Today, Rodney was shadowing Valerie, the Reform Club’s hostess, at the front door.
“Working the door is about maintaining safety and security, greeting our members, making sure everyone is paid up on their dues, and – most importantly – making a quick assessment of each client’s needs each night so that you can give their handler a heads up on anything different they might need to account for.” Rodney’s face fell a bit, surprised by how much more work the door seemed to be. “You thought I just stood here making goggle-y eyes at Constable Rowlandson all night, didn’t you?” Valerie teased. She and the constable shared a chuckle at Rodney’s expense and her pun. “Don’t worry. It’s easier than it sounds.”
“In general, there’s two kinds of people who come to the club,” she explained. “First are the socialites. These are your Sally Boyles, your Dr. Verlocs – don’t ever call him Anton when he’s here – and your Nick Lightbearers.” She ticked each dropped name off on her rubber-gloved fingers. “Before he trashed the Rumpus Room anyway,” she added with annoyance, revoking the finger she’d marked Nick off on. “They’re not really here for most of our services. This is just a nightclub with a kinky theme to them.”
“So they’re poseurs?” Rodney asked, leaning against the counter to mimic Valerie’s stance.
“Some of them, yes. Once they’re here,” her voice slipped into the low, sultry tone she used when answering the door, “a lot of that type see that we can give them something they didn’t know they needed.” She especially loved watching spoiled Design Center kittens leave the club properly chastised, surprised by how contented they were by it. Peak bird-watching, it was. Her silky voice shifted back up into seriousness. “But even if they don’t, you still have to give them the red carpet treatment. Seeing the cool people come here makes the rest of the Village want to come here too so they’re good for business. And our business is helping people live with themselves. The people here for that are our real clients.”
“I don’t understand,” Rodney said. “I thought this was all about… fetish stuff.”
“It is and it isn’t. You might be young enough not to have too many skeletons in the closet yet, so it can just be about rubber and electricity for you. But everyone has done something they’re not proud of, something they need forgiveness for. And if you can’t get that from the person you’ve wronged, the only hope you have is to forgive yourself. That’s where we come in. We help our members earn their own redemption.”
“But,” Valerie went on, “we have been losing some of them to St. Genesius’.”
“How?” Rodney asked with disdain. “It’s just Simon Says with a Spanker. It doesn’t even have…” he didn’t quite know how to put it, but he knew intuitively that St. Genesius’ Simon Says games lacked the intimacy and personalization that the Reform Club’s services provided, “You don’t even really play with other people there.” It seemed lonely to him.
“Some of our members want forgiveness, but aren’t willing to do the work. They think all you need is enough punishment and you’ll have paid for your sins. Or they think it needs to be validated by someone who can give you a shiny medal when they think you’re done.” She let out a haughty sniff at the idea of that. “But mostly, it’s because St. Genesius’ doesn’t have membership dues or a cover charge.”
Valerie sighed and shifted her weight on to her other foot.
“There’s only two people in the world who can give you forgiveness. Unless they sinned against the god of Simon Says, I don’t know how those people think they’re going to find it in a church.”
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