I took life’s lemons and made a mother fucking lemon drop. I’m talking sugar on the rim, ice cold glass, top shelf liquor—lemon drop.

No, I didn’t come up from the other side of the tracks, and yeah, I have enough money and privilege to recognize I’d sound like a fucking douchebag if I led with the properties I own, the places I’ve vacationed, and the trust fund in my name.

But that’s fine by me—I don’t need to talk about that shit to feel good about myself. It’s superficial anyway. Hell, it’s fun and has given me enough memories to last a lifetime— New Year’s Eves in Bali, dropping a hundred Gs in five minutes at a blackjack table in Monte Carlo—but it’s not real. It’s all magic and mirrors.

So, I change my facts. Made a story of my own.

I strap on my helmet, jump on my motorcycle, and start cruising down the highway toward my club. It’s a gorgeous fucking day. The sun is setting and paints the sky in the way my mother always loved. Streaked in purple and pink—she said when the sky was like this, you couldn’t help but be happy.

I rev my engine as I ride through LA. The usual bumper-to-bumper traffic dissipated in the evening glow and the constant feeling of being trapped in a city too small for my liking is past this horizon.

I careen my bike toward the off ramp, feeling like the free man I am. It’s nights like this—when the city feels forgiving, feels open to whatever may be— that I forget what got me here, forget what made me the man I am now.

But the moment passes as I look up and see a massive billboard off the Los Angeles Hwy. The faces of my best friend Sawyer and his supposed woman, Sondra. They’re posing in-character for the newest blockbuster film they’re starring in.

I shake my head, focus on the road. It’s hard to see my best friend everywhere like this—his face plastered in the sky, his life a centerfold. Fuck, it’s not just hard—it terrifies me.

Remember those lemons?

It’s true, I’ve had a lot of fucking fun, but I’ve been forced to swallow the bitter along with the sweet.

I do my best to make everyone’s life a little easier. I’m fucking Mary Poppins doling out teaspoons full of sugar. Why not? Life is hard enough, so I opened a club, decided to keep a low profile. Now I stand behind the bar and make drinks.

Would my parents be proud of what I’ve accomplished? I like to believe they’d understand that I took life’s lessons and did something with them.

The privacy of the people at my club is my number one priority. I’ve seen what happens when you lose that. I’m not saying all the A-Listers who show up have had a hard life and need some sort of reprieve—I know they are the 1%.

Entitled fuckers on television shows and feature films, strutting down runways and making deals that middle America would roll their eyes at.

People say the struggle is real, and hell, I’m not going to pretend that the struggle of the people who come to my club is the same sort of struggle as the people trying to pay their goddamn mortgage or put food on the table or buy their kid shoes. I know it’s not the same.

But maintaining privacy in a world where iPhones and GoPros have taken away every bit of discretion from a celebrity—well fuck, that struggle is real too.

So, I made a club to cater to the A-Listers in this town who need a safe place to go and blow off some steam.

Off the highway, I take a left and then a right, another right, left, another right, driving in circles until I’m in the center of the maze of my own making. This club is exclusive and hard-to-find. There is no address, no signage. No Google map address.

If you want to come here, you need to know someone. Well, know someone who knows someone.

I park my bike, push open the back door of the warehouse, and step inside. Up front I see the manager, Jordan, leading a staff meeting.

I may own this place, but that’s the end of the line for me. I keep a low profile, the one stipulation in my parents’ will. If I wanted their money, my face could never become a commodity.

They never wanted what happened to them to happen to me.

Jordan sees me, tells the staff to take five, and heads over to the bar where I’m already stashing my leather jacket and helmet. He signed a non-disclosure agreement before he was hired, and if he wants a gorgeous paycheck, he’ll keep his mouth shut on the truth of who owns this joint.

“How’re things looking, boss?” I ask him. I trust Jordan, he’s been with me at this club since it opened, and while he may be a little uptight and OCD for my taste, I know it means he runs a tight ship. And that’s what I need here. Privacy and pleasure are the words we live by here at A Club.

Well, I call it A Club, that’s what I named it. You can’t get more nondescript than that.

But apparently, the place got a nickname pretty damn fast. The A-List Fuck Club.

“Things are good, lots of VIPs coming tonight. Apparently, Danny Bruneau signed some girls last week. A few from California, but he was out of town in bum-fuck Indiana, and apparently found a dark-haired Heidi Klum while he was there.” When I don’t respond, Jordan shrugs and keeps going, “I know, you don’t read those tabloids.”

I lower my eyes as a frown forms. “I didn’t know Danny was still scouting these days. I thought his agency was on the fritz.”

I hand Jordan a whiskey sour and then grab myself a beer.

“Guess he’s trying to make a play. Seems models are his way back up to the top,” Jordan says.

It’s interesting, Danny Bruneau has been coming here for ages, but he mostly has a few drinks and goes home to his wife. Bringing talent is something he hasn’t done in a year.

“Good for him,” I say, knowing this business is a grind, and if he can keep hustling in his sixties, more power to him.

“Agreed,” Jordan says, pulling out his phone and reading some notes aloud. “So, that crew is coming tonight, and Sawyer and Sondra will be here too. Beyond that, we have a list of regulars who we’re expecting. Oh, and the lead in that new HBO show, Vanka. And apparently, the singer Jack Harris will be here with his posse.”

I nod, take a sip. “We have enough backup? I don’t want any more trouble like we had last week.”

“I know, I got some more bouncers coming, but from where I’m standing, the Russian Mafia is going to back off. I think them coming here last week, asking for the owner was a fluke.”

I shake my head, disagreeing. “That shit isn’t a fluke. I’m telling you, Jordan. These guys aren't just talking.”

“Well, we’re covered tonight. If it becomes more serious, we’ll deal with them then.” Jordan adjusts his narrow tie and raises his whiskey sour to me. “Okay, I got to get back to the staff meeting.”

“Listen, if you catch wind about those thugs coming back, I need to know right away.”

“I know, it’s just, I know how much you value your anonymity,” Jordan says. He’s never once jeopardized my cover, never once let the cat out of the bag that I am the boss around here.

But I know what pressure can do to a person, and if the Russian Mafia starts putting pressure on Jordan, I need to know before it’s too late.

“My anonymity means nothing,” I tell him, “if the integrity of this club is ruined.”

Jordan nods and heads back to the staff meeting. The waitresses who are waiting for him wear fishnets and corsets, and stand in their stilettos, laughing. A group of dancers with their long legs and narrow waists head to their dressing rooms, getting ready for tonight and our DJ is setting up his gear in the corner.

I grin; I love this fucking place. I may have wanted a club, a place you could get a drink, have a good fucking time, but truth is, I never imagined it would turn into something so fucking sexy. So, decadent. So, disturbing.

But sex sells, and I have no problem with that. We have dark rooms for the sole purpose of doing dark deeds.

Remember, life is hard enough as it is. A little pussy, a little cock—if that’s the something sweet you need to help make the medicine go down, open wide baby, and I’ll pour it right in.

This club is full of stripper poles and cages. Sofas where men can lean back and have performers straddle them, or more. Where a woman can slip into a room, drop her clothes and have a pleasure trove waiting for her. The A-List Fuck Club has everything—discretion guaranteed.

Yes, there’s plenty of fucking at this place, but the beauty is, no one needs to know.