every friday evening around seven o’clock a gaggle of high class prostitutes in crush velvet corsetry ride the elevator up to the most expansive hotel suite on london’s park lane.. the atmosphere becomes so electric, the sky outside lights up a plush shade of purple.
this power crew of glimmering goddesses are fronted by a blindingly beautiful butterfly, who is blacker than the night, and her name is nona. the elevator doors slide open, revealing all to a gang of older hairy men in fine suits lounging around smoking fat cohiba cigars… nona hurries the gaggle of girls out onto a terrain of plain pure wool carpet and gently urges them to disperse around the land.. their talent is apparent right away as they strategically place themselves under various chandeliers while nona adjusts a wall mounted dimmer switch. one old man in his eighties lets out an audible sigh of pleasure and then coughs chestily .. one of the girls immediately flurries over to nurse him with no fuss.. her sheer presence relaxes his respiratory airways back open again…when he brings up a load of hard green phlegm, she magically produces a clean cotton hanky from out of nowhere and deals with his embarrassment in the sweetest way.
nona retrieves a tiny portable hard drive from her italian clutch bag, then wirelessly connects it to invisible full range hi fi speakers around the warm room…the adagio of mahler’s fifth symphony fills the air at just the right volume. nona then whispers in the ear of her top girl molly malone to present herself on a sturdy lalique frosted glass tabletop at the centre of the scene. molly eases her way into a performance that looks like a hybrid of stretch exercise and ultra slow ballet…her clear white alabaster skin compliments the autumnal violins within the music… all the other girls peppered around the room sit at the feet of rich international oligarchs rubbing their noses along the quality fabric of well fed trousered thighs. mens eyes dash back and forth from angels down by their side, to molly malone who is now transcending.
the atmosphere is ramping up. purple rain by prince now licks the ears of everyone… rather than turn the volume up, nona turns the volume down slightly.. it’s an old trick. the lower you go…the higher the intensity… by now molly malone is in such a trancelike state, she almost levitates off the glass table… a soft boyish lesbian called harry gently unlocks molly’s corset and rips the rest of her garments away,rendering her naked vulnerable and delighted…a soft lonely tear of vaginal fluid runs down the inner thigh of molly.. it is both a tear of joy and sadness, and all the lovelier for it… all the men are moved to a new found level of sincerity..they feel for her.. even the eldest of the men have erections in their black gaberdine suits. the music stops and there is silence.. it is the high point of everyone’s evening. glistening fluid is running down the left leg of molly malone like a wild mountain spring. there is even a fine tear running down one of her rosy cheeks.
the men do nothing..they want no relief. they want no resolve. they want this moment to hang in the plasma of their brains forever. the girls vanish, and the thick plate glass of the floor to ceiling window protects the men’s silence from honking traffic down on park lane.
secure in the limousine, the talent fall asleep exhausted while nona checks her bank account on a smartphone.. money’s gone through as she instructed. the purple sky slowly fades back to it’s usual denim blue, and life goes on.
on london.. you magical city.. i’ve loved you ever since i saw mary poppins as a seven year old in a worn out red velvet cinema..way back on the blustery coast of ireland.