She may not be a real Marixi (bald, brawny, a bruiser), but Sofita got all the game, yo.
As the nightly show reached its climax, scores of men dawdled amidst the rowdy bruisers. Enlisted uniforms lacked pockets, but that didn’t stop larceny-minded men from feeling around for them. The risk of robbery by an slow-handed man kept the Bizaki huddled close, and Hizaki, with their backs to the wall.
“You’re the first bullhead I’ve seen, with hair.” said the supple star of the show now stood beside her, his dark skin glossy with sweat, his eyes on the prize like a sea lion on the hunt. He smiled to show off those gorgeous teeth. “Is that hair real?”
Sofita looked him up and down, “As real as the day I was born,”
“Friendly too?” sitting on the empty stool beside her, a jerk of his chin brought the thick ropes of hair over his shoulder. “You look like a bullhead, but then you don’t.”
Sofita said, “Don’t we all looked the same?”
“Not when you’re naked,”
“What’re you drinking?”
“Whatever you buy me.”
“What else can I buy?”
“Do I look like a whore?”
Sofita poured herself another glass of rum, “You flirt like one.”
“Just for that,” he touched her arm, “Make mine a double.”
The allure of the braids dangling between his pectorals afforded her the patience to sit silent while babbled on about himself. Listening to these short biographies was a prerequisite if one desired to climb on top of an helovx.