A night at Las Vegas' Marquee club sounds like my own personal version of hell, at least how GQ's Devin Friedman describes it: "Massing out front were, by my estimation, at least 2,000 people. Packs of Asian bachelorettes sucking on cock-and-balls lollipops. Pods of probably either Libyan or Italian princes of the overclass in blazers and exposed solar plexuses and calfskin loafers and Adrian Grenier knit caps. Teams of 29-year-old white men in untucked dress shirts and heavy cuff links…"
But some people spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to make it past the velvet ropes — and, specifically, on girls. Not women, always "girls." Drop enough cash and a concierge will ask you what type of girl you want him to bring back to your Grey Goose-laden table: blonde, brunette, or "slut."
Later another security officer would tell me, "Some guys get racial and say, 'I only want Asian girls' or 'white girls.' Or they'll be like, 'We only want blondes' or 'brunettes.' But a lot of guys say, 'We don't care, just bring us some sluts.' "
But club promoters are constantly on the lookout for "elite" girls, and some "filler" girls, too:
If a woman is "elite," she's given drink tickets and delivered personally to a bottle-service table so that there's some nice ornamentation when the table customers arrive. The "filler" girls-that's what they're called, filler, like the cornstarch in the McNugget mix-are taken to a special line near the Boulevard Pool, filtered through an entrance, and set loose to roam the club. All this is done before the crush starts, before the bottle-service customers arrive, so that dudes who are paying thousands of dollars don't have to walk into an empty club. This is called "painting the room," and it's also the reason all the waitresses are obligated to dance for an hour before the shitshow begins in earnest. If you come early, you'll see them all standing at attention, smiling, doing this kind of torso twist, with feet planted, that looks kind of like the central agitator in a washing machine.
Being "elite," though, doesn't just mean that you're attractive.
"They don't want reserved girls at the table," Bhagya said. "They want people who are up there going crazy, jumping around, drinking." He laughs. His Sri Lankan accent is barely noticeable: It registers merely as a kind of playful singsonginess. Then he said the only thing there was to say: "I mean, at the end of the night there's only one thing that guys want. They want it to be, you know, a good night."
Basically, elite just = DTF. Read the GQ piece in full to hear more about the girls who dance around "a clamshelly cavern of a place that glowed reddish and pulsed, with a dance floor at its focal point, layers of bottle-service tables perched around it, and a forty-foot LED screen above the DJ stage." Shudder.