THE JULIETTE SOCIETY 8 page

When we come, we all come together, we all explode together.

And I more than get my wish.

I remember it all now. I remember everything. I remember the time I first became aware of sex. Not the act but the stirring. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. And this is going to sound really quaint, and might even be a little hard to believe, but I swear it’s true.

When I was eleven, or twelve, thirteen – I can’t remember which – my best friend showed me some dog‑eared and yellowing sheets of paper she’d found in her dad’s desk drawer and we lay on the floor in her bedroom while she read them out to me.

It was a sex story. A really filthy story but written as a letter. Pornography without the images. Pornography before video tapes, DVDs, cell phones and the internet. Pornography where the dirty pictures are inside your head.

We figured out that this letter didn’t originally belong to her dad but her grandpa, who had gone overseas to fight in the Vietnam War. The only part of him that came back home was a battered footlocker filled with dank and moldy reminders of the place he’d left behind and the family that lost him. A silk slip belonging to her grandmother that still bore faint traces of the perfume she wore on their first date, some photos of her dad as a tiny baby that were old and faded and looked as if they were streaked with tears, and a bundle of peeling letters tied with blue ribbon. And this letter, the letter that told the dirty story, was one of those. It was addressed to him. But we didn’t know who it was sent from because we couldn’t find a signature. It seemed to be missing and there was no return address on the envelope it came in.

A few days ago, I found the story posted up on an internet forum. The same basic story but the details were off. A couple of people commented that they thought it started as something passed around on mimeographed sheets as beat‑off material for soldiers stationed overseas. And passed down through all the ages and all the wars since then until it ended up in my friend’s dad’s desk drawer and found its way into her innocent hands.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have told her to stop before she got to the end. I would have told her to stop before she’d even started. Put the papers back where you found them, back in the drawer. They’re not ours. This is not for us. We don’t need to know what’s there. Not now, not yet, not ever.

Children have many beautiful, natural talents that are to be envied and admired. The one thing they lack is foresight.

For some reason, they just can’t make the connection between running down the road with their laces undone and a nasty trip and fall in the immediate future. Along with two grazed knees that will sting like nothing else they’ve ever felt.

That if they poop in their pants it’s going to feel unpleasant, and smell real bad. Not to mention that whole business of running to mommy and fighting to tell her what’s happened through all the floods of tears. Because while a child lacks foresight, they are not without cunning. So if poop comes out one end, it must be time to turn the waterworks on at the other. If only to inspire enough pity to make the humiliating process of cleaning up afterwards that much easier to bear.

So if I knew then what I know now, when my parents took me to the Christmas grotto in our local shopping mall for the very first time, as a toddler in my pretty pink frilly dress with striped candy canes stitched around the skirt, and walked me over the white astroturf, past the creepy‑looking mechanical elves who waved their arms stiffly like a grandma at a New Year’s party rocking out to Katy Perry, and plopped me down on Santa’s big, red log‑sized knee so that he could lean in until his white beard was hanging in my lap and ask me the obligatory question about my heart’s desire, I would have looked up into his rheumy, gin‑soaked eyes with all the childlike innocence and wonder I could muster and said, ‘Gimme foresight.’

It would have saved a whole lot of hassle, heartbreak and shit‑stained underwear later on. It would have saved me from myself.

And back then, lying there sprawled across the shagpile carpet in my friend’s bedroom as she clutched those yellowing sheets in her hand and prepared to read them out loud, I might have been right on the cusp of womanhood but I was still a child. What did I know?

So I egged her on.

We were like Adam and Eve preparing to take a bite of the apple. Curiosity got the better of us, we couldn’t stop ourselves and we ate the whole damn thing up in one go and almost pissed our pants from laughing at all the really dirty bits.

But the rest of the story, the stuff that was dark and weird, just seemed strange and alien to our young, still innocent and developing minds. Because we didn’t understand, because we hadn’t experienced anything that would give it meaning or context, it didn’t affect us. Or at least, I thought it didn’t. And here’s something I can’t really explain.

