As I walk I realize that I'm nervous. I know the neighborhood but still all my senses are on alert and it feels as if I notice every detail: the texture of the concrete under my heels, the sound of the diesel engine in the pick up on the corner, the dark stubble on the driver's chin. This is not the normal nervous where you feel faintly sick to your stomach or anything. More like the butterflies in the stomach and the faint buzzing in your cunt kind of nervous. Finally I see the brass numbers. Walking up the block there was no big sign or neon letters announcing the club, just three inch block numerals worked into the wrought iron framing around the doors.

As I approach I do a mental check to make sure I've got everything right. Thigh highs hooked held in place by the black lace garter belt. Black skirt above the knees but not slutty. Tight white vee neck. (Tonight I'm wearing a thin strapped tank but he didn't specify the style of the top). Small black purse with only three items: cab fare home, an emergency contact phone number and the small silver key. I am still checking things off in my head as I reach for the handle and it's only after I've gotten a grip on it thatI realize the owner's sense of humor: from the street the handle looks like a part of the vine pattern in the iron work but from the back it is the perfect silhouette of a cock. As I pull the door open my hand slides up and I gasp as my fingers feel the ridge of the cockhead. I let go and try to focus on what is going on inside the club.