THE JULIETTE SOCIETY 7 page

But Kubrick had a secret. He used to sneak off to the garage and jerk off over beefcake mags. It’s not that he was pretending he was straight when he was really gay, or that he was more of one than the other. He just found himself bored of the sex he had with his wife and was looking for a new kick.

He started thinking about what else could get him off. He decided to let his imagination really fly and see where it would take him. He started collecting catalogues.

Not underwear catalogues. That would be far too obvious, too easy. Catalogues of garden furniture, of seeds and cereals and grains, of dental instruments, of woods and metals and concrete. He followed his whims and collected whatever tickled his fancy. He would look at the photos and he found out that he was pretty adept at constructing detailed sexual fantasies around inanimate objects, the more mundane the better, because Kubrick was training himself to sexualize the world around him.

He figured that was a world that would be a far more exciting place to live in, that it would take him out of the drudgery of his government desk job, his normal suburban life. It would be far more exciting than even beating off to beefcake magazines in the garage after dinner.

This is how Kubrick found his calling. As a fetishist.

One thing led to another and soon Kubrick had a whole library of the most bizarre beat‑off material anyone’s ever seen. A library that to anyone else just looked like the kind of eccentric collection of books you’d find at a flea market or Goodwill. Soon there was no more room in the garage to house the collection, but it meant so much to him that, instead of moving it or paring it down, he decided to sell his car.

One day, Kubrick got to talking with one of his co‑workers about his collection and they both realized they had something in common. They both realized they were living a lie. They decided to start a club to pursue their interests.

At first, they would meet in a room deep in the recesses of the building after work hours. There were only a handful of them and they would just sit around with a beer, each discussing their fantasies in turn for the others – like group therapy but for sadists and perverts. It was all very sedate and civilized. Until, one evening, as Kubrick was relating a particularly lurid sex fantasy involving a hosepipe, a sprinkler and a pile of manure, a guy sitting opposite him, who was new to the group, pulled out his penis and started to jerk off in front of everyone else. Instead of stopping to tell him to zip up, Kubrick carried on, incredulous. Now he had a new challenge. He wanted to see if he could get this guy off.

As he continued, the other guys in the room also started to unzip and soon Kubrick found himself in the position of trying to help them all, stimulating them to orgasm solely through the power of his imagination. And, to him, this was like the greatest kick of all. Way better than simply beating off over catalogues of cleaning products and jewelry and power tools.

The next time they met, a few of the guys brought their secretaries and interns. As Kubrick sat in the middle of the circle and told them stories, they started doing a lot more than just jerking off in front of each other. Kubrick’s little gathering very quickly turned into a support group for sex addicts where more sex was encouraged, not less. People started bringing props and dressing up. The scenes they acted out became more elaborate and involved.

As word got out and more and more government employees wanted to join, things started to get out of hand. It was getting harder and harder to keep it a secret. Around the same time, Kubrick decided he’d had enough of cooking the books for the government so they could prosecute dirty wars in far‑flung territories across the world, then point at the accountants and claim plausible denial. He decided he wanted to devote his energies to his real passion, helping people to discover and activate their kinks.

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing so I stop Anna there and say, ‘Are you telling me that’s how the Fuck Factory started? As an after‑hours sex club in the Pentagon?’

‘I guess,’ says Anna. She doesn’t say anything after that for a few seconds, as if she’s deep in thought. Then she says, ‘You know, the strangest people work in government.’

Kubrick still has pretty good connections, Anna tells me.

‘You wouldn’t believe the kind of people that come here,’ she says.

I wait for her to tell me who but she doesn’t, and I don’t ask because I’m not sure I want to know. It’s not just the combination of those two statements that unnerves me, but the totality of everything she’s just revealed to me about the executive branch and what really goes on behind closed doors of government.

I’m inside the Fuck Factory and I feel like Al Pacino in Cruising . I’m Al Pacino pretending to be gay. And giving off all the wrong signals.

Yellow rag in the left back pocket. You like to piss on.

Yellow rag in the right back pocket. You like to be pissed on.

