She twirled and twirled round the pole,
Inside the notorious Honey Club,
In nothing but her birthday suit.
Her body was an alluring meal
Pulling all sorts into the den.

In walked a man of rare rugged looks.
He ordered glass of wine and sat to drink.
She glanced at him and made him out as someone new.
He rose, moving slowly to her pole.
His eyes were fixed on her beautiful face.
She knew his hands must itch for colourful flesh.

His gaze still on her face
She wriggles her waist and licks her lips
His gaze on her face
She squats so he can view her b*r*e*a*s*t*s
Yet his gaze on her face
She freezes as she peeps into his eyes

Her soul was peeled. These eyes bore into her being
So strong she sensed the raw passion.
How could she be this lone in the boisterous Honey Club?
His arms stretched to hold her face tenderly.
She fell on her knees, tears streaming down her mask.
“I love you, my dear child,” were words she heard next.

Instinctively, she grasped the hands upon her face
Bringing it down gently like two lost in prayer
"Please w-who are you, oh mystery man?"
Instantly, she saw a crown of thorns upon his head
And felt fresh wounds in his bleeding palms.

What is religious about 'wet dreams'?

^ i wonder o