what passes for a dance floor. Just moving with the crowd, in time, swaying, rubbing, sweating. Making eyes at the lovely little things all around, grinning slyly when I catch them watching me move. It's what bodies are for. Moving.

Seems this particular meat market is the place to be. I think the owner is Bjork's sister or something like that, musicians who play here often pass through this little dive while sampling the Icelandic nightlife. Maybe I'll get lucky and pick up Lily Allen here one night. But usually there aren't any celebrities here, just drunken Icelanders, horny exchange students and tourists.

It was a couple of weeks back. I was on the dance floor lost in music and beer and intoxicated by the lovely women all around me, when I noticed a pair of eyes on me. A stunning brunette who didn't look away when I looked back. I grinned, she grinned back. And we danced on, each in our place, exchanging glances and moving, dancing.

Eventually, the lights were switched on, the music switched off.

The girl who minds the door started stomping about, shouting something in Icelandic which obviously meant it was time to bugger off, get lost, go home. People stood around finishing their beers and gathering up their things.

I ignored the shouting Icelander and walked up to the brunette. She looked even better with the lights on. I said hello, introduced myself, asked her name. Nadine. American, tourist, alone. Chit, chat, small talk. I tried the straightforward approach; would she like to spend the night with me?

She'd be delighted.

I acted cool, but I could hardly contain my excitement, my desire. We chatted a bit more, our hands met. So civilized. But I ached to get her out of here and into my bed, any bed! I wanted to put my hands all over her pale body, touch her and taste her, fill her up and make her moan. I could see her eyes glancing at my chest and my arms, the lust in her eyes mirroring mine.

We were interrupted.

A big blonde guy with a bushy red beard hiding most of his face. "Hey baby, lose this guy. Look at him! Mediocre! I can treat you better than he could even dream of." I looked up at him incredulously, not letting go of Nadine's hand. "I don't think so," I said calmly. She moved closer to me, her breast brushing against my chest.

The guy walked off without saying another word, the Icelandic girl stomped past us again, still shouting that it was time to leave.

So we left.

The two of us ended up at her hotel, our clothes ended up on the floor.

Hours and hours later, when it was time for her to go on some sightseeing tour with friends, she still hadn't slept at all. She kissed me goodbye and told me that our bearded friend couldn't have been more wrong.

So I'm not mediocre. I wonder if she'll ever e-mail me.