Without even realizing I’m giving any signals, I clock this guy staring at me from the other end of the bar. Young, blond, bare‑chested, muscular, and obscenely good‑looking with a page boy haircut that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on him, with a body like that, seems just perfect – the way male models can pull off the most outrageous look and be so self‑possessed they still command your attention. He’s leaning with his back to the bar, his elbows on the counter, legs at a forty‑five degree angle in front of him, the better to show off the huge bulge in his leather pants.

He’s really not my type and I’m not even into blonds, but he carries himself with such supreme confidence and poise that I can’t stop looking. And I can see that’s exactly what he wants.

He looks at me coldly, like a lion watching its prey waiting for the time to pounce. He’s hunting me without moving an inch. He wants me to know that he’s there, that he’s affecting me, controlling me with his look.

And I want him to know that I’m not easy, that I’m not alone and have back‑up, so I turn around to talk to Anna. But she’s not there any more. I scan the room frantically, but I can’t see her anywhere. I look back. He’s still staring at me and now he knows that I’m defenseless and have nowhere to hide. Before he makes his move, I decide to seek refuge in the bathroom, hoping I might find Anna there too.

Now, ordinarily, this would be a great move because a ladies’ room is like a convent, a sanctuary offering protection for the fairer sex, where confessions can be made, secrets can be aired, and men are definitely not allowed.

There’s only one problem. This bathroom is unisex. And it’s not so much a bathroom, as an excuse for water sports and anonymous sex. In the center there’s a trough tailor‑made for people to either piss in or bathe in or both – and that’s exactly what’s happening. Bathroom stalls line each side of the room, something like twenty or thirty of them, and they all have holes in the doors – like the holes in Marcus’ closet – and body parts either sticking through or pressed against them. It takes me a split second to look around, take this all in and realize this isn’t the kind of refuge I was seeking.

I step out of the bathroom, into the dimly lit corridor that leads back into the main room of the club, and he’s there, waiting for me, in a recess shrouded in semi‑darkness.

I don’t see him at first but as I pass, his hand shoots out and grabs my forearm.

He pulls me into him. I don’t resist. I let him take me.

And he whirls me around so I’m up against the wall.

His hands are on my waist, holding me, his lower body pressed against mine.

He kisses me on the lips, while his hand glides over my body, around my back and up to my shoulder.

He leans in to nuzzle me and somehow finds this magic spot, right on the ridge of my neck, almost midway between the collarbone and the ear, an erogenous zone that opens me up like a puzzle box. And it feels so good that just before the dopamine hits my brain, I catch myself thinking, how did he do that?

He buries his nose behind my ear, drawing in my scent. His lips, soft and moist, fix themselves to my neck, the tongue circling, searching, then slowly tracing the curve up to my ear, and curling down inside the rim, leaving a thin sheen of saliva in its wake. Teasing beneath the lobe, then flicking it and biting down just enough for me to feel the sharpness of his teeth.

I let out a moan. He’s in my ear, whispering, ‘you like that.’ But it’s more of an observation than an inquiry, because he already knows what he’s doing, where he’s taking me, and how to lower my defenses, one by one.

He plunges his tongue deep inside the crevice, thrusting, probing, making it wet. And I moan again, now dizzy with pleasure and abandon, my body trembling with anticipation for the next touch.

Instead, he makes me wait as he maneuvers me further back into the alcove. Back where it’s dark and private and we can’t be seen. And he lifts me up so I’m perched on a thin shelf that runs along the back wall at waist height.

My feet are barely touching the ground. My heels scrabble to find a hold and I have to brace myself and lean against the wall to stop from falling forward.

The wall is wet with sweat. As if all the heat and humidity has become trapped in this one little pocket of the club. But it’s also cold and clammy and I stick to it and it feels so good because I’m burning up inside.

And now he has me in a place where he knows I’m vulnerable and my resistance is down, I can sense his ardor increasing. He’s becoming bolder, less decorous.

His lust is off the leash.

His mouth is on mine again and his kisses are more forceful now. Using lips and tongue and teeth.

