“No, did you look at these girls?” I nod. “Their bits are all porn star pink.”
“What, so it isn’t natural?” Bridget frowns.
“No, it isn’t natural. They get everything bleached so it’s a pretty pink colour. Guys love it.”
“Fuck off, do you get it done?”
“Of course,” she smirks. Oh I’m shocked, how do I not know this? “If you want to look pretty for Mr Stanton you had better get it done too.” She grabs my arm on the table, “I’m pretty sure he is used to pink bits.” I frown as I drain my glass. Mr Stanton looking at other girls’ bits is not something I want in my head.
“Knowing my luck the bleach will give me a third–degree burn and I will end up in hospital with a ring of fire.” The girls laugh.
“Bags not changing the dressing.” They clink their glasses together.
Every time a new group of men filter in we all put our drink menus up in front of our faces as they walk past.
“They should rename this place,” I scoff. The girls frown. “The Drycleaners.” They frown again. “You know where you would go to pick up a suit.” They both laugh. “Seriously, look at the demographics of this place. All men, rich, over thirty, in very expensive suits. Where do their wives think they are?” We all narrow our eyes as we take in our surroundings.
“Shit,” Abbie whispers. “They are all on frigging work conferences.” We nod.
“You’re right, these are all men who work together. Fuckwits,” Bridget snaps.
Blondie bartender comes over, “Last drinks at half price, ladies.”
“Half price, these cocktails are $20.00 a pop,” I answer.
He smiles. “I know, at 1.30 am they double in price.”
“Why?” we all ask, mortified.
“That’s when the shows start.”
We all frown, “Haven’t we been watching shows all night?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “No, I mean the real fun.” Sure enough, over the next 15 minutes we watch as group after group of men in expensive suits fill the place. So many, in fact, we are flat out trying to keep up our spying duties and some are slipping through the cracks.
“Shit, is he here?” Bridget whispers.
“I have no idea,” I answer. “I’ve lost track. I think the place is full,” as I crane my neck to look around the crowd.
“I know, this is crazy. The drinks are hell expensive. Rich men are seriously stupid.”
We are all feeling quite tipsy and at 1.30 exactly the lights all go out except the stage spotlights and silence falls over the audience. We are all experiencing a serious case of the fuzzies and very loudly shh, shh each other. We’re holding hands under the table and giggling, feeling quite apprehensive about what is about to unfold. Thankfully, it looks like Jeremy is a no show. The track ‘My Pony’ rings out on the high–powered sound system, a remixed version. Two girls walk out onto the stage and the crowd goes wild. Some of the men chant their names—it seems they have a following. The three of us sit still in silent amazement as our eyes are transfixed by the stage. A stunning brunette dressed as a hot policewoman complete with hat and baton leads a beautiful redhead dressed in prisoner get–up onto the stage by the handcuffs.