Noir, Anyone?

...I have to turn my head until my darkness goes....

It was a hot night. It was a dirty night. It was a hot and dirty night in the hot and dirty city. Smog like the greasy fog from a rented machine crawled in under the door and laid on the floor like a cheap whore as smoke from the ashtray slithered down the wall to mate with it. And then she walked in.

She was the kind of woman who had a saxaphone soundrack when she walked. Everything about her screamed sex and expensive. Expensive damn sex and she hadn't even opened her mouth. Sometimes that's the best kind.

She had legs that went all the way up and just kept going. She was a hot tamale, spiced just the way I like 'em, and dripping with cheese. She made me want to howl at the moon, only there was no moon, not tonight.

It was a moonless night in the hot and dirty city, and the saxaphones stopped playing long enough for her to speak.

"I need a man," she said.

Well, I'm a man. "Since you're here, I guess it's not just any man you need, but me," I drawled casually. She made me feel like a man, just by standing there smelling like a woman.

She stepped out of the doorway, and the saxaphones started again. She sashayed over to my desk, and oozed herself onto it, one handsome, grip-worthy hip at a time, dangling a red shoe off the end of an even redder toenail.

"You've got to help me. I'm in a terrible jam," she said, her breath whispering past ripe cherry lips.

The back of my neck started to prickle, just like it always does when there's trouble on the prowl. This broad spelled trouble with a capital T, no doubt about it.

I knew it. And took the job anyway.

(Paint It Black; The Rolling Stones)