Somehow the story as I first heard it from my friend – all of it, every last word and detail – stayed with me, burrowing deep into my subconscious like a parasite, where it set up camp and made a home for itself.

And for years and years I never knew it was there.

I’d forgotten hearing not only the story but also the sequence of events that lead up to it. And my friend, now she’s just a voice without a face or a name and fleeting half‑formed memories are all the proof I have that she even existed.

Except in my dreams.

In my dreams, I remember everything. I remember exactly how she told the story, how it went and how it made me feel.

In my dreams, I run the scenes back and forth, adding new details here and there that make it seem more vivid and believable, discarding others. Keeping some that feel as if they need to be there as a running stitch to stop the fabric of the story from falling apart at the seams.

But the second I wake up, it’s gone. I lose all memory of it. Except for little strands here and there, but never enough that I can put it all together so that it would make any sense to me during my waking hours. Then, at night, it will all come flooding back again and the dream starts over.

Over the years, I think I must have slowly refined and reworked the story into a beautiful and complex patchwork of sexual desire, a catalogue of my wet dreams from puberty all the way into adulthood.

At some point over the last few weeks, something happened, something that brought the dream to light. All of it, every last bit of it has come back, invading my conscious mind. And now the story is as real to me as my own life. And my life, like Séverine’s, is starting to resemble a waking dream.

And I can’t lie, it scares the crap out of me to see what’s been inside for me so long, gestating and growing. But it does explain a lot, at least, about the path I’m on, the things I’ve seen and the places I’ve been. About the reasons I’m drawn to Anna.

In the dream, I’m a little older than I am right now. I live alone in a large city. Jack is not there. He’s not part of the dream and never has been. I haven’t had a boyfriend for years and I loathe going back to my empty apartment after work. So I go for a walk at the same time every day, just as dusk is starting to draw in. More often than not, I keep to my neighborhood and simply take a stroll around the block. At other times, I catch a cab to a nearby park and wander aimlessly along its gentle, rolling avenues lined with stately elm, oak and cyprus trees, past a bandstand high on a hill that looks like a Greek temple.

On this walk, I bask in the beauty of the city and it takes me outside of myself, allowing me to escape my thoughts. And on the clearest of evenings, when the entire city seems lit by an unearthly golden twilight glow, I’m overwhelmed by an incredible sense of well‑being that remains with me as I return home, making the long nights that much easier to bear.

But underneath it all I’m desperately unhappy and deeply unfulfilled. A wild passion burns deep inside me and I long for the day when I will find someone to not only share my life but help fill the aching need to satisfy pent‑up sexual desires that seem to become more frenzied and extreme as the sexless, loveless years go by.

There is someone, though – a neighbor, who lives in an apartment opposite – but we’ve never met, we’ve never spoken. When he passes me in the hallway, I try to catch his eye and he lowers his to avoid my gaze. But at night, I know he’s watching me. I can feel his eyes upon my body. I can feel his longing and desire and I know he wants me. And so, as I’m getting ready for bed, I’ll walk around in the nude with the lights on and the slats of the blinds on my windows tilted open to give him a good view. And when I’m in bed, I masturbate to the image of him in his apartment, pressed against the window, stroking his cock, watching me. I can see the passion on his face. But it never goes any further than this. Him watching me. Me watching him watching me. A feedback loop of carnal longing that’s never fully consummated.

One particular Fall evening, as I’m about to go out for my walk, my best friend calls. We talk for a while and when I leave my apartment building, it’s almost dark. A cab hurtles past. Without thinking, my arm shoots out to hail it. The vehicle swerves to the curb and squeals to a halt half a block ahead. I dash to catch up to it, bark my destination breathlessly into the driver side window and slump into the passenger seat.

The cab is suffused with a sweet chemical odor, like peppermint, as if it has just been cleaned, and the interior lights are all turned off. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts it doesn’t even occur to me that I’m sitting in the dark.

I sense a movement off to my side. A gloved hand holding a rag appears in front of my face. I hear myself scream. But too late.

