covers popular culture gave us a last piece of advice. "It's going to be pretty awful," he warned, though he had never been to such a place himself. "Unless you take control. You've got to take control of the place. You've got to make it happen."
NIGHT OF THE SEX ZOMBIES
Le Trapeze was located in a white stone building covered with graffiti. The entrance was discreet, with a rounded metal railing, a downmarket version of the entrance to the Royalton Hotel. A couple was coming out as we were going in, and when the woman saw us, she covered her face with the collar of her coat.
"Is it iftin?" I asked.
She looked at me in horror and ran into a taxi.
Inside, a dark-haired young man, wearing a striped rugby shirt, was sitting in a small booth. He looked like he was about eighteen. He didn't look up.
"Do we pay you?"
"It's eighty-five dollars a couple."
"Do you take credit cards?"
"Cash only."
"Can I have a receipt?"
"No."
file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 13 of 156
We had to sign cards saying tha t we'd abide by the rules of safe sex. We e
got temporary membership cards, which reminded us that no prostitution, no cameras, and no recording devices were allowed inside.
While I was expecting steamy sex, the first thing we saw were steaming tables—i.e., the aforementioned hot and cold buffet. Nobody was eating, and there was a sign above the buffet table that said, YOU MUST HAVE YOUR
LOWER TORSO COVERED TO EAT . Then we saw the manager, Bob, a burly, bearded man in a plaid shirt and jeans who looked like he should have been managing a Pets 'R' Us store in Vermont. Bob told us the club had survived for fifteen years, because of its "discretion." "Also," he said, "here, no means no." He told us not to be worried about being voyeurs, that most people start off that way.
What did we see? Well, there was a big room with a huge air mattress, upon which a few blobby couples gamely went at it; there was a "sex chair" (unoccupied) that looked like a spider; there was a chubby woman in a robe, sitting next to a Jacuzzi, smoking; there were couples with glazed eyes (Night of the Living Sex Zombies, I thought); and there were many men who appeared to be having trouble keeping up their end of the bargain. But mostly, there were those damn steaming buffet tables (containing what—
mini—hot dogs?), and unfortunately, that's pretty much all you need to know.
Le Trapeze was, as the French say, Le Rip-Off.
By one A.M ., people were going home. A woman in a robe informed us she was from Nassau County and said we should come back Saturday night.
"Saturday night," the woman said, "is a smorgasbord." I didn't ask if she was talking about the clientele—I was afraid she meant the buffet.
TALKING DIRTY AT MORTIMERS
A couple of days later I was at a ladies' lunch at Mortimers. Once again, the talk turned to sex and my experiences at the
"Didn't you love it?" asked Charlotte, the English journalist. "I'd love to go to a place like that. Didn't it turn you on, watching all those people having sex?"
"Nope," I said, stuffing my mouth with a corn fritter topped with salmon eggs.
"Why not?"
"You couldn't really see anything," I explained. "And the men?"
"That was the worst part," I said. "Half of them looked like shrinks. I'll never be able to go to therapy again without imagining a bearded fat man lying naked and glassy-eyed on a mat on the floor, getting an hour-long blow job. And still not being able to come."
Yes, I told Charlotte, we did take our clothes off—but we wore towels. No, we didn't have sex. No, I didn't get turned on, even when a tall, attractive, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties entered the rumpus room and caused a stir. She exposed her bottom like a monkey, and within minutes, she was lost in a tangle of arms and legs. It should have been sexy, but all I could think about were those National Geo-graphic nature films of mating baboons.
The truth is, exhibitionism and
NIGHT OF THE SEX ZOMBIES
Le Trapeze was located in a white stone building covered with graffiti. The entrance was discreet, with a rounded metal railing, a downmarket version of the entrance to the Royalton Hotel. A couple was coming out as we were going in, and when the woman saw us, she covered her face with the collar of her coat.
"Is it iftin?" I asked.
She looked at me in horror and ran into a taxi.
Inside, a dark-haired young man, wearing a striped rugby shirt, was sitting in a small booth. He looked like he was about eighteen. He didn't look up.
"Do we pay you?"
"It's eighty-five dollars a couple."
"Do you take credit cards?"
"Cash only."
"Can I have a receipt?"
"No."
file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 13 of 156
We had to sign cards saying tha t we'd abide by the rules of safe sex. We e
got temporary membership cards, which reminded us that no prostitution, no cameras, and no recording devices were allowed inside.
While I was expecting steamy sex, the first thing we saw were steaming tables—i.e., the aforementioned hot and cold buffet. Nobody was eating, and there was a sign above the buffet table that said, YOU MUST HAVE YOUR
LOWER TORSO COVERED TO EAT . Then we saw the manager, Bob, a burly, bearded man in a plaid shirt and jeans who looked like he should have been managing a Pets 'R' Us store in Vermont. Bob told us the club had survived for fifteen years, because of its "discretion." "Also," he said, "here, no means no." He told us not to be worried about being voyeurs, that most people start off that way.
What did we see? Well, there was a big room with a huge air mattress, upon which a few blobby couples gamely went at it; there was a "sex chair" (unoccupied) that looked like a spider; there was a chubby woman in a robe, sitting next to a Jacuzzi, smoking; there were couples with glazed eyes (Night of the Living Sex Zombies, I thought); and there were many men who appeared to be having trouble keeping up their end of the bargain. But mostly, there were those damn steaming buffet tables (containing what—
mini—hot dogs?), and unfortunately, that's pretty much all you need to know.
Le Trapeze was, as the French say, Le Rip-Off.
By one A.M ., people were going home. A woman in a robe informed us she was from Nassau County and said we should come back Saturday night.
"Saturday night," the woman said, "is a smorgasbord." I didn't ask if she was talking about the clientele—I was afraid she meant the buffet.
TALKING DIRTY AT MORTIMERS
A couple of days later I was at a ladies' lunch at Mortimers. Once again, the talk turned to sex and my experiences at the
"Didn't you love it?" asked Charlotte, the English journalist. "I'd love to go to a place like that. Didn't it turn you on, watching all those people having sex?"
"Nope," I said, stuffing my mouth with a corn fritter topped with salmon eggs.
"Why not?"
"You couldn't really see anything," I explained. "And the men?"
"That was the worst part," I said. "Half of them looked like shrinks. I'll never be able to go to therapy again without imagining a bearded fat man lying naked and glassy-eyed on a mat on the floor, getting an hour-long blow job. And still not being able to come."
Yes, I told Charlotte, we did take our clothes off—but we wore towels. No, we didn't have sex. No, I didn't get turned on, even when a tall, attractive, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties entered the rumpus room and caused a stir. She exposed her bottom like a monkey, and within minutes, she was lost in a tangle of arms and legs. It should have been sexy, but all I could think about were those National Geo-graphic nature films of mating baboons.
The truth is, exhibitionism and
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