Thank God. Club Level is packed, so much so that I now have five different perfumes on me and even some cologne. There are go-go dancers on risers throughout the fog-filled room, and there’s a glass window where an actual live woman lies naked in the case with plants blocking her nudity. She smiles serenely and waves as people pass her. “Move the plants!” guys yell through the glass. She just wags a finger at them like they’re being naughty. The bartenders are all stunning. Biceps tightening as drinks are poured. Cleavages dipping down as ice is gathered into pretty glasses. Flashing blue and yellow lights ignite profiles of the club goers who were deemed worthy enough to make it past the bouncer. We went right in, the rope pulled back for us with the bouncer fist-bumping Sean and Jack like they’re old buddies, faces cool and unsmiling. “What should I get to drink?” I ask Jack. Sean’s talking to an actress I recognize from the show Chicago Fire, his back to us after she stopped him to say hello.