I am being carried in the arms of a great, hulking man. I feel the cool night air brush against my face. And I turn my head to see a large emerald green door looming above me. The door swings open. I see no one and nothing behind it. I’m carried beyond the threshold and enveloped in pitch blackness once again.

Then I become aware of a bright light bearing down on me from above, warm as the late afternoon sun. I wonder if I lay down in the park for a minute and fell asleep. I wonder if this has all been a terrible dream. My senses tell me otherwise.

My hands are constricted behind my head, as if I’m lying on top of them. There is a tightness around my mouth. I’m dry and parched. I hear rustling sounds, at first right beside me then echoing in the distance. As the unfamiliar details stack up, confusion gives way to fright.

I force my eyes open and I’m blinded by the light. Shadowy figures block the source by moving across it, allowing me to make out my surroundings.

I’m in an old, old theater, looking out into the auditorium from a stage illuminated by a single spotlight. The audience is comprised of men and women dressed for a masquerade ball. They look back at me blankly through eyes veiled by Venetian masks, murmuring expectantly as if waiting for a performance to begin.

I’m reclining on some sort of gynecological chair raised up to waist height. My feet are locked into metal stirrups. My hands, I now realize, are bound tightly underneath the headrest, with rope that scratches and burns against my wrists. I’m gagged by a red cloth. My field of vision restricted by the few inches I’m able to turn and lift my head.

I feel utterly helpless. But I don’t panic. My mind is sharp and clear, buzzing with adrenaline and wiped free of emotion. Resistance, I decide, is useless. Resistance, I think, might make things worse.

Three women, the figures I saw, flutter and swoop around me like birds. They wear egg‑shaped hoods made of black chiffon, cut open in a downward curve from the tip of the nose, with eyeholes the size of silver dollars. And matching caped boleros hemmed by a leather halter that runs along the chest and under the arms, leaving their breasts exposed.

One of the women produces a pair of shears and, in one quick fluid movement from neck to hem, snips the dress from my body. I feel the cold steel of the blade as a drip of ice water running from my neck to my belly. The fabric drops like a magician’s curtain. My pale white skin is rose‑flushed from the heat. Next, my panties are snipped at the hips. The embarrassment I feel at being exposed makes me squirm.

The first woman falls back. Two others move in to take her place, as if the whole thing has been choreographed for my benefit. One rouges my nipples, applying color with lipstick, rubbing and pinching to smooth it out, leaving them a deep crimson red that reminds me of the brilliant autumnal shades of the oak trees that flame against the silver‑blue sky during my early evening walks in the park.

The other uses a pin brush, the kind used to groom dogs, to comb the tight curls of hair between my legs. As the metal rakes my skin, blood rushes to my head and makes me dizzy.

The three women position themselves around me, one on either side, another in front, holding large sprays of peacock feathers up in front of their faces, enshrouding me. And one by one, in rotation, they lower the feathers, fan and sweep them across my body then lift them up again. And then the next. Fan, sweep, lift. Fan, sweep, lift.

They feather my arms, they feather my pits, feather my breasts and feather my nest. I feel my sensitivity heighten, becoming aware of every tiny filament as it dances across my skin, anticipating where the next will fall and the shape it will trace.

The vanes possess my body and all I see are the eyes, electric eyes of blue and rust and green, that stroke and flutter and lash me into a trance. Dividing and multiplying, into a thousand and more, staring down at me. Hungry eyes that want to consume me. And I want that like I’ve never wanted anything before.

A bell rings. The three women peel away in a flash. The auditorium falls quiet. And I’m blinded by the light again, floating towards it, in the silence, in the space that’s left between wanting and being.

A man appears before me, at the foot of the chair, wearing a harlequin mask that’s hooked over his ears, covers his whole face down to his mouth and extends over and around his head. It’s made out of something that looks like burnt leather and molded with a nose, cheeks, and eye sockets – as if he’s wearing a face on top of his face. His naked torso, his broad shoulders and powerful arms, all sharply defined and beautifully contoured, look to me as if he’s been carved from stone. The Renaissance ideal of a man. My ideal of a man. What I can’t see, like the statues in the Vatican, is his sex, which, I imagine, hangs there with intent just below my own, beyond my field of vision.

