“Becca isn’t here yet, but you can come by after 2 p.m. The address is 20 Irving Place, by Union Square.”
I catch the silver-studded unicorn that is the 5-train downtown. Halfway into the city, I change my mind and decide not to go. There was nothing shared with me other than the address. I still have no clue what this place is.
How far does the fantasy go?
What if it’s a setup to get young girls caught up in something more dangerous. Would it even be in print if it was something like human trafficking? That newspaper is pretty well known, and I’m sure I could defend myself if things got out of hand. I go back and forth between doubt and curiosity the entire ride.
My first stop is Giggles Bar & Grill. The manager, an overtly flamboyant Colombian man in his late forties, whose bald head and bright smile give him a Buddha-like quality, hires me on the spot.
“My name is Marco Antonio,” he says with a Sofía Vergara-like accent. “I keep this place running. Without me, it would fall apart.”
Marco is highly entertaining as he embodies the archetype of pageantry often related to gay men. Every syllable is enunciated with the theatrics of a Broadway performer.
“We have the best after-work parties, and our lunch crowd is mostly regulars.” He continues while looking me up and down. “Wear black pants and a black top. Anything else gets too dirty, too quickly. Will you need to be trained, or do you have any experience, miss…”
His whirlwind energy has me so caught up that I have yet to introduce myself properly.
“Oh, sorry. Solei. Solei Romero.”
“Okay, Solei Romero! Introducing yourself like James Bond and shit,” he fans himself with a menu dramatically. “I like you. You would be a good fit for Giggles. Here, fill out these forms. I’ll be right back.”
That was so much easier than I thought it would be. Marco and his energy feel like a lighthouse to my little lost ship. I do a happy dance as I fill out the paperwork. He returns a few minutes later with a black, pocketed apron and two notepads for taking orders.
“Can you come in tomorrow for training?”
“Yes, what time should I be here?”
“Be here at 10 a.m. I’ll ask Toni, our head waitress, to train you. She’s been with us the longest and is great at what she does. Bring I.D. and your social, so that I can put you on the payroll.”
“Thank you so much, Marco. I appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I treat myself to wings and beer at a nearby restaurant’s bar to celebrate. By the time I’m done, it’s 2:20 p.m. The other interview I have lined up crosses my mind. I can’t even visualize this mysterious place because I have no idea what it would look like.
Roleplay & Fantasy.
The two words have haunted me all afternoon. What if I go just to satisfy my curiosity? I don’t have to commit to anything. It’s just an interview. And at that very moment, against all of my common sense, I decide to go.
CRIMSON AND BLACK
The ride downtown lasts less than five minutes – not enough time to mentally prepare for this situation. A tug of war plays on in my head as I walk slower than usual. The option to turn back towards the train station hovers like the threat of an afternoon rainstorm. Knowing that I could change my mind at any moment pushes me to keep walking, but I almost miss the entrance tucked in between a deli and an electronics store. When I enter, I’m greeted by a frail, small-framed doorman smiling back at me.
“Good afternoon,” he tips his hat and gestures towards the sign-in book sitting in front of him. “What floor?”
There’s a visible change when I respond, “the fourth floor.”
His smile fades and the kindness in his eyes has disappeared. I sign the log and thank him, to which he props open his newspaper and nods absently.
My hand trembles while calling the elevator. The awkward silence now shared between us echoes my heartbeat. Deep breaths help me relax, but my body remains clenched.
*Ding*
Finally.
The antique elevator has a gate that slides in and out of place for boarding. It clangs and rattles past each level. When I reach the fourth floor, it bounces into place as the outer door slams open. I slide the gate and slowly walk out, careful not to let my heels make noise.
A long, narrow hallway is lit by one bulb covered in dust. Directly in front of the elevator, there’s concealed laughter and chitchat behind a black door. My only other option has an EXIT sign above it. I knock twice. The laughter stops. A clacking of heels turns away from the door. Then a loud buzzer invites me to step inside.
My heartbeat is now thumping against my temples like a drum. I’m surprised to see a front desk that looks like a counter at an indie record shop. A soft glow from the lighting has a Red Light Special tint and is a sharp contrast to the gloomy hallway. The beautiful girls behind the counter smile back at me. The shorter one looks like punk rock, Brittany Spears with streaks of pink in her bleach blonde hair. She reminds me of emo girls from high school. Dilated pupils covered in black eyeliner and glittering eyeshadow study me in the dark of the room. A black, spaghetti-string top exposes an excessively defined collar bone that hints at an eating disorder or heavy drug use.
On her right stands a taller girl. I should refer to her as a woman instead of a girl from the voluptuousness of her body. Large breasts fill every seam to the brim of her halter top. Thick thighs compress into a sheer mini skirt with chubby cheeks that betray her. Punk rock chick speaks first.
“Hi, I’m Becca.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sol...” I stop myself from saying my full name, just in case.
“This is Anastasia. We call her Ana when clients aren’t around.”
“Yes, Ana. You’re the one I spoke to earlier.”
