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“Of course. I mean, I tried, but he doesn’t have a profile anywhere. I couldn’t find him on Twitter or Facebook or the usual places. He might be on one of the Asian apps, though.”
On the outskirts of Chinatown in what might be Nob Hill, the cab pulls up in front of a four-storied building that looks like it’s made entirely of black glass. There’s no sign outside bearing the name of the club.
“Are you sure this is it?” I ask, surprised that a club would be located on such a quiet street.
“This is the address you gave me,” said the driver, pointing to his GPS screen.
Amy and I get out and walk through glass double doors into a dark lobby with what looks like an expensive rug covering gleaming marble floors. Behind two large bouncers are another set of doors, through which I can hear music thudding.
“Cellphones, keys, and electronics,” says a security guard standing beside the metal detector.
I haven’t been to that many clubs, but I don’t remember ever seeing a metal detector at one before. After placing my cell in a basket and passing through, I reach for my cell but get handed a number instead.
“We keep everything until you leave,” he explains.
“Seriously?”
“No photos allowed.”
I suppose a place like this is unlikely to try to steal our phones from us. Amy and I pocket our numbers and walk up to the bouncers.
“Name and ID,” says the one with the shaved head.
Amy pulls out her driver’s license. “Amy Liu.”
He eyes me with skepticism. “Who’s your friend?”
“Bridget Moore.”
The guy looks over my ID and checks a handheld digital device. “Your name’s not on the list.”
“I told JD I’d probably bring a friend,” Amy explains.
He talks into his headset and looks up to a security camera pointed at us. “Got a Bridget Moore with Amy Liu.”
After a very long pause, I begin to think that Jordan’s right about the exclusivity of this place. Finally, a response comes through on the other end of his headset, and the bouncer waves us through.
Amy grabs my hand as we walk past the two bouncers. I can tell she’s trying to hold in her excitement. Two doormen open the doors for us and we step into a cavernous room with lighting that slowly fades into different shades of blue. Based on the size of the building I saw when we were outside, there’s more to the place than what I currently see. I figure the other part of the building is just office space.
A winding staircase to our right leads to balconies on the second and third floors. The balconies are tucked into shadows and don’t have any lighting except for what appear to be votive candles. Nearly as high as the second balcony are some dance platforms. A woman wearing a lace-up corset and skin-tight leather shorts dances provocatively on one platform, and on another, a man and woman with equally scant clothing grind hips together.
“May I take your sweater?” asks a woman in a knockout red dress. She has on a little hat that reminds me of one worn by a flight attendant on an Asian airline brochure that Amy once had.
“I’m good,” I reply.
Amy tells her we’re looking for JD Lee.
“He’s not here yet,” the attendant says.
Seeing a bar just off the dance floor, Amy says to me, “Let’s grab a drink.”
I don’t turn twenty-one for another two months, but even if I were old enough to drink, I’d probably just ask for a lemonade.
We walk past tables toward the bar. Seeing how dressed up everyone is, I begin to rethink my attire choice. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.
“Should I order a sex-on-the-beach or is that too much of a college drink?” Amy whispers to me as we climb onto the barstools.
I shrug my shoulders.
