Fembots Among Us

Drinking at L2, a tony Georgetown club, is sipping martinis in a time machine zipping forward. It is beyond posh. A sleek and glamorous world of fashionistas and cocktails, tucked away in a Washington alley.

It also might be where fembots are built.

I do not know what “L2″ stands for, nor do I need to. It is highly unlikely I will ever return. L2 is an exclusive club with an annual membership fee of $3,500. (I’ve heard it’s dropped to $1,500, presumably to ease financial burdens on the Armani-Prada class. The recession has truly affected us all.) My entry to the club was entirely by happenstance.

The entrance is discreet enough that I had some difficulty locating the place, and am not convinced it actually has any signs advertising its existence. The inside is chic and contemporary. Its design is composed of frosted, illuminated glass and exposed bricks. Tea lights abound. There are no paintings, because unseen projectors continually stream old films or screen savers onto the walls in their place.

Like much of the interior decorating, the bar has a glass top with a mysterious source of lighting. People sit around it in transparent plastic seats miraculously perched on thin gleaming poles. Attending bartenders wear designer uniforms. The aggregate lounges are furnished with soft white cubes, and lounge music in a language I do not recognize, perhaps Esperanto. Combined with the immaculate white, brightly-lit plastic-and-steel bathroom, you occasionally suspect you’re standing inside of an iPod.

I think it might be some kind of secret fembot global headquarters. That would account for both the initial wave of clientèle, and their corresponding activities. When I met up with my friends shortly before nine o’clock, L2 was populated by a cabal of preternaturally hot women, each taller and skinnier than myself. Men were scarce. I noted one older gentleman in a tailored suit speaking to some kind of looming, Gucci-funded eugenics experiment, but beyond him and a handful of homosexuals distributing cosmetics and free hair consultations, Victoria’s Secret models appeared to be the norm.

The genders balanced out as the evening progressed, but the first half hour was a fascinating glimpse into the future. Apple will eventually design sexy androids, they will take over, and L2 will become the standard global template: modish lounges replete with beautiful women of impossible proportions, with a small antiquated retinue of gays attending to their purses and makeup.

The activities of L2’s composite lounges reflect this femme-dominant future. The young woman who invited me bought a glass of rosé at the bar, then retreated to a corner to have her nails done. Our mutual friend had a specialist style her hair. Other options included getting facials, massages, hair consultations or tarot card readings. (The third option is more my type of thing, but the psychic on hand departed before I could ask her to confirm my predictions about fembots.)

I will readily admit that hobnobbing at a club which charges annual dues exceeding my alma mater’s yearly tuition borders on the pretentious. I ask the reader to cut some slack: it’s exciting to hang out where glamor and sophistication are intense enough to confuse a Geiger counter. And I was there with a very pretty girl. Her company, combined with my proclivity for snazzy suits and a nice pair of shoes, probably accounts for why bouncers never got around to jettisoning me into the Potomac.

Why she didn’t is anyone’s guess. Yes, it’s theoretically possible that my winning smile and folksy charm somehow earned tolerance from her and the rest of the fembot conspiracy. But it seems equally likely that someone stashed magnets in her purse and they’ve been inducing hardware errors.