I shuffle in place, trying to contain the tide of anxiety overflowing within me.
“Do you have I.D.?”
“I do, but can I get more information first?”
I need to know what this place is before I start showing anybody anything. They seem to understand my thought process as they nod back in unison.
“Can you wait in the first room on your left? I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
A haze in the air gives the place an ethereal feeling. I generate a mental map of the layout – three doors on the left, two on the right, and, most importantly, an exit door at the end. When I step into the room, there’s a long, rectangular-shaped mirror on the right wall and a black leather loveseat. As I step further into the space and settle in, a contraption facing the couch has all of my attention. If it wasn’t in a place like this, I would guess it to be a dentist or barbershop chair. Given the environment, though, I’m pretty sure its purpose is more perverse.
The lighting, like the rest of this place, is dark. Both sides of the room have walls that don’t reach the ceiling and leave a foot of open space between them. They’re discussing phone calls on the other side. Anastasia gives a rundown of today’s clients and their scheduled times as Becca informs her that she’ll be done soon. Her footsteps walk in the opposite direction. I continue to study the room. There’s a TV below the mirror and a set of VHS tapes.
The options include:
Dominant Nurses
House of Bondage
Latex Slaves
Big Gulp
The walls are a deep red, like crimson, with black borders. There’s a coffee table with an empty ice bucket and ashtray on one corner. Sitting here, scrutinizing every detail, restores the curiosity that has been bubbling since this morning. The tap of Becca’s shoes is now strutting towards me. She appears in the doorway and closes the door behind her.
“Sol, right?” she flashes a smile.
“Sol is short for Solei,” I confess nervously.
“Sol, for short, is okay. You shouldn’t use your real name here, anyway. It’s best to use
a ‘character’ name.” She does air quotations with her fingers. “It can be a stripper type of name or a common name. We don’t really give a shit.”
“What exactly do you do here? I’ve never seen a place like this before.”
“None of us know when we first come here, responding to that strange ad,” she admits. “Basically, the owner Andy has a clientele he’s built up over the years. These men and women have specific fantasies or fetishes that we help bring to life.”
“Can you give me an example of what their fantasies are like?”
“One of our easiest clients is an old Jewish man, Ibrahim. He pays for thirty minute sessions for one of our girls to play with his beard and talk dirty to him. Once the time is up, we knock on the door, and you’re done. When you leave the room, he does his thing and cleans up.”
I can tell Becca has laid out this spiel many times before by her delivery.
“The rate for half an hour is $225, $125 of that goes to you. It doubles up nicely if the booking is extended,” she continues.
I’m now doing the math in my head, in shock that I can make that much money playing with some random man’s facial hair.
“Fair warning, though. Not all clients are that simple or respectful. Some will try to have sex with you, and they’ll offer you a lot of money for it, too. Please do not have sex with any of the clients.”
Becca’s tone is weighted with authority. I swallow the lump in my throat and forget to breathe as I hang on her every word – riveted by these juicy details.
“They may decide not to pay once all is said and done. See, Andy is smart enough to charge the full amount at the time of booking,” she explains. “Why? Because people switch up when their demons are silenced. If they decide to stiff you on that payment, I can’t do anything about it. On top of the fact that it’s illegal.” she adds as an afterthought. “Have you ever worked for an escort service?”
“Like go on dates with old men?” I verify.
“Well, not exactly,” she replies. “Escort services provide sex for money. Very rarely is it an actual date or outing with these men. It’s prostitution with a prettier title and better-dressed pimps.”
“Oh… Definitely not.”
“Good. I wouldn’t be able to hire you otherwise. Andy is strict about that. He believes it compromises our ability to turn down these offers if we’ve engaged in that business before.”
She accurately interprets the shock on my face.
“Yeah, that’s part of the culture here. Trusting that the next bitch isn’t going to sell her coochie and mess it up for the rest of us.”
“Has anyone ever been caught doing it?”
“Not while I’ve been working here, but Andy did tell me a story once. It ended with him having to bail out all the girls and shut down for six months. That’s when he relocated here and had to start over.”
“Do you know what happened to the girl that got caught?”
“I don’t. I know she was charged, but that’s about it.”
“That’s wild. Has a client ever tried to have sex with you?”
The thought of getting arrested for prostitution scares the shit out of me. My parents would kill me! My little sister Winnie would be heartbroken and confused. She would never look at me the same. Kelvin would be next in line after my parents, ready to kill me again.
Becca’s reply interrupts my thought tangent.
“Oh, absolutely. Most of us have been propositioned a few times, but as long as your answer is a firm no, you should be good. The only time it’s not so easy is when you know they’re not cops and are really trying to have sex with you. Those clients will be annoyingly persistent.”
She points up to the opening in the walls.
“Andy chose this location purposely. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I was wondering why it was like that.”
“The goal is to make sure there isn’t too much privacy. It’s an extra measure to minimize the temptation. The rest is up to us.” Becca lowers her voice in confidence, “It’s not always easy, either. Especially when business gets slow, or you spend too much money on partying and bad habits. Do you do drugs?”
