The Revelation
compelled you to seek membership in The Club.
    “It’s pretty simple, actually: I’m joining The Club
because I’m a sick fuck. Or so I’ve been recently told by someone I
loved and trusted with all my fucking heart. Well, I might be a
sick fuck, but at least I’m not a heartless liar. I’m not the one
who begged me to open up, pleaded with me to tell her the truth
about my deepest desires and told me it was safe and she wouldn’t
judge me, and then when I finally broke down and told her
everything, called me a ‘sick fuck’ and said there’s something
‘deeply wrong with me’ and then cheated on me with a douchebag who
wears a fucking ascot and says ‘bloody hell’ and rides polo ponies
for fuck’s sake. Motherfucking bastard asshole. After three years
she couldn’t give me the courtesy of breaking up with me? I had to
hear she’d run off with that douche from a friend? Ha! And this was
all because of shit I merely fantasized about doing—I hadn’t
even done any of it yet—and she ran away screaming (and right into
that fucktard’s arms)?
    “For three years, I tried my damnedest to fix her and love her and protect her as best I could. But it turns out
she was too broken to be fixed and loved and protected—or at least
too broken to be fixed by a ‘sick fuck’ like me. Well, if I’m gonna
lose the only girl I’ve ever loved for simply fantasizing about doing some crazy shit, then I might as well fucking do all of
it, huh? Especially now that she’s gone for good, riding off into
the sunset on a fucking polo pony. Why should I suffer all the
consequences of being a sick fuck without reaping all the rewards,
too? So let’s do this shit, motherfuckers. I’m ready, baby—as ready
as a sick fuck can possibly be.”
    I look up from my screen, overwhelmed. Holy effing
shit. My heart is beating so hard, I feel like it’s going to crack
me wide open from the inside-out. I take a deep breath, look back
down at the screen, and continue reading.
    Please provide a detailed statement regarding your
sexual preferences. To maximize your experience in The Club, please
be as explicit, detailed, and honest as possible. Please do not
self-censor, in any fashion.
    “If you were a woman telling me to be as explicit,
detailed, and honest as possible and not self-censor myself in any
fashion, I’d laugh in your face. But since you’re some mysterious
‘intake agent’ at an underground sex club, and since I’ve got
literally nothing to lose at this point, I’ll do it. But here’s the
deal: I want absolute assurance you’re gonna give me precisely what
I ask for, to the letter. If after reading this you determine you
can’t give me exactly what I want, every fucking time, then don’t
approve my membership. Because, just to be clear, I don’t need this
club to get laid—I can do that just fine on my own with some of the
world’s most beautiful women. The only reason I’m applying to this
club is to fulfill my ‘sick fuck’ fantasies, exactly as
described . Because I don’t want this shit to taint my real
    “Before I describe what I want you to give me, let’s
first talk logistics—because I don’t have the time or attention
span to do things your usual way. The way this club was described
to me by a buddy, it’s my understanding you typically assign each
new member a color-coded bracelet so he can hook up with
like-minded women with similarly coded bracelets at bars or
wherever. Well, that’s not gonna work for me. I’m too busy and what
I want is too specific. So what I want is for you to read this
application, go through your database, and then curate compatible
women for me, no color-coded bracelets or check-ins required.
    “I’ve recently learned I’ll be traveling around the
country for about a month in the near future, appraising certain
investment opportunities for my company. (I anticipate visiting
about twelve cities over the course of one month—my exact itinerary
to be

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