There was a sleazy little rub and tug mbumage parlor on the side street across from the hotel and one of their “mbumeuses” stepped out for a cigarette and to take a peek at all the commotion. She was wearing a short skirt, and had some disaster of a tattoo on her fat mammary glands that you could see spilling out over the top of her sports bra. She looked over and made eye contact with me, and as she took a drag off her cigarette I imagined the smell of a thousand male reproductive organs on her hand mixing with the fumes of the Newport she was smoking, and I thought to myself, “That might be the saddest smell in the whole world.”