“Huh?”
A light smile tugged at the hostess’s lips. “First time here?”
Celine nodded.
“The black room is for men wanting to hook up with a woman. The white room is for women wanting to hook up with a man. And the blue room is for men and women, together, wanting to hook up with . . . whatever.”
At Celine’s confused look, she elaborated, “Ménage à trois, honey.”
Oh, good Lord! Celine hoped she wasn’t blushing. “White, please.”
She wondered, with a suppressed giggle, how another reporter, Dane Jessup, was going to handle this situation when he did his part of the story tomorrow night. The male angle. If Celine was a geek, Dane was dweeb to the max.
Soon she was seated at a small round table in the back of the room with an empty chair across from her. An in-house phone sat in the center. The room had subtle lighting and the atmosphere of an upscale bar; that image was heightened by the soft rock being played by a two-piece band. No Chippendale-style dancers here or bare-chested waiters. A waitress in a perfectly respectable black uniform asked if she wanted a beverage. They cost ten dollars a pop . . . and that included pop.
The ratio of men to women in the room was about five to one, with about two dozen women sitting at the various tables. Several of them were dancing on the small dance floor with attractive men. Most of the men wore suits, sport coats over khakis, or golf shirts tucked into pleated slacks. No cowboys or construction workers. Subtly again. Those men not partnered on the dance floor leaned against the two bars, nursing drinks. Or leaned against a far wall. A few glanced her way with interest.
It looked like a singles club. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
But then she opened the “menu” in front of her . . . and felt like crawling under the table.
Welcome to The Playpen. We are here for your enjoyment. Please study the menu below. Then look around the room. If you see anyone you like, pick up the phone and indicate your choice. Only then will you be approached. If after talking to one of our men, you change your mind, you can make another choice. Accommodations are upstairs, or off-site arrangements can be made. Good luck!
This was followed by a menu of available services . . . very detailed descriptions . . . with prices. She wasn’t sure she even knew what some of these things were, and for sure there were some she’d never done or had any desire to do. Eeew!
After the waitress plopped her whiskey sour down on the table, Celine took a big gulp and she braced herself. It was only pretend. It was just a story. She’d done worse things to get a scoop. Well, no, she hadn’t, but it was important that these outrageous activities be exposed.
Morphing into professional mode, she made mental notes of what she’d seen so far and decided she would “interview” three different men before making her escape following a trip to the ladies’ room. Pressing one of the roses in her brooch to launch the zoom lenses, she began a slow scan of the men from right to left.
Some of the prostitutes looked downright dangerous. Way too blatantly sexual for her tastes.
Okay, the young blond man would be her first. Extra-long hair in a ponytail. Clean-cut. Wearing a button-down blue shirt, tucked into dark blue chinos. He looked like a college student.
Then maybe the older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair. Fiftyish. Well built. Designer suit.
Third . . . hmmm, she couldn’t decide. She should probably invite the guy who looked like Tony from The Sopranos, if she had the nerve. Or the scowling man who was both homely and tempting as hell—rough sex, for sure.
She had her hand on the phone, about to request her first “date”, when she noticed two men walk into the room laughing at some private joke. Her survey started to swing back, then doubled back.
Oh. My. God!
Could it be…? No, it’s impossible.
The tall man with dark hair, late twenties, wearing a black suit over a tight white silk T-shirt, stopped dead and was staring at her, too. Her camera took him in, and she intended to erase his picture the moment she got home.
This was an absolute nightmare. The worst possible thing that could have happened.
It was that oversexed, slimebucket, full-of-himself Cajun jerk. John LeDeux.
The father of her five-year-old son, Etienne.
Who didn’t know he had a son.
Whom she had successfully avoided for five long years. What irony, to finally run into him in a . . . a sex club.
If some higher power would just let a crack open in the floor, she would gladly jump in, assignment be damned.
Sandra Hill, Pearl Jinx
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