Ianthe couldn't quite keep her eyes off the half-naked dancer at center-stage. Sure, her jobs often enough started or finished in places like this, but years of cloistered living in the Program, prior to her escape, had left her little outlet to explore her sexuality. Now that she was free, she was occasionally -- more than occasionally, if she was honest with herself; the real world was turning out to be nothing like the sappy holoromances that she'd devoured in an effort to fill the gaps in her understanding of people -- surprised at the demands of her libido, or what she found exciting.<br/><br/>The slap jolted her back to the here and now, and she resisted the urge to channel frustration into violence, and force-feed the handsy fellow her blade; while her client was Syndicate, casually gutting a club patron was unlikely to impress anyone with her professionalism. Instead she turned on her molester in a swirl of coattails certain to display the gun at her hip, while reaching out with her mind to get a sense of the man.<span style="color: mediumturquoise">"It is,"</span>she agreed, evenly.<span style="color: mediumturquoise"> "In fact it's better than nice. It's magnificent. But I have a hands-off policy for drunken apes in strip clubs. First slap's free; next one costs you the hand."</span>She wrapped a tendril of telekinetic energy around the hilt of her sword, eighteen inches of monofilament-edged polyceramic concealed at the small of her back, ready to propel it from its scabbard into her grip if necessary.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>