Scented silken tent opens its flaps* for business. Nubile veiled houris available for deep tissue sandalwood massage for that pre-droidal unease. Starlit pit tended by gleam-eyed sheiks proffering rum-soaked dates on golden platters. Goatskin rugs laid beneath hanging brass lamps for the un-PC BESH to frolic in furs. Intriguingly tarnished lantern housing benevolent Zita-Genie buried beneath piles of embroidered cushions. Don your curl-toed slippers & coin-fringed skirt, and I'll see you in the corner with a young Omar Sharif and ice cubes made from Tanqueray laced with desert honey and no you can't talk to him he's mine...