Max Selas was enjoying the show.  He sat by the bar with a rather exotic drink in his hand, something swirly and green.  He was a slightly thinnish man of 27 years, 5'8 and pushing 140 but nothing to complain about paunchiness for at all.  His shoulder-length sandy brown hair was permed into soft curls that some thought resembled rock bands of a bygone era.  Truth be told, he thought it was a rather quaint style but hadn't been able to convince himself to change it either.  A couple odd crystals and stones hung on odd braid.  They were supposed to attract women to supposed wealth, not due to any real fashion sense.  He sipped his drink, soft green eyes (almost blue) eyeing the women dancing on a small stage across the room.  He was a little too polite to pay much attention to the other women, the ones with their hands or faces placed in the laps of rich patrons seated in the deep-colored, low, lush seats spaced throughout the lounge.  He did spare a few looks to admire how their short slinky metallic dresses ran close to their vulnerable parts as they swayed and leaned doing their entertainment work.  Perhaps he would requisition one when he finished his drink, but for a rendezvous on another floor.  No way he would do that in here.<br/><br/>Actually, Max wasn't sure quite how he had lucked out into being here.  Of course he had played that little lottery a few times and won some odd household goods once in a while.  That was par for the course.  Simple communications operators like him never won anything big in the local solar system stakes.  It just didn't happen, not that the system would ever admit it -- but everyone knew.  Yet somehow, he had pulled a ticket for a weekend trip to this station.  It didn't really make sense...  But he wasn't stupid enough to pass it up.  He recrossed his legs a little lower, clad in relatively quality grey slacks just for the occasion.  The sight of the dancers was turning him on a little too fast.  He undid a couple buttons on his rental vest.  It had a weave of diamond-shaped panels blinking soft, supposedly subliminal "comfort" lights over their surface.  A mild hypnotic aphrodisiac, they said.  Nothing illegal, just something the clientele might wear here, and it did seem to match the decor.  His cheeks with their faint, fashionably idle-looking male tinge of  fuzz left on, shifted to let out a soft but eager puff of air.<br/><br/>He glanced at the little "menu" on the bar in front of him.  Girls of so many races and sizes, by the hour or night or week (if you were a real intergalactic fat cat or fast trader)...  Their faces so pouty or smiling saccharine up at him.  But which one to go with?  He glanced at the bartender, wondering if she would come give a recommendation.  He couldn't tell if she was cyborg or android, not that he cared: her perky chest was pleasantly exaggerated without being all balloons, and her hair was something between gold-aqua tinsel and soft horsetail judging from the brush as she provided drinks.  He sat up straighter, trying to control himself as he stared back at the menu.  Maybe just a good hour in holobed for now and then a relaxing escort type to cool off a bit with...  But, which one to begin?<br/><br/><br/>