Dulcinea

After our office Christmas party in a seafood restaurant last Saturday, some of us decided to continue the party at the disco at the OguzKent hotel—the fancy-schmansy most expensive, VIP, elite, diplomats only hotel. Down in the basement, through a separate, side entrance, you don’t have to be a VIP to get in although they do have a gold rope outside ala some hot mnahattan night club with people clamoring to get in. Here though, there is no line of people, and as we descended into the nightclub, there were no people to speak of. The lights were flashing, the music pumping and beat on an empty dance floor. Groups of young guys were sitting around drinking beer, a guy and his girl were talking close in a booth in the back, there were two women talking and having a drink at the back of the bar, but there in the front part of the bar near the dance floor was she—Dulcinea. A vision of beauty in her white dress with a line of peacock feathers going around the mid-part of it, under her breast line as if to accentuate them, glittering rhinestone earrings and high, high black heels. The heels were rather thick as if to hold up this full-figured woman on a more solid foundation. Her hair wais a giant coif of beautiful black hair with long curled tresses falling to her shoulders and back. As we entered her eyes fixed on us, two local girls and three American guys, all dressed up for a night out. Joe and I were wearing our suits and ties, and Dulcinea’s eyes followed like a heat seeking laser as we crossed the empty dance floor to an empty table and some low-lying sofas. She turned all her attention our way, gazing intently, shift her dress as if to accentuate her already large chest and flicking one of her heeled feet crossed ever so elegantly to the beat of the music. She nursed her drink and sipped at it from a straw so as not to smudge her perfectly glossed lipstick.
She was sitting all alone, not because she preferred to be alone but she was on the prowl. This was her working turf and tonight’s pickings were not too good. The local Turkmen probably wouldn’t pay for her services and there weren’t many foreigners there who could pay more, that is until we stepped into the club. Perched on her high bar stool, our eyes would meet now and then and I would smile at her and she would smile back in a demure way. As my friends and I danced, I could feel Dulcinea’s eyes upon us. She was a vision of beauty and I wanted to go tell her how fantastic she looked this evening. That’s all I wanted to say. I didn’t want to pay for her services, just give her a compliment. Before I left the bar that night, I would approach her and let her know.
Dulcinea probably doesn’t have the easiest life, and having to get all dressed up and sit in a nightclub for hours hoping that you could meet someone and make some money is hard. Especially in a place like Ashgabat where the bar is filled with mostly local guys who seem to have more fun dancing with each other. As she sat there, looking our way, grooving to the music through her left leg, I wondered how other people in the place viewed her. Was she just seen as a local prostitute and ignored by everyone? Were people too afraid to approach her because she was a lady of the night? I knew what her story was, but I didn’t see her that way. I saw a beautiful, voluptuous young lady dressed to the nines, radiating beauty from her dark part of the nightclub.
After a few dances, I broke away from my friends and went over to say hello and compliment her. Her eyes widened with excitement and her smile got bigger as I approached. “Privet” we said to each other and over the loud techno music, I told her how fantastic she looked. Her dress was perfect and her shoes were fierce. She gushed a bit at my compliments and giggled like a
little girl. She said she couldn’t come to my table because I was with two other women but I told her I only came over to tell her how fabulous she looked. “Such beauty needs to be noticed and complimented,” I told her. She thanks me and I could see she was really happy from this male attention. I’m sure many of the men who come in here just look at her big breasts and long legs and want one thing, but I saw something else—feminine beauty, which needed to be celebrated and honored.
After I headed back to my table, I could see from across the room how my compliments affected Dulcinea. She was beaming and glowing, radiating happiness from her bar stool. The radiance seemed to sparkle out from her rhinestone earrings and shine from the ends of her curled black hair. Her leg seemed to flip more lively to the music and she even got a little beat going in her shoulders. I was happy I could make her happy and feel good about herself. As I left the nightclub, I went back to her and said goodbye, asking her name. “Svetlana,” she replied, “Thomas,” said I. We shook hands and I told her it was nice meeting her. Again she beamed, and I could tell that my attention and kind words were worth more to her than any $100 she’d make that night.