His hands are all over me. One running up through my hair, the other up inside my shirt, reaching for my bra. Kneading and squeezing one breast through the cup. Fingers brushing and pinching the nipple.

I can feel the blood rush in. Tightening and hardening it. Making the nipple so sensitive that I have to stop myself from crying out as the cotton grazes against it.

I can feel my breath getting shorter. Hear my fervor as I moan. And it makes me even more excited.

He kicks my feet apart, parts my legs with his knee and slides his thigh up against my crotch. His groin is up against my thigh. And I can feel his hardness pressing into me. I raise my leg and slide my pelvis forward so he can move deeper between my legs.

I’m right on the edge and the shelf is cutting deep into my ass, and it hurts so much, but I don’t care because he’s riding me with his thigh now, pressing it hard against me.

I put my hands flat on his chest and brace myself so I can grind down harder. And it feels so good that I think I’m going to lose my mind and I know I’ve lost control.

Instead, I think I must have blacked out from the heat and the pleasure and the pain. Because suddenly, I can see myself. I can see him on top of me. And I am outside my body.

The knot of my denim shirt is undone and hanging open.

My bra is unclasped at the front and hangs loose from my shoulders.

My breasts are exposed and slick with sweat. The nipples pink and swollen.

My shorts are hanging off one leg. The other is curled around his back.

His hand is in my panties. I’m wet and squirming to his touch.

And then it feels like I’ve just woken up because everything is fuzzy and indistinct, and the music sounds so distant.

But I clearly hear him say, ‘Not such a good girl after all.’

He’s telling me something I don’t want to know about myself. And I think he’s mocking me.

The laugh that comes in its wake sounds smug and leering, a slap in the face, and I come crashing back to earth again. I’m fully in my body. I’m naked and ashamed and I don’t want it anymore, not here, not now, not like this.

I raise my head to look past him, over his shoulder, and that’s when I realize that we’re not alone any more.

There are eight or nine leather boys; and when I say leather boys, I mean leather boys – the kind you’d see in a seventies gay porn film. Inordinately beautiful men, slim and toned. They are crowded into the entrance of the alcove, two or three deep. The ones at the back are craning their necks, pushing and shoving to get a better view.

The three at the front are leaning back into them to hold their ground, to hold the distance between us and them. They are all stripped to the waist with their pants hanging open at the crotch, their balls hanging obscenely over the fly of their pants, below thick, black, bushy curls of pubic hair, and their big rough, sweaty hands defiantly stroking hard, indelicate cocks.

I’m totally thrown and really freaked out because I can’t work out if they’re jerking off over me or over him.

‘I can’t do this,’ I say, and push him off weakly. ‘Really, I have to go.’ I can hear my voice crack with emotion, ‘I have to find my friend.’

And it’s like when a director yells ‘Cut’ and the scene breaks. I’ve killed the mood, they all start to peel away in search of another scene, one that will be more satisfying, and I quickly dress and right myself and push past them, wordlessly.

I hurry down a passageway, shaking and exhausted and excited all at the same time, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. Part of me wanted to go all the way but I just couldn’t let myself go and I got scared, like when you get on a white knuckle ride at an amusement park and you suddenly realize where you are and tense up, and the thrill turns to fear.

And now I’m searching for Anna.

I think I’m heading back to the main room, back to the bar, when I’m going in the opposite direction entirely. And I realize Anna was right, this place is like a labyrinth. All the passages look the same. Two, three turns and I’m utterly lost. I keep on the same direction, thinking that I’m going to recognize some feature or other, then realize that I don’t. And then just as I think I’m never going to find my way back, I turn another corner and I see Anna. I could hardly miss her. I’ve walked into a large cavernous room teeming with people, all moving as one, all thinking as one, acting on instinct as they cruise and watch and fuck.

And there’s a film projected on the entire back wall of the room, maybe thirty foot high and forty foot wide, of Anna. One of her clips from the SODOM website. At least, I assume it’s from the website because it’s not one I’ve seen before. She’s topless and blindfolded with a black T‑shirt tied around her head. But it’s still unmistakably Anna. I recognize the same shoulder‑length blonde hair, I recognize her body.

