There are parts of the city that die at night. The hustle and bustle of the day ends abruptly at about six or seven. Stragglers and work horses may stay until eight or nine. By eleven the streets of the Financial District are deserted.

As our cab pulled up to a seemingly random corner I paid and we wandered out cautiously. I checked my phone for the hundredth time and found the address. As I was told it was above a deli. The building looked just like everything else there; gray, empty, foreboding.

I took Zonah’s hand and we shared raised eyebrow amusement at the shadiness of this whole situation.

Next to the deli was a door with a row of anonymous doorbells. I pressed all of them. In a second a weak tinny buzz croaked and the door clicked open.

Up two flights of dirty but not really filthy stairs until we saw lights and an open door. A twentysomething boy, pretty, shirtless, slightly drunk, came out and opened his arms.

“Welcome to the sex party!”
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