It’s the end of the night. The last girl slinks off the stage as hardcore hustlers make their last rounds and those too tired or jaded to try line up to check out. Horror stories are exchanged between those of us doing the sore-foot shuffle and those tapping out quick texts to friends, rides, after-hours party buddies, and sleepy significant others.

At my club, we wait to check out in a service stairwell near the floor host station. Only after all the customers have gone, including anyone left in the champagne rooms, is the DJ’s duty done. When he plays that last song, our collective Pavlovian response goes into overdrive—finally, we can file back out onto the empty floor and sit down. In our jeans, even! Sometimes, that last song doesn’t come on until well after 3 a.m., and sometimes I’m the one stuck in a champagne room after hours, praying for mercy (and a decent tip), but no matter how tired I am, I can’t help singing along when I hear my club’s ridiculous closing song: