Dream Club
Weird fiction piece by Clark Humphrey
10/23/88
Leaving some event at SCCC that lasts way past 2 am. Looking for a bus, i walk uncharacteristically south on B’way. i catch a “special” bus that winds up stopping at an odd building near the Swedish Hospital complex (not quite the strange building next to my new dentist, but close). the bus turns toward the building, climbs a steep rooftop-parking ramp, and then (either the bus or the driver, i don’t recall) jumps off that roof into an open-air nightclub-type room, lunging for a man seated at a table. The driver misses and is carried away, the well-dressed crowd resumes drinking without skipping more than a beat, and I am left to try to figure out the place where I am.
It is called “Playboys” but is not like the old Playboy Clubs. No groups of men customers for one thing; all couples or foursomes, whether dining/drinking at the tables in the main room or making out (fully clothed) while lying on what would otherwise be a dance floor. The lighting and decor are subtle/elegant. Everyone speaks softly; nobody is overtly drunk.
Someone tells me that this is a private club that believes in no-trouble; I could have practically anything I wanted if I didn’t make noise about the incident or even tell anyone about what goes on in the place. The person talking to me about this was a 38-ish woman in a green gown who suggestively whispered the “practically anything” part. Then I looked at the table where the companion of the would-be attack victim said he was “just one rich. Two rich is too rich for here,” stacking coasters like casino chips to represent her point.
I accepted a drink from the green-dressed woman, who told me that the place was something like a swing club but without the suburban tastelessness of those places. Most members were couples, with a few singles permitted to join. Some of the single women joined at regular rates; others were paid under the table to attend, but received no money directly from male customers and were under no sexual obligations. I agreed to a drink from her, and then very hesitantly asked to join her on the make-out floor. It was a fantasy world of lovemaking, not of intercourse. The games these couples (including mine) played were of kissing and petting, of tenderness and comforting.
At this point I regained consciousness, but somehow was able to continue the fantasy in my imagination. I asked if anything more happened here. She led me to a corridor that opened onto a series of small, dark rooms. There we undressed, hung our clothes on a coat rack, and lay down on a large sofa. Boxes of condoms and Kleenex were on a small white nightstand next to the sofa.
As we resumed our activity, she explained to me that discretion was everything here. That, and respect. She repeatedly insisted that I not look upon her as a cheap whore or any kind of whore. I did insist, adding that it was very emotionally brave to do what she was doing, no matter how physically “safe” it was. She didn’t have a “perfect” face or body by media standards (something like Jamie Lee Curtis might look like in a few years). It was an achingly personal sex act, with intercourse the last and most conventional segment of it. The fantasy fades away as she is wiping me off with a tissue afterwards.
