"It's a liquid bar," he was saying. "The only one in the United States."

Sure enough, I poked it with a finger and the liquid underneath collected around the spot.

"So, someone would have to be on serious drugs to design a place like this," I said. "Right?"

Jason Crosby


The Living Room, 300 SW First Ave., Fort Lauderdale. Call 888-992-7555, or visit livingroomnightclub.com.

"I've designed many other clubs," Mark says. "This is my favorite... I've put pieces of my soul into this. Every detail has to be perfect. I'm constantly touching things up. This place has to be like new every single time it opens."

He pulled me through a velvet rope and up to the VIP section.

 VIP: As I mentioned earlier, the VIP section is badass, with its body-painted attendants and personal air vents. After Mark ran off, probably to hair-check the rest of his employees, I found myself a little lonely — until a troop of extremely excited guys claimed the VIP spot next to me. Herman, a young Colombian man who had designed parts of the club, was celebrating his 25th birthday.

As I sat and watched them, a compact man with blond hair combed to a point sat beside me.

"I've been coming here every weekend since the place opened," he said. "And I've never paid for anything." The place charges no cover and boasts an open bar till midnight — I had to wonder how the place makes money.

"The owner loves me," he continued. "I'm bored here, but I come here because everything else is boring."

"I feel that way sometimes," I said, trying to be empathetic.

"You have beautiful toes," he said, staring at my feet. "I have a toe fetish."

Patrons: Feet are not my thing. I was out of the VIP section in a flash, and once back in Inverness, I stumbled upon Anthony and Chad.

"What do you guys think of the place?" I asked.

"Not enough sex," Chad said, tossing his floppy brown hair. "No people having sex inside."

Anthony told me that this place was the most awesome place in Fort Lauderdale, but by no means was it the best place in South Florida.

"Not enough Latin boys," he continued.

"Well?" I turned to Chad.

"Not enough sex," he repeated.

"He doesn't know. He hasn't been to a gay club in years," Anthony said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Maybe I'm not gay," Chad said defensively.

"I'm not gay, and I was at a gay club two days ago," I said.

"He is gay," Anthony said smugly. "We dated in high school."

"Look, I've been busy in med school," he said. "Would you like me to use the wrong tools when I operate on you because I've been busy at gay clubs?" Touché.

In the wee hours of the night, I finally squeaked out of the electric paradise. Turning to reflect, I gazed upon that glowing green building against the dark night sky. The place has excessive amounts of affection among strangers, extravagance, flashing lights, a shitload of perfect white couches, and damned good music. But let's skip the bullshit: It has free drinks and boys in loincloths. So VIP section and awesome décor be damned: Drinks and loincloths are all you need to drag my bitchy ass through a door.

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