She’s sitting on a bench that’s little more than several planks of splintered, unvarnished timber nailed into each other with no concern for comfort or stability. Her arms are extended along the back, in a crucifixion pose, tied along its length by loops of thick rope, and more tied tightly around her body; one above her breasts and one around her waist.

I don’t know what happened in the video before this, but Anna’s torso is flushed red, as if she’s been whipped. Her head is slumped forward, her jaw is hanging open and she’s drooling. A long, thick gob of spit hangs lazily from the corner of her mouth and hangs down between her breasts, where the lashes look red and raw and really painful, and her chest is heaving up and down like she’s just run a marathon.

I’m looking at Anna on the screen and I see Séverine, blindfolded and tied to that tree, and I realize that they’re one and the same – two fatal blondes chained to their desires.

I turn away and I see Anna again – the real Anna – crouching naked on a platform in front of her video image. She’s a star of stage and screen. And the reason I didn’t see her at first is that she’s surrounded by a swarm of guys, all trying to get near her like autograph hunters crowding an ingénue at her first big movie premiere. Instead of offering her paper and pen, they’re waving their cocks in her face as she grabs at them, making sure that all of them get what they came for and none of them are disappointed.

Anna’s body glistens with sweat and come. Her face is radiant and alive. She has that look on her face again, the one I saw in the video of her with the drilldo, that same look of ecstatic pleasure.

I’m standing there, taking all this in, and it’s one thing to see this stuff on video. It’s something else entirely to see it in front of your eyes; you’re watching this happening to your best friend and it’s like you’re watching it happen to yourself.

That’s what I think of when I see Anna hemmed in by all these frenzied horny guys, stripped of her clothes, her defenses, her boundaries. I recognize myself. Anna looks so comfortable and relaxed, without a care in the world, entirely assured of herself and her body, her capabilities. In the midst of chaos but completely in control. And getting off from it. I’m getting turned on just from watching her. I finally realize that’s where I want to be too, that from here on in, nothing will ever be the same. I’ll never be the same again. I’ve finally crossed over.

In my dreams, I was brave. In my dreams, I replay what happened all over again. And I don’t run away. I stay exactly where I am, rooted to the spot, my ass wedged against that shelf, my legs wrapped around his waist, and I let him take me.

I let him take me while the others wait their turn. I watch them spit on their hands and stroke their cocks, watching me, as they edge closer and closer.

And I feel like a race queen, in the pit, surrounded by grease monkeys stripped to the waist, fingering dirty wrenches that glisten with oil. The roar of revving engines fills my ears. I’m dizzy and intoxicated by the fumes. I am ready to be consumed by their lust.

And, pretty soon, they decide with their hive mind that they don’t want to wait any longer, and they all advance towards me at once, swooping around me. A wall of men, crazed, unstoppable, all demanding attention. Pecking at me with their peckers. All of a sudden, I’ve got more cocks than I can handle. More than I really know what to do with. And I’m overwhelmed, but so, so turned on.

This is what I’ve come to realize:

In my dreams, I’m more like Anna.

Willing.

I wish could be more like Anna.

Voracious.

And, from this point on, I determine to be more like Anna.

Free.

Two days later, Jack comes home to pick up a fresh set of clothes. He’s been gone for such a short time but it already feels like everything’s changed and a stranger walked into the apartment. He’s frosty. I don’t know how to break the thaw. And I keep my distance because I don’t want to antagonize him. He’s in and out within half an hour.

We barely talk. Or rather, he makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk to me, other than to tell me he’s heading right off for another week‑long trip, all the way to the other side of the state to help set up an important campaign stop for Bob. Some backwater town where poverty is the norm, voter registration is low, and Bob needs to get the word out for every vote that he can get. A place he needs to make a point of visiting to show that he cares. When the irony is it’s the kind of place a politician will only ever go when they care about needing your vote. And you’ll never see them again until the next time they’re up for re‑election. And, as far as I’m concerned, Bob’s not much different.

