Erotique: Jillian. Susan Lyons

not mixing work and pleasure, so I am absolutely not going to ask about my boss’s sex life, either inside or outside of her marriage.

      And, much as I like sex, Erotique doesn’t sound like my kind of place. I don’t want to insult her so I try to phrase it politely. “You want to send me to a club where I’d pay a man for sex? Um, I don’t think that’s really my style.”

      By now, she’s laughing her head off. “God, Jillian! You think I’m trying to set you up with a male prostitute? No, it’s nothing like that. If there’s any sex, it’s between members of the club. Or guests,” she adds with a wink. “It’s up to you whether or not you have sex. If you do, it’s totally consensual and, like I said, anonymous. People wear masks, and often costumes.”

      Hmm. An X-rated version of a Halloween dress-up party. Oh yes, this is getting intriguing. Maybe I’m not so tired after all.

      “There’s a room called Tease,” Carrie says, “where you can go and just have fun flirting. There’s another called Seduction, and one called Fantastique where you can explore your sexual fantasies. Though you have to book ahead for that one so they can set up the fantasy.”

      No problem there. My fantasy would be a man just like Sandro, but I’m sure he’s one of a kind, so the club couldn’t have come through, anyway.

      Off in my own thoughts, I miss a bit of what Carrie’s saying, and tune back in to hear, “…and then there’s Dungeons & Dragons where—”

      Whoa! I raise both hands. “I so don’t want to hear about that one.” I imagine handcuffs and floggings. Yuck.

      Glancing at Carrie, I take in my boss’s neatly coiled dark hair, light makeup and stylish business suit. I’ll choose to believe that she herself visits Tease, then takes her titillated hormones home to her husband for gratification.

      As for me, if I’m going, I want more than flirtation. “You say you could get me a guest pass?”

      Sitting in the back of a cab, I read the invitation. “Take a right here,” I tell the driver, “then an immediate left into an alley. There’s supposed to be a doorman.”

      “Dat is he?” the driver asks in heavily accented English, pointing.

      “I guess.” The man in the tux looks more like a wrestler than the doorman of a private club.

      Still, he’s all business as he scrutinizes the invitation Carrie printed out. “Welcome to Erotique, miss. You’ll need to wear a mask.”

      I take the mask from the pocket of my coat and secure it, then he opens the door and I walk past him into the club.

      I don’t know what sort of freaky costumes and debauchery to expect, but what I get is a mirrored hallway that’s empty but for an attractive young woman in a tux who takes the invitation. “Your first time. Welcome. I’m Dominique.” The name is probably an alias, but she does have the French accent to match it.