I am a cliche. Sadly, the trite sort that no twenty-eight year old professional woman aspires to be. Engaged to a suitable-read boring- man because I’m nearly thirty and marriage with baby carriages is the next step, I’ve resigned myself to a bland existence. Until I catch him on his knees for the wife of our employer the night of our rehearsal dinner. See? Cliche.

Stumbling into the elevator, tears of fury blinding me, I manage to select a floor leading to the one place in all of Seattle where even a cliche like myself can escape her banal existence. With a debit card loaded with honeymoon funds and a reckless desire to feel something, I join Club Sin.

Do I have a clue what kinds of things happen in the themed rooms? No. I sure don’t. I’ve been as vanilla as it gets my whole life. I browse the list of rooms, feeling like a kid in a candy store filled with fancy confectionaries. With no partner in sight and a need to forget myself for a night, I let the bartender select a room for me. Room one hundred and twenty-five she says. She’s got a good feeling about it.

With nothing to lose and no reason to say no, I take the key card she offers and read the label on the slim plastic. Room 125: All Access.

Well alright then.