haggle | May. 16th, 2021

THE PINK SLIP

Tucked like a dirty secret behind a sliding panel in the back hallway of Silco’s prestigious Host Club, The Pink Slip is its younger, trashier, more dangerous cousin. While the Host Club drips with polish and wine-soaked power plays, The Pink Slip is where you go to lose yourself — a place where fantasy gets undressed to its rawest form, and dignity’s just another thing you’ll beg to give up. Strip club, speakeasy, and emotional dungeon all in one — no coin changes hands here. Only power, confession, and obsession.

Currency is about desire and exposure. You "pay" with: humiliation (onstage, in whispers, in performance), desperation (confessed cravings, public obedience), willingness to degrade or be degraded, sexual favors — bartered, begged for, or performed, and trophies (lingerie left behind, ruined lipstick, video clips left on staff's phones), etc.

If you’re poor in shame or pride? Ani’s not interested. Come back when you’re more pathetic.

Guests can’t just walk in. You either: receive a Pink Slip invite (a physical velvet-card embossed with a kiss of wax and a secret password) from Ani herself, a recommendation from Silco, "pay" an entry fee, or are brought by a patron who already has access — but you’re their responsibility for the night.

If you fuck up, they pay for it. And no one forgets a debt in this place.

LOCATION: Hidden behind a velvet-paneled wall at the back of Silco’s Host Club. A faint outline of a lipsticked mouth is the only marker.
HOURS: Open Friday through Monday from 10 PM to dawn.

THE RULES:
1. Desire is currency. If you’re not hungry, you don’t belong here.
2. No touching the dancers unless invited. And if you have to ask? You weren’t.
3. Hurt a dancer, and you're the next act.
4. Lap dances and private time are not rights. They are privileges.
5. Ani's room is sacred ground. Don’t follow. If she wants you, she’ll call.
6. No phones. Unless you're crying into one.

THE RUNWAY

THE MAIN STAGE is a long, glossy catwalk made from polished pink plexi that runs straight through the center of the room, glowing from underneath with flickering lights that change color based on the mood or performance. It’s surrounded on all sides by seating, so no matter where you are, you’re close enough to see sweat, glitter, and the moment someone breaks. Three poles rise like sirens from the stage — thick, high, candy-coated chrome that catches the light with every spin. The floor itself is mirrored in parts, cracked in others, and always dusted in glitter — too much to ever clean up, on purpose.

Strung above it: pink neon hearts, busted disco balls, and a chandelier made of tangled pearls and stripper heels. At the far end sits The Confessional Chair — bubblegum velvet, no arms, and bolted to the stage for when a dancer wants you still, on display, and squirming.

THE BAR

THE BAR (AKA: THE GUTTER) isn’t where you go to be classy. It’s where you go to lose your taste and your self-respect — and maybe get both back in somebody else’s mouth.

Lined with crushed velvet barstools in tacky shades of bubblegum and fuchsia, The Gutter glows under a haze of pink neon signs shaped like lips, handcuffs, and melting hearts. Glitter clings to every surface — including your drink — and the bartop itself is lacquered clear over a collage of torn-up lingerie tags, crumpled membership slips, smeared lipstick prints, and burned-out matches. If you leave a mark here, it stays.

Bartenders ignore orders unless you’ve paid the emotional toll. Every drink has a trigger — something you must say or do to receive it. Some drinks contain aphrodisiacs, some induce tears. All of them make you feel. Examples of drinks and their payments include:

Pink Lightning: Say something cruel you’ve never apologized for. Now apologize — to a stranger.

Silk Slip Martini: Remove one item of clothing and leave it behind.

Bitch in Heat: Crawl to the bar on all fours. You don’t rise until the bartender nods.

Ani’s Special: Let Ani spit in your drink. Drink it anyway. Smile. Say thank you.

Russian Roulette: Let a dancer decide which one you get — and you can’t drink it yourself. They feed it to you with their mouth.

The Slut's Prayer: Get on your knees and tell the bartender who you’ve betrayed. Loudly. Clearly. Then ask forgiveness.