No matter how much Jack looks up to Bob, no matter how successful Bob is, no matter how much he represents ‘new’ politics and rails against the old, he has to play the game like all the rest of them, in exactly the same way as it’s always been played. Because the rules were set in motion such a long, long time ago that they might as well be set in stone.

If you’re ambitious and determined, like Bob, you might get away with bending them a little, or you might get away with bending them a lot. But no one politician is ever going to change the rules for fear of upsetting the apple cart or collapsing the whole deck of cards, because then it’s every man for himself. That’s a losing game for everyone. Because politics is all about advantage.

This is where Jack and I differ.

When it comes to politics, he’s an idealist. I’m a realist.

In real life, he’s a pragmatist. I’m a fantasist.

They say opposites attract. But, right now, that feels like the very reason why we’re poles apart.

And I’ve been compensating for my frustration by hanging out with Anna, which isn’t helping, because I know Jack doesn’t approve, even though that too remains unspoken. I know he doesn’t like how quickly I’ve become close to Anna. And it’s compounded by the fact that he knows he can never be a part of the intimacy we share.

It’s not because he doesn’t like her. I know he does. I think Jack, like every other man who’s met Anna, secretly wants to fuck her. And I don’t blame him, because if I was Jack, I’d want to fuck her too. If he was curious and told me that’s what he wanted, I wouldn’t kick up a fuss, I wouldn’t stop him. I’d encourage it.

And I’d want to watch.

I’d want to watch how Anna seduces a man with her body. My man.

I’d want to watch how Jack fucks her. So I can be an outside observer onto my own sex life.

I already know what it feels like to be fucked by Jack. Now I just want to see it. I want visual proof of how it feels.

I can see them together now. Alone. Naked. In our bedroom, mine and Jack’s. And I can feel Jack’s nervousness, because he’s never been with anyone like Anna. Someone so self‑possessed and sure of her body and the power it holds. He’s never been with anyone so confident of their sexuality.

And I guess that anyone is me, but it’s not like I’m some naïf when it comes to sex. When I look at a penis, I know which way is up. I know which way to hold it, what to do with it and what comes out the end. I know Jack’s body inside and out. Every millimeter, every crease and fold. I know what he likes and exactly which buttons to press, and when, to make him feel good. But I still think I’ve got so much to learn and I can learn it all from Anna, by watching her every move.

Jack is lying on the bed, on his back. He’s already hard, as always, and his whole body is rigid and tense, not just with the anticipation of being with Anna, but because he’s shy and embarrassed.

Anna is crawling over Jack, the way I sometimes imagine Marcus crawling over me. She straddles his legs and leans forward, putting one hand on Jack’s chest to steady herself, then makes a show of licking the index and middle finger of the other, and rubbing them between her legs to lubricate herself, while looking Jack right in the eye.

She puts both hands on his chest, rises herself up and shifts forward, sliding her pussy up along the shaft of his cock, then slowly back and forth a few times, until the lips part and his cock settles into the groove and soon becomes slick with her juice.

She slides forward until she finds the spot where the ridge of the head of his cock meets the hood of her clit and she quickens her movements so she can get herself off too while she’s doing the same for him. She presses down on Jack’s cock and swivels her hips in a circular motion, grinding hard against it. He can hear her exhale and let out a series of quick little moans. He can feel Anna getting wetter and wetter. Her juice is collecting at the base of his cock, spilling over his balls, running down between his thighs.

She leans down, puts a hand on his cheek and plants a kiss on his lips, slides her hand down his neck and a nail down his chest. Her caresses are so delicate, so sincere in their devotion, that she soon dissolves his anxiety and makes him feel at ease. And the dynamic between them starts to change. I can see Jack return to himself. His boldness and his decisiveness, two of the qualities about him that really turn me on, make themselves felt in the way he touches her, the way he maneuvers her into precisely the position he wants her in, so that he can take control.