“No,” I lie.
“Okay, well. I have a weed guy, a coke guy, and another dude that sells acid tabs, ‘shrooms, and X. Should you ever need it.” she winks at me knowingly while I make a mental note for future reference.
Becca gets up and stands in front of the mirror. I watch her every move as she pulls out lipstick buried in her cleavage and reapplies.
“Follow me.”
An otherworldly, Twilight Zone feeling passes through me as I peek into the other rooms. They’re all identical to the first. Becca walks into the last door on the right. It’s the only one that is different from the others. Silk scarves are draped over a Japanese-style room divider shielding a stand-up shower. Whips, straps, leather masks, and different sex toys serve as erotic art hanging from the walls.
“This is where we keep our bondage goodies for clients that request domination and S&M. I’ll spare you from those clients in your first few weeks. It can get pretty intense. There’s an art to balancing the pain and pleasure that you will have to master. But you’re welcome to sit in on sessions and see for yourself.”
Her eyes shift to the center of the room, where there’s another odd yet sinister-looking chair. It’s a hybrid between a wheelchair and toilet seat with a metal pan underneath.
“What the hell?”
“It’s called a BDSM toilet chair,” she educates.
There’s a wooden tablet laid out in front of it with four straps – one on each corner.
“What is this for?” The words barely make it out of my mouth.
“Andy designed this room for one of our top paying clients, Larry,” Becca explains. “His fetish is the weirdest of them all… and the grossest.”
“Really fucking weird.”
My stomach turns. I hope I’m wrong, but I can already guess what the fetish is.
“I won’t describe it to you. If you decide to take the job, that client will be in soon.”
The energy in the hallway is charged with more mystery as we walk past the front desk. Ana is talking on the phone in a low voice when we walk towards the lounge area. The layout is a cozy living and dining room. Some of the girls are zombied on daytime television in one corner. Another pair sits at a black and white marble table on the right. One of them is reading; the other is doing homework. The afternoon sun is eclipsed by black velvet curtains cloaking another girl while she sleeps. A set of chairs round out in a circular formation next to the kitchen.
“These are the vampires of TLC,” Becca announces.
They turn to size me up with a shared indifference. One of the television girls gets annoyed and looks away.
“Hi, I’m Cheri.”
“They call me Angel,” another says.
Cheri maintains eye contact as I introduce myself. The rest of them say nothing and go back to what they were doing.
“This is Lola. Don’t mind her. She’s just a brat,” she teases, referring to the vampire with the attitude. The girl laughs then throws a pillow at Cheri.
“Shut up. I’m not a brat. It’s just, how are we supposed to make any money with so many girls here?”
“Andy likes to have a variety, so be nice,” Becca interrupts.
“Yeah. It’s not her fault Andy’s greedy,” Cheri adds.
“You’re absolutely right.”
She turns back to me. The lines of frustration on her face soften.
“Sorry about that… I’m usually not so rude.”
The girls at the table are paying attention again.
“My name here is Baby.”
“They call me Sugar,” the other follows up.
Both of their noses go back into the b
ooks within seconds.
“The one sleeping back there is Brandy, after the singer, because she’s her doppelgänger. Her words, not mine,” Becca clarifies.
“We’re always fully stocked with bottles of cheap wine to help us unwind.” her cheesy choice of words bargains a melodic rhythm.
“The small kitchen is well equipped with a stainless-steel refrigerator, microwave, and watercooler. And wine, lots and lots of wine.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Cheri calls out as we exit the lounge.
I smile back at her.
“Yeah, same.”
Is she flirting with me?
“So, what do you think? Are you interested in being a TLC girl?” Becca raises her left eyebrow with added drama.
“Call me crazy, but I wanna try it.”
“That’s what I’m talking about! Welcome to the crazy club, but now I need to see I.D.”
“Oh, wait. I’m starting another job tomorrow in midtown. I don’t know what my schedule is going to look like yet.”
“We’ll figure it out. Do you want to come here afterward?”
Becca hands me a business card.
“If you can’t make it or change your mind, give us a courtesy call. This isn’t a regular job where you get in trouble for calling out.”
I promise to call if anything changes and get spit out of their time warp. Stepping back into reality feels like jumping worlds. The lifeless hallway looks extra drab after the things I’ve seen hidden behind these walls.
I walk past the doorman and smile.
“See you tomorrow.”
No response. This is going to be fun.
TRAINING DAY
The crack of dawn brings with it a harsh realization that today is my first day as a waitress. An internal struggle rages as the warmth of this cozy bed binds me against the need for a good alibi. My mother’s detective skills are expert level. If I don’t honestly believe what I’m telling her, she’ll sniff out the lies. Despite this resistance, working at Giggles starts to grow on me as the day gets going, mainly because of Marco Antonio. He reminds me of the gay boys at Krash that we love to party with.
Identity Interrupted Page 2