The Salambo was by no means a male only establishment. It was quite common in Germany to see females in the audience although, usually males outnumbered them significantly. On the occasion of my visit, as I recall, the audience was fairly mixed. It was a warm summer evening in Berlin when I found myself at the Hallensee end of the KuDamn. I had paid my minimal entrance and was sat facing the carousel drinking beer at an exorbitant price and in spite of the attraction, was fending off hostesses whose own drink prices made my own look cheap. The lateness of the hour was such that the club was in full swing and it was not long before the first act became due. With about 7 hostesses sat on the circular couch “Wir suchen einen Herr,” announced a Compare. There followed a lot more German only a little of which I could understand. I gathered that a man was required for coitus with one of the nubile company arranged seductively on the podium. The response was hardly overwhelming. Much. ”So he did, only this time, as his tongue slid upward over her slit he let the tip drag into the mouth of her sheath. She flushed harder and left cream on the tip of his tongue. He briefly sucked the bud of her clit and looked up. Her breasts had a heavy, inflated look from his angle beneath, and her nipples were standing out hard.He looked back at her pussy. There, in the hollow of her carriage joint just beside the distended puff of her sex was her one imperfection: a birth mark like a wine stain. It was about the size of a half dollar coin. It was the reason she’d earned the name.Why do they call you Stain, he’d asked her once.Cuz of the birthmark, she said.Who the fuck ever started calling you Stain?My brother, she’d said.How did your brother know... ?She’d turned her head away and he left it at that. It wasn’t her fault. She was just ... that kind of accident. The intricate lines of her face. The offhand river of sensuous addiction oozing from every pore.It was just what she had.
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