I’m watching them and it’s as if I’m some omniscient observer because I can see them fucking from every single angle simultaneously. I’m inside the action – present within each of their bodies, feeling everything they feel, switching between them at will – and outside of them at the same time.

And now Anna is bent over on the bed and Jack is standing on the floor, riding her from behind. He has her hair all bunched up in his left hand, the way an expert rider holds the reins of a horse as it prepares to incite it from a trot into a gallop – tight, in one hand, with a crop ready in the other.

Jack is pulling Anna’s hair so hard that it’s taut against her skull, as if she’s scraped it all back into a ponytail, her head is locked in an upright posture and her spine is bent back and arched into an impossibly perfect J‑curve. He’s slapping her ass in broad, sweeping, powerful strokes that crack like the snap of a wet towel in a men’s locker room.

I can see her ass flush and redden as his hand moves away, swinging back in preparation to land another. I can see her ass ripple as he slams into her. And his balls, wet and sticky with his sweat and her juice, are slapping against Anna’s clit, which is large and swollen. His steady pounding is so hard and precise that she’s mewing like a bird in distress.

Jack has this expression on his face that I’ve never seen before, of pure concentration and unswerving determination, like he’s set on riding Anna into the ground. Like he wants to fuck her until her body gives in and collapses underneath him.

Even then, he will continue to pound away, with no let‑up and no mercy, until her body is prostrate and completely still. And only then will he withdraw his hard cock, wet and quivering and triumphant, and start to jerk himself off, sliding the skin back and forth across the shaft, slamming his fist hard into his balls.

I’ve never seen Jack like this. I’ve never seen him so dirty, so animalistic and predatory. He’s fucking Anna in a way that he’s never fucked me, as if she’s unlocked some part of him that was locked up deep inside – the way she helped unlock part of me.

And now I’ve seen all I want to see. I’ve had enough of just watching. Now I want to join in.

I can see myself there with them. And this isn’t like the three‑way you’d see in a porno, the typical bullshit male fantasy, where the super‑stud with the magnificently tooled penis and a tongue like Gene Simmons is somehow satisfying two women at once, like a circus strongman who can hold up two girls, one sitting on each bicep. Or its equally ludicrous opposite, where two hyper‑sexed succubi set upon a guy, overwhelm him, smother him, fuck him into submission and steal his essence.

No, this is different. This goes beyond the cliché. This is real.

I see myself with Jack and Anna and we’ve formed a perfect circle.

We’re all lying on our sides with our heads buried in each other’s crotches. I’m sucking Jack’s cock, while he eats out Anna’s pussy and she’s eating mine. We all have a taste of each other. We’re all giving and receiving. We’re like the snake that eats its own tail.

When Jack moves his mouth up to Anna’s asshole and starts finger‑fucking her pussy, I hear her moan as she momentarily detaches from mine, then instinctively follows suit and does the same to me. I can feel Anna’s tongue slowly probing around my hole – licking it, testing it and then plunging inside, while her thin, flexible fingers are pumping my pussy with the speed of a piston to a completely different rhythm.

It’s like that trick you learn as a kid, when you rub your tummy and pat your head at the same time and try and keep them both going. And the way you do it is to forget what you’re doing, move your limbs independently and instinctively. And that’s how it is with sex too. Good sex. Your body moves in perpetual motion, your mind completely relaxes, gives up control and takes it all in.

Whatever Anna’s doing to me, it feels so good, that I feel myself shifting position to do the same to Jack. I’m tonguing his butthole, which is something I’ve never done before because boys, especially the quietly macho ones like Jack, have a thing about being touched back there.

But I’m tonguing it now and he’s not complaining. I can hear him moan; quietly, as if he doesn’t want Anna and me to hear – but I do. And I start pulling back and forth along his shaft, giving his foreskin a little twist as I do, and then he can’t contain himself, and he lets go, moaning a little louder.

We are three bodies melting into one. Free of ego, personalities dissolved. There is no distinction between Jack and Catherine and Anna. There is no male or female. We are one person, one sex. Fucking like a machine. Moving in sync. Breathing in rhythm. Moaning in harmony. In perfect tune.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 769