He steps up and there are no words exchanged, no looks, no niceties or introductions. No foreplay. He grips my legs just above the ankles to steady himself, leans back, looks down, takes aim and thrusts.

As he enters me, there is an audible gasp from the crowd, one gasp made of many, and although I can’t see the reason why, I can feel it. I can feel myself opening up to take him. I can feel him opening up a part of me that’s never been accessed before. As if, in one determined thrust, he has broken through and released my desire. I find myself thinking about the bow of a ship forcing its way through the ice. And I know this is just the beginning but I’m already wondering how far I can go, how much I can take, and I want it all.

I’m distracted from his thrusts by the appearance of another man at his side. And then another, and another. Six, seven, eight, nine, forming a wall around me. All masked, naked and aroused. And others that line up behind them.

There is no bell this time. Hands swarm all over my body, pawing at my breasts, my legs, pulling at my mouth, splashing the sweat that gathers at my belly. And the intensity of their lust startles me.

I wonder who these men are and where they come from. I look at them and imagine, behind the masks, the men I’ve fantasized about alone in my bed. The men who offer friendly smiles as I pass them in the hallway of my apartment building, undress me with their eyes on the street, or steal glances on a crowded subway train.

These same men come to me as I touch myself in the deep of night when my sexual fantasies blossom, when I feel inside the deepest part of my body as if I’m being loved by them, caressing my own breast as if it’s the hand of another. These hands that are upon me now are the hands of all the lovers I’ve never had and always wanted. The hands of the man who lives opposite, whose touch I’ve never felt.

What I don’t know, even as this is happening to me, is that he is here too, sitting with the crowd in the auditorium, watching me. That he was brought here by a friend who, sensing his dissatisfaction, offered him a night’s entertainment. A very special entertainment at a most exclusive club, accessible to only the very wealthiest of patrons.

He is wearing a mask, like all the others, to disguise his identity. His initial shock at seeing me, the object of his desire, there on stage, is soon offset by the stirring he feels at being able to cast his eyes over my body, up close and in such magnificent detail, and the swell of excitement that passes through the audience.

He wants to intervene and show himself to me but fears what might happen, fears that he might bring terrible consequences on us both, that we might be set upon and torn apart. And finally, he lets go of all those thoughts, submits to his urges and throws his lot in with the lust of the crowd.

If I had only known there was someone I knew out there, that he was out there, things might have been different. I might not have submitted to my fate.

The gag is removed from my mouth, the rope that ties my hands is loosened. I’m set free. But I don’t cry for help or fight my way out. Freedom means something different to me now.

I’m hungry. As hungry as the feathered eyes and the hands that claw and grab me. And so I instinctively reach for something to fill my need, to fill my mouth and busy my hands. My body is red and raw from being slapped and pinched and grabbed. The same fiery red as the flaming oak leaves. And I don’t mind because I feel at one with my nature now, I feel that my body was made for this.

For the first time, I’m able to raise myself up off the seat and look beyond the men who tug at themselves as they wait their turn at my side, and out into the stalls of the auditorium. I see bodies all around, row upon row, arranged in twos and threes, connected at the hip and by the mouth. Figures interlocked and moving. Like glyphs in an alphabet of desire. A universal language that needs no explanation. And I realize it’s all because of me, and that’s the biggest turn‑on of all. It was my desire that brought me here, that created this, and I suddenly understand what it means to be maddened by lust.

And that’s where the story left off on the last page. Where my dream would cut off night after night, year after year. No matter how much I thought I could mold and change it, I could not make it end. And I’ve dredged my mind to see if there’s something I’ve overlooked or forgotten from the first time I heard the story, something I’d missed. And all I could come up with was this.

We sat on the floor and tried to imagine all the possible endings. Fairytale endings where the girl’s secret admirer rushes onto the stage to rescue her like a shining white knight, and dashes her off through the big green door, back to her apartment where they live happily ever after. Because, to children, all tales have happy endings, and that’s what it was to us, a fairy tale, like Sleeping Beauty or Hansel and Gretel, no more dark or frightening or unreal.