VIP ROOMS

A room for every need you didn’t know you had. Seven doors, seven rooms, seven sins. Each room is curated for emotional extremes, personal unmaking, and selective intimacy. Guests don’t book by act. They book by what they want to feel — or what they’re afraid they will.

LUST — themed by obsession, overstimulation, denial, craving. The Lust Room isn’t just about touch — it’s about wanting to be wanted. Dancers here slow everything down. Clients are teased, praised, denied. Clothing is removed like ritual. Breath on skin becomes negotiation. Some performances are whispered fantasies. Others are strictly non-contact — just the agony of watching what you can’t have.

Dancers might crawl across the floor. Pull you into their lap. Tell you they dreamed about you — just to watch you believe it. It’s not always overtly sexual. Sometimes it’s about obsession. Sometimes, about not being seen at all until someone makes you look.

The room bends to the dancer's mood — a place for passion, worship, punishment, or ruin.

GLUTTONY — is for those who want to gorge on everything: attention, affection, flesh, praise. This room indulges excess in all forms — verbal, physical, emotional. It's pure overindulgence given form: layered caresses, endless kisses, insatiable whispers promising more, always more. You’ll be pushed past your limits, trapped in a cycle of craving and surrender, made to confess how much you need it all — more touch, more attention, more devotion.

In the Gluttony Room, lust is a bottomless pit — and you’re the willing sinner, paying in the currency of surrender to your desire and excess. It’s less about satiation, more about the intoxicating torment of never getting enough.

GREED — For those who want to earn what they’re given, this room is a stage for games of control and cost. It’s not about money, but value: what you’re worth, what you’ll give, what you’ll degrade to get closer. You pay in pieces of yourself. For every inch you want closer, you give them something more. Darker, more vulnerable, more raw, more honest, more desperate. If you can’t go further, they leave you.

SLOTH — dancers don’t perform in the Sloth Room. They exist. They stretch out beside you, drape over you like lazy cats, blow smoke in your face, and roll their hips like they’re dreaming. They might let you rest your head on their lap while they trail their fingers down your chest — half-asleep, half-bored.

If you want attention? You wait for it. If you want more? You prove you deserve it. If you try too hard? Talk too fast? Ask for anything? You’re shown the door.

This is where you pay for the privilege of being ignored. Until you're not.

And when they do finally look at you — really look — it’s like being peeled apart under a microscope. A dancer might hold your face in both hands and ask the kind of questions that leave bruises under the skin: “Who do you cry for?” “What part of you are you most ashamed of?” “What would you do if no one forgave you?”

You don’t come here to be entertained. You come here to be undone. It’s emotional stripping — slow, intimate, devastating. You might cry. That’s fine. They’ve seen it all before. This is where you stop posturing. No begging. No teasing. Just breath, skin, and the kind of quiet that breaks you open.

WRATH — is for punishment and consensual degradation. This is not about safe fantasies. It’s about seeing what happens when someone gets inside your head and decides to burn it down.

Dancers don’t ask if you’ve sinned. They ask how many times, and who else you dragged down with you. They slap you with truths, or just their hands. They force confessions. They humiliate — cruel and careful — until you’re raw from the inside out.

Sometimes they hold your face too tight. Sometimes they make you beg for forgiveness for something they just made up — and then tell you they still don’t believe you.

They can be rough, elegant, or deadly soft, but never kind.

ENVY — is for those who want what they can’t have. This room invites longing. You’re either on display or watching someone else get what you begged for. Dancers here don’t just tease; they stoke the fire of your jealousy by giving their attention just enough to drive you wild, then turning it away like you’re nothing.

They’ll whisper in your ear about the things they shouldn’t share — stories of others who have them, touches they save for someone else, and desires they refuse to fulfill for you. Here, envy is a delicious kink about ownership, submission, and the aching, desperate craving for a touch that’s always just out of reach.

