Page 44 of Monarch
“He said he was a bouncer.”
“He is, but not outside. He’s like the welcoming committee inside.”
“Then how do you get in?”
“We have a code.” Roos leads me up the steps, and she indicates a panel to the left of the door. She starts typing in a six-digit number. “Joel gave it to me. It changes every night.”
“What about new members?” I ask as the door buzzes open. Roos holds it open but doesn’t move inside.
“It’s the one way this place isn’t completely open and accessible. You have to know a member to attend, and first, you attend with them, like we are tonight. You do that a few more times, and then you can apply to be a member, and you need two other existing members to vouch for you. Kind of like references.”
“So how come you’re not a member?” I look at Roos, knowing full-well she has been here many times before.
A deep blush brightens her cheeks. “I can’t afford it. It’s…very expensive.”
“I can imagine,” I say, but I don’t look at Roos, not wanting to embarrass her further. Instead, I look ahead as she opens the door fully and we walk into a high-ceilinged entrance hall with alternating black and white square marble tiles under our feet. The lighting is warm and subtle, but the smile on the face of the suited man standing in front of two more doors is warm and not at all subtle.
“Joel!” Roos holds out her arms, and the man steps into her embrace. They hug like one of them has just returned from war, although I know from what Roos said earlier that it’s only been a week since they saw each other.
Almost a foot shorter than Roos, Joel mutters Dutch words I don’t understand into her hair, and I patiently wait behind them, knowing from my own experience just how long a queer hug can last.
“Joel,schaatje, this is Mari!” Roos presents me proudly as she steps back, and there’s nothing else for me to do but step in for my own embrace. Joel envelops me in his arms, and my nose is immediately full of his scent – clean sage and musky sandalwood – as he starts to talk to me in my hair.
“I’m so happy to meet you. It’s really cool we could make this work,” he says, and I pull back to nod my agreement, but he isn’t finished talking. “And I can’t believe you already know Roos. Like, what are the chances?”
I get a good look at him. Half a foot taller than myself, Joel is a stocky white man with mousey brown hair cut into a neat short style with shaved sides. His cheeks and chin are covered in what is more scruff than a beard, but again, it’s very neatly kept. His fingers are dripping in thick silver rings of various designs. His smile shows no signs of disappearing or even dwindling, and his eyes are fully involved, lit up a bright blue. I can’t help but smile myself when I notice that his nose crinkles when his grin expands.
“It’s a small world,” Roos says as she shrugs off her coat and my scarf, revealing a sinfully tight sheer black jumpsuit that clings to all her long lines and lean curves.
I am too slow to stop my jaw dropping, but a second later, Joel’s finger pushes my chin back up. “She’ll get a big head if you keep looking at her like that.”
“I can’t help it,” I say honestly. I’m about to follow Roos in taking my coat off, but then I remember what I’m wearing. Jeans and a crocheted shirt I made myself. It has a lacy effect, but I am wearing a vest top underneath, so it’s not exactly revealing or sexy. I suddenly feel like an idiot, not dressing sexily for a sex club. I should have asked Roos what to wear. Of all the things we talked about, that just never crossed my mind.
“Wait,” I say, my eyes dropping to the floor. “I think I fucked up.”
Roos’ face falls as she loops her coat and my scarf over her forearm. “What’s wrong?”
I open my coat. “This.”
“What?” Her eyes roam my body, but there’s no horror or amusement in her expression.
“I’m dressed like I’m going to drink matcha, not go to a sex club.”
“Oh, mate,” Joel says, his south London accent more noticeable now. “You can wear whatever you want here. We’ve seen it all. Pyjamas to ball gags, jumpsuits to jock straps. Anything goes. Besides, tonight is freedom night.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s no dress code, no theme, and no special rules other than club’s standard guidelines, and wristbands.”
“Wristbands?” I ask. I’ve read the club’s rules no fewer than five times in the last few days, but this is the first time I’m hearing about wristbands.
“Traffic lights,” Joel says and gives a backwards nod to the doors behind him. “When you’re ready to go through, my colleague Nadia will ask you what colour wristband you want. Red is you don’t want to play. Yellow is you’re potentially open to something happening but not a sure thing. And green is a green light. You’re here to play.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, waiting for some inner voice to chime in with the colour I should go for. But no such answer lands.
It’s no small comfort when I feel Roos’ hand find mine. She gives my palm a big squeeze. “And you can change your mind at any point in the night. You can change wristbands. Whatever and whenever you want.”
“And if it gets too intense in there, you can always come back out here and have a chat with me.” Joel’s smile still hasn’t slipped.
