She walks up to the black doors of Euphorika dressed in dated and ragged clothes. White shirt, black skirt, black purse, white heels. She looks lost but she knows this is exactly the place she is looking for. She pretends that she's looking for directions as she squints at her paper map but she's actually stalling, praying for someone or some divine intervention to stop her before she opens the door. The sad part is, you can tell she tried to look her best in that outfit. She actually took the time to choose what made her feel feminine. We've all been there when we dressed our best, hoping for someone to notice, hoping for a boyfriend to notice, a spouse, but they never do. In this case this would be the one time where she wouldn't want them to notice. Her cheap mascara creates dark circles out of her eyes, her red lipstick is slightly splotched on the corner of her bottom lip. She thinks this is going to be like a regular job interview but she's not being interviewed, and even if she was, it definitely isn't based on personality or the spark she feels when she lets herself finally be a woman. They don't really look for women here, they look for parts. I wish I could tell her to run the other way, but once someone has made it this far, they've fallen low enough to make up their mind. 

My head leans back on the magenta colored wall. A stubby cigarette rests between my lips and I watch the smoke dance in the air. The neon sign of Euphorika flashes count for count in a 4/4 rhythm, brightening the street below with each beat. Little lightbulbs surround the sign and their lights play a little game, trying to eat their own tail. It's dead silent. The occasional sound of a car's rowdy exhaust interrupts the quiet, but the night quickly goes back to an impossible hush. It feels like the quiet you feel when you wake up in the middle of the night and everyone in the house is still quietly sleeping. No one's sleeping anywhere around here though, that's for sure. The lady checks her map once more and makes eye contact with me. God I was hoping she'd turn around. She clacks with each step and eventually reaches me. Her bald head reflects the lights above us ever so slightly. “This is Euphorika, right?” It's always me who gets these ones. I just want to scream and shout, tell her to save herself and get out of here but…I simply shake my head yes. “So do you work here?” Not a job, a degrading death sentence. “You could say that.” Please lady, please, wherever you come from can't be as bad as this. Just hang on a little longer, find a different way to make money, do anything else! “They're hiring right?” Wrong answer.

I take her through the club towards the back, towards The Lion's den. She follows behind me slowly, looking around at the faded snakeskin walls. We reach the outside of his den which is essentially a waiting room. A giant arched door separates us from The Lion. On either side of the giant wooden doors are two sculptures of voluptuous naked women who are bound by rope, like captured game. Seats fill the outsides of the room. I ask her to sit while we wait. She sits with her legs crossed modestly and I sit next to her. “Lots of competition in here,” she whispers, joking out of fear. All the other women in here are mostly like her: dolled up and bushy tailed, waiting to feel independent again; strong. They all sit prim and proper, trying to find some semblance of womanhood in a world like this. I mean, that's why they're all here: to feel like a woman again. The doors blast open and a girl runs out, hysterically crying. She scurries away, rejected. I've seen it many times, and they always feel destroyed by being turned away. Imagine living in a world that despises women and you can't even get someone to objectify you. She thinks it's the end of the world but I promise it's better out there. The Lion spots me and calls me over. “Ms. 2000, I see you have a new family member, come in.” “That's us,” I say. 

The Lion's den is dark, dingy, and it smells like a strong mahogany body spray. He sits on a chair made out of women's clothes, made to look like a throne. His glass table is filled with books, all pertaining to the animal kingdom. The Lion wears his blue hair spiked like long needles, which emphasizes his intense widow's peak. He has a long face with a sharp, square chin. Dark, tiny, circular sunglasses cover his eyes. Peach fuzz decorates his chin and his throat. “Sit,” he says to both of us. We sit in the heel shaped chairs and he begins talking to the woman I brought in. “So, you got the right parts?” A lump fills my throat. My face flushes every single time I do this. Thank God it's always dark here. She looks confused, embarrassed and ashamed, yet, oddly enough, respected for being so disrespected. “Yes.” He looks at her face, her chest, her waist, and he lingers on her eyes for a moment. 

She breaks eye contact and blinks. You can always tell the ones he likes, and you can tell he found what he was looking for. “Does everything you're working with work?” “Yes.” It's that easy. “Alright, you're Ms. 3001. Ms. 2000 take her and get her out there.” We stand up and before we leave he steps behind from his desk. He grabs her hands and looks directly at her. “Oh and Ms. 3001, your eyes are beautiful. Don't be afraid either, you're in good hands. Ms. 2000 here is one of a kind and she'll help you fit right into our home.” Her face lights up and just like that she's going to be stuck here. It's why we're all stuck here. It's sick, it's twisted, it's disgusting, but, at least we feel somewhat pretty. 

We sit in a dressing room with at least 15 other women accompanied by women like me showing them the ropes. Giant racks of leather outfits fill the room. Before we start I ask Ms. 3001 for her actual name. “It's Madeline June.” “It's nice to meet you, Madeline. Don't ever forget your name, ok?” I croak out. It's always at this point that tears well up, but even if I wanted to I'm never able to cry. “Well, what's yours?” I freeze and put my hands in my pocket. I want to tell her but this world took away who I was. That version of me is long gone and even if it were here, the world wouldn't be worthy of knowing it. “You heard him, it's Ms. 2000.” Most people here with the new recruits make them get dressed in their outfit in front of everyone but I spare her and all of mine that shame. “Go find your size on the rack and grab an outfit. Meet me in the bathroom.” 

Once there she changes in the stall. I try to avoid myself in the mirror but the nagging reflection taunts me in my peripheral vision. Once out, she reveals her outfit: the outfit we all have to wear. Her face is covered by a black leather mask, covering her hair, revealing her eyes, cheeks, chin and lips. She wears a black leather jacket with long sleeves but the jacket itself stops above her stomach. A white turtleneck is underneath, stopping at the same place, showing her soft belly. She has her black fingerless gloves, a belt, and her leg pouches all put on. This is usually where they get butterflies. She looks at herself in the mirror, gently holding her exposed stomach. She turns to show herself her back and a masochistic smile slightly tinges the corner of her mouth, exposing the gap between her two front teeth. Time to get her ready. We go into a tiny room adjacent to the dressing room. Ms. 1010, or as I know her, Francine, sits at a rolling stool in the middle of the room, rummaging through a box. The room looks like a storage room, filled with giant and little boxes, stacked to the ceiling in hundreds of piles. Madeline walks in and I stand on the outside. “So, which one are you?” “3001.” “I knew we'd hit over 3000,” she says yelling to me. She finds an ironic delight in that fact. “So, what kind of stuff are you into, we need to get you a bandana.” “Into?” 

“We got your yellow, red, blue, and white. We also got the white one with black spots but only Ms. 2000 out there and a few others are crazy enough to wear that one.” Madeline is silent, rightfully confused. This is where reality hits them. Francine explains and I predict that Madeline will choose yellow; she does. Francine loads up Madeline's leg pouches with only various pieces of contraception and leaves out any drugs; those kinds of things are for the other colors. Madeline walks out to me like a cat examining its own reflection. Her yellow bandana adorning her left arm, right under her shoulder, stares at me. She was now a Mate. We share a glance as she takes a deep, quivering breath. It's up to me to get her out there.