house stories

First, let me just declare my love of limeade. It has absolutely less than nothing to do with the subject matter at hand, but o, o, o how I love thee, limeade. A refreshing summer beverage that is perfect for when you come home from the gym and need a little extra acid in your stomach to make you feel alive.

I once drank so much limeade for such an extended period of time, that I started to get acid reflux. Too much of a delicious thing, maybe. Kind of like the time I broke out in hives in Mexico, because I all I ate was shrimp ceviche and lobster and crab for 6 days. It was worth it both times.

Anywho, on the side of the building where I now reside - until I begin the co-habitation period of my romance - is a sign that says Burlesque. When I moved in, I thought that the jazz club downstairs was actually a burlesque joint, and I was waiting to see what "types" came jaunting in and out.

I then thought, hey - those burlesque folks like the buxom lady, I hear. I entertained the idear of getting some black lingerie with fringes and rhinestones and making some extra money for vacation. But alas, the burlesque club and it's sordid entourage have long since left these parts. However, turns out that this was a historic location, for interesting reasons.

I suppose the tiny, almost makeshift kitchen should have been the first tip off to the previous goings on here. Or perhaps the bidet and the pink jacuzzi bathtub with the loud and ornate gold fixtures, all surrounded by lavender tiles and the shell from The Birth of Venus, would have been a clue. But no, I just thought that the tenants or owners before us had some eccentric taste. Turns out, not so much.

See, the landlord - with whom I have no affiliation - is apparently most infamous for running the aforementioned club and along with it, a brothel in my very building and apartment. At the time, it was apparently quite seedy and popular and in my research, I have uncovered that this, purportedly, is where the lap dance was invented. Yes, the art of disease ridden, paid, grinding one-person-clothed-contact was founded right downstairs, while the art of disease ridden, paid, grinding, no-one-with-clothes contact was practiced just a shy floor above.

Giuliani took care of that.

And then came Wyclef, who it turns out was not responsible for the decor, and then came my housemates and now there's me. Come to find out though, the landlord is completely nuts. Not surprising, given her history with the building. But the folks in this neighborhood, well they don't stand for that kind of shenanigan no more, which is why when she advertised on Craigslist that she is opening an "anything goes, gay sex club" the tenants got a little uneasy.

She could of course, never open such an establishment here, but just the idea that this is still her modus operendi is worrysome. And here I sit now, wondering how I have such a penchant for bizarre locations. But I suppose, in the ever-evolving landscape and peoplescape of Manhattan, I should just consider this par for the course.

So now, since there are only rich people with maids around here and there are no laundromats, I am going to go and launder my trou and unmentionables in the lovely pink and gold bathtub and try to cleanse my mind of the thought of what possibly happened in there, before I showed up with rubber gloves and a large bottle of bleach.