I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore. I know better than that.

Happy endings are shit for the birds.

And the dream?

I’m living it now.

I know that.

The end remains unwritten.

Everyone’s been in a situation like this.

You’re at a party.

You’re just standing there – or sitting – minding your own business, taking in the scene. Or maybe hanging out with a friend, talking about dumb stuff that only you and her know or care about, laughing at your own private jokes. And, out of nowhere, this guy approaches you.

You don’t know who he is, neither does your friend. You don’t even remember seeing him before. But it’s possible you might have caught a glimpse of him when you first arrived and thought nothing of it. You might have even smiled in his direction. Not really meaning to. And he misread it as a signal, took it as his cue.

Now he’s right there, standing in front of you. He says, ‘hi’ and introduces himself, because to him a party is where you’re supposed to meet people. And he’s decided he wants to meet you. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you want to meet him. In fact, thirty seconds in his company is more than enough to make up your mind that you don’t. You’ve only just become acquainted on a first‑name basis, but you already know everything and anything you could ever want or need to know about this man. And you’re already trying to work out how to get away.

This is that party.

Dickie is that guy.

Dickie works in concrete. Ready‑mixed. He’s been in construction and aggregates all his working life. He’s the Chairman and CEO of one of the world’s biggest building material supply companies. Concrete is his life and he is so very passionate about the subject. He’s trying to convince me that the first recorded uses of cement are as important to world history as the discovery of fire. That his métier in life is as significant to the cultural development of humanity as archeology, medicine and philosophy combined.

But he’s no Mother Teresa. Dickie has offices in every conflict zone around the globe. He’s making enough concrete to rebuild countries faster than they can be destroyed. ‘War is big business,’ he tells me.

Anna is talking to Dickie’s pal, Freddie, a hedge fund manager. She’s all giggly and she looks like she’s enjoying herself. Dickie might be filthy rich but his conversation skills are as dry as the business he’s in. Dickie is boring the pants off me.

If I was wearing any pants, that is. If I was, Dickie would have bored them off me by now.

But I’m not.

This is what I’m wearing: a black floral lace band that covers my eyes, white knee‑high stockings, red slingback stiletto pumps and, wrapped around me like a blanket, a floor‑length cape – ruby red to match my favorite lipstick. This time I’m not wearing my underwear.

Anna is wearing a filigree metal mask shaped like a butterfly and an emerald green cape that she’s draped around her curves like a fur. Together, we look like two phases of a traffic signal.

The masks and capes are part of the door policy for this little soiree. Not leather and denim. Masked and anonymous. Because this is a themed sex party. An Eyes Wide Shut party.

This is worlds away from the Fuck Factory. This place is different. It’s exclusive and elite.

I wonder what Kubrick would make of this. Stanley, not Larry. He crafted a meticulous fable about the intersection between sex, wealth, power and privilege, his last masterwork, the longest single shoot in film history, a movie like every movie he made, where every detail, every nuance of its construction and staging is there for a specific reason. A movie that he put so much passion and work into that it killed him and he never got to see how it was received.

Which is probably for the best. Because the one thing Stanley Kubrick probably did not foresee is that the very people he made the movie about would take the story literally. The conspicuously wealthy few whose power and privilege gives them free reign to live by their own social, moral and sexual code, one that just doesn’t apply to the rest of us; who think decadence is something you can buy with the flash of a credit card, or pick up in a showroom, would mistake it for little more than an elaborate commercial for a high end swingers club, little more than an excuse for a place like this.

We’re in the living room of a large, tastefully decorated private house filled with antique furniture and reproductions of fine art. It’s somewhere in the country. Exactly where, I don’t know, and neither does Anna, because we were driven up in a car service arranged by Bundy and we both dropped off on the way up, rocked to sleep by the sound of the engine, the trail of blinking tail lights ahead of us, and the gentle motion of the car as it swung around the curves of winding country roads once we left the city. And the next thing I knew, Anna was touching my shoulder and shaking me gently, saying, ‘Catherine… Catherine… wake up. We’re here.’

