It looked like a regular nightclub. It was well lit, music blared, and people hung out. I would not have thought: This is a place to buy sex. I got to talking with a group of Iraqi girls. They were slathered with makeup and topped by massive, overstyled hair. They explained their situation to me: They fuck for 20 or 30 dollars. Then they go to the club and, until dawn, alternate between sitting around and having sex with Syrian strangers. This is what their day is like, every day.
This was the signal for all the girls to get onto the dance floor. I followed them. It felt like the right thing to do. It was my first time on one, but I had been drinking and they kept on cheering, so I really let loose.
Afterward, the manager approached me and asked me whether I would work at his club. He said he could see I had fun doing what I was doing and he liked that, and his clients liked that. I wanted to see what I was worth in Damascus, so I agreed to meet his boss the next day. He wore a suit and had an air-conditioned, windowless office in a building on the other side of town. After offering me tea, he told me my strengths and weaknesses. The club manager asked, somewhat heatedly, for a 15 percent commission.
I never went back to this club, nor did I answer the phone when the boss rang, but I had the hook in me. It had been a dumb and callous adventure, but it had stirred something up. I wanted to visit more brothels. On the following Friday evening, I wentβthis time with an Arab friendβto the discotheque in the basement of the Hotel Meridien.
After my friend had met a few of the girls there, he confirmed that they were all Iraqi refugees. All of them were drunk to the point of staggering up and down the carpeted stairs under the weak, cheap disco lights.
