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In Russia, the experience was more subdued.
The luxury was more in the details—the quality of the drinks, the exclusivity of the clientele, and the promise of privacy and discretion.
Clandestine gatherings and dens of mystery, where the allure lay as much in the secrecy and exclusivity as in the entertainment provided.
Meanwhile, American clubs flaunted their offerings.
Dancers performed not just on stages, but moving throughout the crowd, engaging with patrons in a way that was both direct and disarmingly casual. There was a sense of immediacy to the interactions, a commercial frankness to the exchange of money for entertainment that was both refreshing and jarring.
An overt celebration of sexuality.
From the stages to the private rooms, each space amplified the fantasy being sold.
In Russia, the distance maintained between dancer and patron was deliberate, cultivating an atmosphere of longing and unfulfilled desire that was its own form of intoxication.
The boundaries were less clear, the rules unspoken but understood by those who frequented the clubs.
The thrill often in the pursuit as much as in the capture.
And this was funny to me because our culture tended to be the opposite.
In Russia, the concept of personal space was not an option—your space was their space.
Americans preferred more personal space than us. They shook hands or gave a short hug and immediately stepped aside, putting three to four feet between them and the person.
Also, I’d learned long ago that most Americans didn’t enjoy close talkers.
In Russia, we talked right on top of each other if we desired it, leaving barely a foot between us.
Maxwell pointed at one of his men. “Eh!”
The guy looked his way. He’d been escorting a group of women toward the exit.
Maxwell wagged his finger. “Not the ladies, man. Especially the fine ones. What the fuck are you doing? They can clearly stay. It’s the motherfuckers with sausages that have to go.”
The guy nodded and gestured for the women to sit back down.
“Good evening, ladies.” Maxwell held out his hands and winked at them. “Everything is on me tonight. Don’t even think about pulling out your purses.”
They smiled and hurried to their seats.
“Mmmhmm.” Maxwell watched them and licked his lips. “Tonight is going to be a good one.”
A second later, Maxwell called over the waitress.
Blinking, she got to us. “Sir?”
“Get that table right there whatever they want, and make sure that it is on top brand too.”
“Okay.” She nodded and rushed their way.
Maxwell rubbed his hands together. “Oh yeah. Daddy’s back home.”
I watched the last of the club’s male patrons leave.
Satisfaction settled over me.
Maxwell leaned forward and looked at Tisha. “Eh, man. We need to lay down the groundwork for our game tonight.”