PRIDE — for those who want to be worshipped or destroyed trying. In the Pride Room, dancers worship your ego like a god. They’re here to feed your vanity, boost your confidence, or drag your ego through the mud and demand you worship them — if that’s what you need. The client gets to decide to be the prize or the pawn.

This is a room where you bathe in your own reflection and are both adored and challenged. The dancer knows exactly when to praise and when to cut. Pride demands perfection and devotion — and punishes failure with humiliating displays, chastening touches, or the slow, merciless denial of pleasure. Here, pride is about craving validation through submission, pushing limits under the gaze of a superior, and surrendering your ego to feel the sharpest thrill of all. You don’t come here to feel good. You come to feel important. And then be reminded that, sometimes, even gods can be broken.

You leave either adored or humiliated. Often both.

THE BUTTERFLY ROOM

Perched in a shadowed mezzanine overlooking the glitter-drenched chaos of The Pink Slip is Ani’s private room, hidden behind a lash of chain-crystal shimmer. The walls are half glass, two-way mirrored from the club floor, giving her a panoramic view of everything below: dancers writhing, patrons begging, secrets unfolding under neon light. She sees it all. You just don’t see her. Not until she wants you to.

This is the crown jewel of the club — the most expensive, most exclusive service on the menu. Ani doesn’t take reservations or sell access.

To get inside, you need to earn it. Acts of raw devotion, public displays that make fools of you, confessions that leave you stripped bare, worship without dignity. Rumor says Ani respects those who bleed honesty or intensity — no sweet talk, no half-measures. Only full, brutal offerings get her attention. Prove you're obsessed; prove you're not bluffing.

When she picks you, you’ll know. A dancer slips a butterfly charm into your palm. A drink arrives — no note, just a whisper of perfume. Or Ani tilts your chin in her fingers, looks you in the eye, and says, “Upstairs. Now.”

No questions. No turning back.

Some say she’s invited people mid-breakdown. One guest only got in after crawling to her with a collar in his hand. Another sat at the bottom of the stairs every night for a week, holding a single rose. On the eighth night, the flower was gone. So were they.

If she chooses you, it’s because you’ve already paid the price no money can match. You don’t just get invited. You get marked.

THE POWDER ROOM

Tucked behind a mirrored hallway lined with soft pink sconces, past a door that doesn’t advertise itself, is The Powder Room — an exclusive, unlisted service known only through whispered referrals. There’s no stage, no pole, no music loud enough to forget yourself in. Just quiet lighting, velvet seating, the smell of someone's expensive perfume, and Lady Willow, waiting like a secret you meant to keep.

Clients come with a memory, something quiet but bruised.

"He looked at someone else instead of me."

"I got laughed at when I said I loved her."

"I knew I wasn’t wanted at that table."

Lady Willow listens, then she revises. The feeling softens. The narrative smooths over. You don’t remember crying that night — you remember feeling brave. You remember walking away. You remember being beautiful. You don’t always know it’s happening when she works. You just leave improved, clearer, as if the weight you walked in with never existed.

But the more you ask for, the deeper she must go. The bigger the edit, the higher the cost.

To book time with Lady Willow, you have to give up something Ani considers useful, something real and personal.

These are some of the currencies accepted:

A FAVOR. Not always today or tomorrow, but a blank check to be cashed in. When Ani calls, you'll owe her something. Could be a lie, could be showing up at a party, could be keeping someone distracted, could be a problem she needs fixing, could be anything. She’ll decide.

A SECRET. Something you've never told anyone, or never meant to say out loud. The kind of thing that could ruin a friendship or a reputation. Ani remembers them all.

A CONFESSION. Something bad you did, or something you wanted to do, something that makes you feel ugly. Ani might never use it, but she’ll know it. And you’ll know she knows.

Some returning clients offer a NAME — someone they think needs this place, someone cracked open or wound too tight. Someone who needs to feel good, just once, for no reason. Ani might reach out; maybe not, but she'll remember the name.

In return, you leave lighter, and no one will ever know what you traded to feel that way — except Lady Willow and Ani.