Page 3 of Frat Row
Blair’s eyes turn into saucers with disbelief, and her jaw hangs open.
She knows, like everyone else, it’s next to impossible to get access to the basement, and the people who have been down there don’t ever discuss what it’s like.
Of course, this made me want to find out for myself even more, and I’m towing my best friend with me in these shenanigans, as always.
Since we met, we’ve given our mothers gray hair.
She quietly squeals, “Let’s go, skank, lead the way!”
She forcefully shoves one of the drinks she has into my hand, our favorite—vodka and club soda.
Not shockingly, she had a drink in each hand while dancing.
I’m sure one of her dance partners was more than happy to supply her with more alcohol.
I down it as swiftly as possible, tasting primarily vodka, not soda, and it instantly calms my nerves.
She reaches for my hand, and we set off toward a door located behind the bar that blends in with the wall.
It has a black knob and a vintage-looking key lock, which tells me not many people have access.
It’s so concealed in the wall that you’d have to know about it already or be purposefully looking for it.
The area in front of the door is always guarded by at least two security guards, who appear as inconspicuous as possible.
But even partly tipsy, I can tell they guard one area and never leave their posts.
Sucking off the security guard earlier definitely paid off since he told me where to go and is letting us into a place few people have ever been.
The security guard I had my special time with earlier is standing by the door.
He winks at me with an overconfident, smug look on his face, looks around, turns, and punches in a four-digit code, the door cracking open just a few inches.
He hurriedly opens it enough to slide through and gestures to us with two fingers to quickly follow behind him.
There’s a small black booth completely blacked out with the most miserable-looking man I’ve seen here.
Maybe I would be, too, if everything was black.
This part of the club is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The lighting is dim, likely to conceal the identities of people entering and exiting the basement.
There are four people ahead of us, and I don’t even bother looking at them because I don’t want it to seem like this is my first time.
I do try to look at what the man is collecting, and it’s definitely not coats or umbrellas.
“No cellphones allowed past this point, so hand them over.” Another guard comes out of what feels like the wall, making me jump with his raspy voice.
It’s a cellphone check booth, which makes sense since I’ve never seen any pictures of this place online.
He pulls out one of the many plastic boxes, and there must be at least fifty or more phones in it.
He passes us cards to fill out so they can be returned to us later.
We fill them out, and he tapes them on our cellphones, tossing them into the box.
“Straight down the stairs, you can’t miss it.” He smiles maliciously like he can sniff out first-timers.
Blair and I look at each other quizzically, and for a moment, we kind of second-guess this decision. My body is buzzing; I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tension of feeling unsure about this whole decision.
“I’m getting kind of nervous now,” I blurt out.
“That’s just excitement for the unknown. If we aren’t into it, we’ll give it a solid 15 minutes and then just leave as fast as possible,” Blair whispers to me.
I clamp onto her arm for dear life, and we start to descend the dark stairs that are lit by dull yellow Victorian lights all the way to the bottom, with a deep forest green railing on both sides. The wallpaper is made of black velvet, making it even more eerie.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, my jaw falls open, and it feels like we’ve entered Narnia’s wardrobe because this is entirely different from what we saw upstairs.
The first thing I notice is the archaic, gothic-looking cages hanging above our heads, which are chained to the ceiling, and the swings moving back and forth.
There must be over twenty of them spread out around the room, which is the size of a large warehouse.
My feet move on their own, pulling me forward as I squint upwards to get a better look at what is inside the cages and what is making the swings move back and forth.
To my utter horror, there are naked women in each of the cages swinging on the swings with the only piece of clothing, if you can even call it that, being a black lace lingerie mask.
They are nude. Nude . I try not to stare at the scene before me, but it’s hard not to. I’ve never seen anything like this before.
Some of them are holding on to the sides of the cage, swaying their hips to the music, and you can see their boobs bouncing freely and their vaginas on full display, rubbing themselves against the cages.
Others in the cages are standing there with frightened looks in their eyes, cowering on one side of the cage and hugging their knees to their chests.
The women on the swings move their legs back and forth, and they have detached looks on their faces.
Gradually taking in the rest of the room, I notice half of the room has private black booths full of men in business suits who are either snorting cocaine or smoking cigars, talking in hushed tones to one another at their tables.
In the back, there are three stripper poles with women performing naked again, and the men are barely paying any attention.
In the middle of the room is a U-shaped bar, and Blair leads us tentatively over there.
The chairs are a deep purple velvet, and we slide them out and take a seat, scanning the room and feeling utterly uncomfortable, except for the tingle between my legs.
Showcasing your sexuality like this is so different from how I grew up.
Sex wasn’t talked about in my household.
It was like it was taboo and forbidden. Secretly, I love being in and around this kind of scene.
At the bar, there are five female bartenders who are also waiting on the men in the booths. They are wearing black lace teddies and black lace masks with black stilettos.
“What can I get you both to drink?” one of the bartenders says sweetly, placing napkins in front of us.
Blair responds, “Vodka and club soda, please, and make it two.”
This place is packed, predominantly with men. Even at the bar, the other seats, except for a few, are taken.
Blair looks at me, grinning devilishly. “I can’t believe you got us in here.”
“Honestly, me neither. There are barely any women in here besides maybe two in the booths next to some of the men,” I say, finally seeing some other women here.
“This place doesn’t feel right; it feels like some illegal underground business, and we definitely stick out,” Blair whispers to me.
“I’ll go to the bathroom, and then we can make our way out of here. I’m not sure we want to get caught up in this type of crowd,” I respond.
I ask the bartender where the bathroom is, and she points to a small hallway I hadn’t seen before behind the stripper poles.
I jump off my seat. “Be right back, whore, don’t move from this seat.” I wink at her and smile, crossing my fingers that she doesn’t fucking move.
Blair smiles and rolls her eyes while she takes a huge sip of her drink, flicking me off.
As I make my way to the dark hallway with dimmed lights, it’s creepily quiet, and something feels off-putting.
The hairs on my arms rise, and I get goosebumps, suddenly feeling freezing cold.
I almost bolt back to the bar, but my bladder wins out.
I have to pee so badly, and there’s no way I can hold it.
There are multiple black doors down this long hallway that seem to go on forever; I check one of them, and it's locked, so I assume all of them must be locked. There are peepholes in the middle of them of varying heights, all in a straight vertical line. They don’t look like bathrooms at all, so I keep walking and frantically look for any sign that says ‘bathrooms.’ Curiosity finally gets the best of me, and I hesitantly approach one of the peepholes and press my hands on either side, trying not to put too much pressure on the door so no one hears me.
I’ll just take a brief look and then make my way to the bathroom.
There’s no harm in just looking. It’s not like I’m opening the door.