brothels in colombia begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so brothels in colombia becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In brothels in colombia, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in brothels in colombia, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that brothels in colombia worked better than any sleeping pill.