The door to Surrender looms across the street from where I stand. I can’t make my legs move toward the door, but I can’t walk away either.
There is no sign above the frame—no advertisement as to what sins men partake in behind the door.
There is nothing to indicate that anything happens here or that this is even a club.
It’s simply an unmarked door. I shouldn’t know it exists, but when I was fifteen, I was desperate for money. To eat. To survive. And to pay off my father’s debts. Debts he accrued when my mother fought a long battle against cancer.
I found a boy at school who sold drugs and offered to help him to make some quick cash. So I sold weed; I couldn’t bring myself to sell anything harder. But this is where he wanted to meet me, outside this club. This is where most of his
