Chapter Eighteen
The top two floors of Club Xanadu had been partitioned into private cubicles. They were actually regular bedrooms—much larger than those usually seen in bathhouses—and had wall-to-wall carpeting, nice beds, real decor, even reading lamps. Each had a small shower attached, with of course a private john and sink. It was indeed like a private gentleman’s club. The kind that at one time suburban New Yorkers would stay in, when they could not get home to . . . well, usually the wives they’d been cheating on all along.
All those patrons who had signed up for private lessons were assigned a room, and down in the boy’s dressing room, we were given sheets with the room number, customer name, and approximately how much time to spend with him. Steve handed them out. He never cracke