Now we’re inside, I realize I have no idea where we are and there’s no way of knowing, because it’s dark outside and all the windows are shuttered. It feels like we’re on the set of a movie. All of reality is focused and contained within this house.

There are large tables stacked with so much luxury food it looks like a Roman banquet. Magnums of Veuve Cliquot in ice buckets. Silver rolltop servers overflowing with Beluga caviar. Huge platters of seafood – oysters, mussels and prawns – planted in ice like flowerbeds. Terrines of foie gras. And these people are so blasé about their wealth that no one seems to be eating it. Stoic‑looking butlers in tuxedos and black eye masks pass in and out of the assembled guests serving champagne.

It’s as if somebody has unlocked a door for me that’s always been closed, a door to a place I never knew existed and invited me to come inside with them. And why wouldn’t I want to take a look, to experience that? What life is like in the forbidden zone?

Right now, it doesn’t feel like an orgy. It’s all rather genteel and polite. It feels like a bourgeois cocktail party. And I look over at Anna as if to say, really? Is this what we came all the way out here for? Is this the best that Bundy can come up with? And at the same time, I’m kind of impressed because these guys are in another league entirely. And completely out of his. Way out.

Which is why we’re here, me and Anna, and Bundy and his ludicrous body art are not – because he’d only stand out like a sore thumb – but he has provided the girls. And Anna, she moves between all these worlds with grace and ease. Her sexuality gives her an access‑all‑areas pass and I’m her plus one.

I’d say Dickie’s in his sixties, minimum, possibly older, but he’s at an age where the numbers cease to matter and are even harder to predict. Dickie has a shock of swept‑back grey‑white hair and a body like a sack of potatoes, lumpy and uneven and weighted toward the bottom. He’s wearing a Zorro mask and a white satin shoulder cape with red piping, the kind priests wear. Other than that, Dickie is, for want of a better term, defrocked. He looks less like a member of the clergy, more like a retiree superhero with nudist tendencies. Captain Concrete.

Dickie’s sitting talking to me, expounding on the mechanics of cement with his legs crossed. His cock and balls hang listlessly over his thigh, looking about as bored as I feel.

Freddie’s a lot younger, young enough to be Dickie’s son, and he seems to be wearing the cassock that goes with Dickie’s cape; as if they went halves on the costume rental and flipped a coin to see who got what.

As Dickie talks, I’m overcome by an ineffable sadness, but I’m trying my best to hide it. I’m trying to seem interested and maintain a conversation. But I’ve never called anyone Dickie in my life and I’m not about to start. So I call him Richard instead.

I say, ‘Richard –’

‘Dickie,’ he says, cutting me off for the third or fourth time, ‘call me Dickie.’ And for the third or fourth time, I pretend like I haven’t heard.

‘OK, Richard,’ I say, ‘so give it to me again, what are the advantages of using high slump and shrinkage‑reduced concrete?’

I’m taking in just enough lingo to be able to fake it, throwing something back to make him think I’m listening.

Now I’ve shown a smidgen of interest, and it almost kind of sounds like I know what I’m talking about, Dickie takes it as a go‑ahead to really let rip. I zone out.

On the wall behind Dickie there are a series of framed reproductions of scratchy, primitive drawings of men and women fucking in various configurations. I recognize them immediately as the drawings from a book Brigitte Bardot is flicking through in Godard’s Contempt , the book that the vulgar American producer has given her screenwriter husband in order to help him sex up a script by German director Fritz Lang that’s all arty Greek myth with zero box office potential. He’s given Bardot’s screenwriter husband a book of Ancient Roman pornographic art to jerk off to in the hope that it will bleed into his writing and give this producer enough bang for his buck to put asses on seats. And the pictures, that are in that book and on these walls, were created for a specific purpose, as a kind of instructional sex manual and erotic stimulant for the patrons of a brothel in Pompeii, which was where they were found. And I’m guessing they’re here for the same purpose too.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 740