We make our way to the venue, dressed formally in our evening best. The low tables and sitting on the pillows on the ground is not something we’ve anticipated. But the first hour or two are us standing, cooling our hands with the chilled glasses filled with champagne and other beverages. Scurrying around, serving drinks and appetizers are not the ubiquitous Playboy Bunnies, but equally as young, curvaceous and pretty women dressed in billowing multicolored loose and transparent pants, thin see through scarves wrapped around their heads like Gypsies and tight fitting tops over their bare midriffs like that of the belly dancers.  The band of them scuffling and delicately negotiating their prancing in the middle of us conjures up the image of the Houris – the sex slaves of the paradise, made to descend to the earth to entertain every whim of the men on earth and make themselves available in total submission. As Naomi Chambers describes in her article Houri – The Islamic Sex Slave In Paradise: When he (her master-husband) tells them to bend over – they must bend over. When he tells them to open wide – they must open wide.

They have hired professional models to do the job. The girls are obviously beautiful with near perfect bodies. Just like Ms. Chambers quotes from numerous Hadiths and Quranwhitish virgins, beautiful with tight transparent bodies, wide eyes, of the firm pointed breasts and permanently Brazilian waxed pussies. Their bling adorned curves make pleasantly soft jangling sound and throw back the blinding rays at the every move they make. There is a sudden hush in the air, appreciation even and wonderment. Probably because we are still in the process of deciding whether or not we like what we see. And if the tableau reflects what Playboy as a magazine and the lifestyle should project. Not to mention the misogynist message the event would communicate.

But we file away those thoughts because while we’re getting drunk without realizing and beginning to feel the chill in our bones, for the unseasonably cold air outside has permeated through the glass walls and it has suddenly turned cold and we’re all starving and yet there is no sign or whiff of the food wafting our way. They are having some logistical problems transporting our dinners from wherever and then having to keep it warm.

Now we are seated on the floor, cross-legged. Soon our legs begin to go numb and some of us begin to feel the cramps ripple all the way down to our feet. We wiggle and shift our weight from one hip to another – change positions. We try to keep each other amused for a long while before we see the Houris  parading down the aisles towards our tables with the large trays perched atop the palms of their hands. They are having hard time negotiating the open spaces and balancing the plates while trying to avoid tripping on the flowing fabric of their loose pants and managing not to be blinded by the scarves flailing over their heads. Absolutely amazing how they successfully avoid dropping one or more of the plates and gracefully place them on the barely two feet high tables.

We all take a collective breath of relief and like famished Neanderthals tackle the feed. Just to find out that the gourmet dinner was barely lukewarm. We gorge it down nevertheless – or could be that that we may have stopped at the City Hilton’s all night cafeteria and grabbed ham and cheese sandwich and beer? But I certainly didn’t.

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