Your Taxi to Pino

Some scene appropriate music:

“The rain was doing its usual trick, coming down in sheets thick enough to drown a cat. It ran down my collar and soaked through my shirt, making me feel like I’d been dunked in a whiskey barrel, which wouldn’t have been the worst way to end my night. I kept walking, boots slapping puddles that stretched across the broken pavement like ink stains on a cheap suit.

I was heading for Pino, a half-hidden burlesque joint tucked between a pawnshop that specialized in stolen watches and a noodle shack that smelled like old socks. The sign out front flickered like a bad habit, one minute inviting you in, the next warning you to stay clear.

The girls at Pino weren’t your average cabaret knockoffs draped in dime-store glitter. They were classy, curvy numbers, the kind that could make a killing in Vegas if they had the mind for it. Their bodies had the kind of lush, mouth-watering curves that made you forget your drink was getting warm. Hips that swayed slow and deliberate, like they knew every eye in the room was watching and didn’t mind one bit. They wore expensive lingerie, silk that clung like it had been poured on, lace cut low enough to tease just enough skin to make a man’s fingers twitch. Breasts that pushed against their satin confines, full and round enough to make you wonder how the straps held on. They moved like they knew exactly what you wanted, and knew you couldn’t afford it.

I called it my usual haunt when things were slow. And things were always slow. A P.I. doesn’t exactly pull steady paychecks unless he’s crooked, and I wasn’t crooked, just bent enough to make ends meet. Pino had cheap booze, bad decisions, and enough smoke in the air to make you forget what you’d come in for. Which, most nights, suited me just fine.

Pino wasn’t much for space, but it didn’t need to be. The place was tight enough that you couldn’t move without brushing up against someone, an elbow digging into your ribs, a hip bumping yours, or the warm press of a curvy body lingering just long enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose. The bar ran down one side, polished to a deep shine and stocked like they knew what they were doing. Opposite that, a row of worn leather sofas hugged the wall, the kind you could sink into and forget how long you’d been sitting. Between them, there was barely room to shuffle sideways without bumping into someone’s drink or knocking over a stray ashtray.

Near the back, a dance podium jutted out, barely bigger than a card table but just enough for the girls to work their magic. And they did, hips rolling slow and easy, thighs flashing in the low light, full breasts spilling out of lace and silk that clung like a second skin. They knew how to move, slow enough to tease, bold enough to make you forget your own name.

A single bistro table huddled in one corner like an afterthought, but it had the best spot in the house, close enough to the podium for a good show and far enough from the bar to dodge stray elbows. It was also the only place you could get a decent meal — steak done bloody, ribs dripping in sauce, the kind of food that clung to your fingers and demanded you lick it off.

The whole place felt close, almost suffocating, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. There are worse ways to drink your whiskey than with your face half-buried in the soft, pillowy warmth of a dancer’s cleavage, the scent of her perfume wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, but the lush decor made up for it, deep reds that glowed under the dim lights, brass and copper fittings that gleamed like old money. It wasn’t classy, but it pretended hard enough to fool you after three drinks.

Beyond the velvet curtain at the back, things got quieter, and dirtier. That’s where the rooms were, cozy little hideaways decked out in silk sheets and low lighting. You didn’t just wander back there , one of the girls had to invite you. And if she did, you’d better have something worth her time. The girls didn’t work for free, and they sure as hell didn’t waste their charm on anyone who couldn’t keep up.

I was halfway through my second glass of rye when she walked in. The kind of dame that makes you forget what you were drinking and wonder what you were thinking. Her hair was black as a promise you knew would get broken, falling in loose waves down her back. Her legs went on so long you’d have to stop for lunch halfway up.

The dress didn’t leave much to the imagination, split so high on one side that it all but announced she wasn’t wearing a thing underneath. She moved like she knew it too, hips swaying slow and deliberate, like each step had been choreographed just to turn heads.

She stopped at my table and gave me a look like she’d just stumbled on a bad hand at poker. Then, without a word, she leaned in close — too close — and grabbed the hand I was holding my cigarette in. She didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate, just slid her own cigarette between her lips and stole a light from mine.

The lean was no accident. Her dress gaped open, and the full, creamy swell of her tits damn near spilled out. Soft curves pressed together, threatening to drop like ripe fruit if she moved an inch the wrong way. She held my gaze the whole time, bold, steady, and just a little too familiar. When she bit her lower lip, slow and deliberate, I wasn’t sure if she was teasing or sizing me up.

Then she dropped into the chair across from me and smoked in silence, her eyes never leaving mine. She didn’t blink much, just watched, slow and steady, like she was peeling me apart one layer at a time.

After a minute or two, she slid her right hand across the table, not for a handshake, but the way women from the old country do, palm down, fingers poised like they expected you to kiss it. I wasn’t feeling that polite.

“My name is Grazia…” Her voice was something rich and dangerous, like honey laced with bourbon, sweet at first but guaranteed to burn on the way down.

For a second, I thought about handing her my empty plate, just to see if that velvet voice of hers turned sharp. But I figured I’d play nice. I took her hand instead, gave it a light shake, and said, “Lucius.”

I waved the bartender over, and a short while later, she had a glass of red wine in her fingers, swirling it like she knew more about vineyards than most winemakers. We kept our eyes locked, something I was quietly proud of, given that a particularly stunning dancer had just peeled off her panties on stage. The room shifted its attention, but Grazia didn’t so much as blink.

The rest of the evening passed slow and quiet. Maybe twenty words passed between us, nothing more than a few clipped sentences and a couple of wry smiles. But when she finally shot a look toward the red velvet curtain, I knew where things were headed.

She rose from her seat without a word, reached out, and took my hand. Her fingers were cool but firm, the kind of touch that said she wasn’t in the habit of asking twice. I followed her through that curtain, past the smoke and stale whiskey stench of the main room, and into one of those dark little hideaways where the air felt thick and the sheets felt expensive.

What followed was a long night of sweat, tangled limbs, and a display of athletic flexibility that would’ve had a Vegas showgirl taking notes. Grazia didn’t just move, she danced, like sin wrapped in silk. And somewhere between the third cigarette and the second glass of water, and frantic gasping for air, I started wondering what kind of trouble I’d just crawled into.”

Summary

Pino: A Hidden Gem in Smoke and Silk

Pino has a way of getting under your skin. It’s not just a club, it’s a mood, a scene, the kind of place that wraps around you like a velvet glove and refuses to let go. These days, it’s my number one haunt, and for good reason.

The decor is rich and indulgent, deep reds, brass accents, and just enough shadow to make you wonder what’s happening in the corners. The place is narrow, claustrophobic even, but that only adds to its charm. You don’t mind squeezing past a few bodies when the air’s thick with perfume, whiskey, and the slow pulse of jazz.

The dancers? Gorgeous. Not just in the obvious ways, though trust me, the curves are more than enough to keep your eyes busy, but they’ve got charm too. They’ll sit with you, laugh with you, talk your ear off if you’ve got something interesting to say. It’s not just about tits and hips, though those are plenty memorable, it’s about connection, conversation, and feeling like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Pino’s got ambiance nailed down, rich, warm, and indulgent without trying too hard. It’s the kind of place where you settle in for one drink and end up losing track of the night. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Absolute top line recommendation!