As the sexual assault claims against former IMF chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn pile up, one reporter decided to try to find out it was like to walk a day in his shoes (sans, of course, committing rape). So, remaining anonymous, the Vanity Fair scribe took to the hallowed halls of Parisian sex club Les Chandelles, where Strauss-Khan has reportedly been a repeat visitor.

The writer’s retelling of the evening, which one would think would at least be somewhat sordid and indulgent what with the public sex and all, manages to be as dull, dry and bland as an overbaked chicken breast. Let’s take a look…

She (I’m going to use “she” as a gender neutral pronoun, for ease of language) begins by recounting the blasé people at the door: “couples, well-dressed and seemingly wealthy, leave their coats and bags and wallets, give their first names, and check each other out.” She then notes that the inside of the club is decorated in “the opposite of Laura Ashley,” which frankly seems like a given. Moving further into the dark recesses of the club while drinking a reckless glass of champagne, our heroine proceeds to mindlessly chew her cuticles and look bored as the international crowd begins fucking in front of her:

There is a North African stud servicing many panting women. There is a lot of “oui, oui, oui, oui, mais OUIIIIIII,” which sounds (I have to say) fake to my ears. There is also—which makes me suspect there are Brits in the room—the sound of someone’s bottom being spanked. More “oui, oui, oui, oui, mais OUIIIIIII,” Naked people get boring after a while. You can go to the South of France for that, too, and the scenery is better. “Let’s get out of here,” I say to my friend.

And that is literally that. That’s all the sex we see at the sex club. I suppose it’s possible that this is the most boring sex club in the world, or perhaps this writer is used to watching gang-bangs take place outside police stations in broad daylight in the streets of St. Petersburg in January, so a quaint little bit of sex in the dark rooms of a French nightclub seem positively whimsical to her.

But I have to suspect that there’s more to the story than this, and I would like to officially request a retelling, one with a few more details (come on…you know that oui-oui-ing turned you on a little bit). If you’re going to go ahead and make your way to a sex club in Paris, you don’t have to have sex (I guess) but you can’t just get bored by one sexually prolific North African and then call it a day. It simply isn’t fair to your devoted readers.