THE JULIETTE SOCIETY 9 page

Dickie’s talking and the only words I register are ‘discharge’, ‘vibrators’ and ‘staining’. I lose track of whether he’s still talking cement or just talking dirty to me, but I figure that if ready‑mix concrete gets Dickie hard, he’s probably a man who’s easily pleased. I’m just not the right person to do his pleasing.

Staining, I say.

‘Yeah, doll, staining,’ he says. ‘From impurities. In the water.’

Oh, I say. And zone straight out again. I look around the room at all the other naked men and women, of all ages shapes and sizes, and I wonder what industries they work in.

Plastics. Biotech. Small arms. Petroleum. Pharmaceuticals. Logistics. Futures commodities.

Because all those nameless faceless bureaucrats who head corporations you’ve never even heard of but whose influence and decision‑making extends invisibly into every corner of your daily life – from the pills you take before breakfast, to the gas you put in your car and the memory foam pillow you rest your head on at night – those people have sex lives too. They have to fuck. And I imagine this is where they do it. Right here. At a high end sex party like this, designed to protect their dignity, if not their modesty. Wearing masks so they can be as anonymous in their private lives as they are in their public ones.

I feel a sudden urge to pee, and realize it’s the perfect excuse for us to ditch Dickie and Freddie.

I say, ‘If you’ll please excuse us, gentlemen. We need to go to the ladies’ room.’

We walk away as fast as our heels will carry us, to an upstairs bathroom.

We’re standing side by side at the bathroom mirror, touching up our make‑up and I say to Anna, I thought that scene with Marquis de Sade was bad. ‘What is this place?’

‘They call it the Juliette Society,’ she says.

‘What the hell is that?’ I say.

‘I don’t know much more,’ she says. ‘That’s just what they call it. Let’s put it like this, the Fuck Factory is for regular people. These people aren’t regular people.’

I can see that, I say. ‘How on earth did Bundy get access to this place?’

‘Oh, you know,’ she giggles, ‘Bundy’s full of surprises. He moves in mysterious ways.’

‘How do you mean?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘He may look low rent but he comes from money. He’s got a thing for rich girls who are like him and will do anything for him. The kind of girls that have six‑figure trust funds but work as strippers. He’s even got a website for them.’

‘Let me guess,’ I say, ‘Filthy Rich Bitches?’

‘How did you know?’ Anna says, sounding genuinely surprised.

‘Just an educated hunch.’

I’m reapplying my lipstick and Anna’s dusting her cheeks with blush. She’s checking her face in the mirror to make sure it’s evenly applied and, as she does so, she says, ‘You know, older guys really know how to please a woman.’

Just when I think I’ve heard it all from Anna, she’ll drop another pearl of wisdom, another gem that turns my head. She never ceases to amaze me. And she says it as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

‘How so?’

‘Because they’re as horny as eighteen‑year‑olds but their bodies just can’t keep up.’

I burst out laughing.

‘I’m serious,’ she says. ‘They go at it like maniacs until they’re winded, then they have to stop to recover and build up their stamina. Then it starts all over again. That way they can keep going all night.’

‘But aren’t young guys like that too – what’s the difference?’

And as I say it, I feel like I’m back in that room with Dickie.

‘Young guys always have something to prove,’ she says, twisting her lipstick open. ‘And, as a general rule, the ones who are really good‑looking are so vain they have zero imagination in the sack.’

‘Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,’ I say, recalling my All‑Star football player ex.

‘They usually want to fuck in front of mirror so they can check themselves out from every angle,’ she continues, ‘as if they’re directing their own personal porn movie. They’re fucking themselves and you’re just part of the set design. But old guys are more concerned with making sure you feel good. And they always want to try something new, because they’ve done it all before and know every trick in the book.

‘And another thing,’ she says, while adjusting her mask. ‘A hard cock never shows its age. It really doesn’t matter how old it is, as long as it’s still fully functional. And these guys, you barely have to touch them. They pop a Viagra and they get hard in a flash.’

She clicks her fingers.

I don’t know how long we were in the bathroom, but when we come out it’s not the same party. Not at all. The energy in the place has changed. It’s as if while we were away, someone rang a bell, like the one that signals the opening of the markets at the stock exchange and, a split second later, the trading floor becomes a frenzy of activity, an orgy of keystrokes.

No one’s talking now. Everyone’s fucking. Partnered off in twos or three and fours, or maybe going solo, just getting off on watching.

We’re standing at the top of the stairs and I’m taking this all in and, I have to say, it’s pretty overwhelming and I realize that this time there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. It’s time to put up or shut up. I need to take a minute to gather myself, to take a breath and dive in.

‘Go down,’ I tell Anna, ‘I’ll join you in a minute. I just want to watch up here for a little bit.’

‘OK,’ she says, and bounds down the stairs like a lamb galloping in a field, eager to join the fray.

I’m leaning over the banister, looking down the well at people fucking in the main room, and I catch this guy across the way staring at me. And I really don’t know what it is with me and strange men at the moment. I must be giving off some kind of smell.

Something draws me to the mask he’s wearing, so much more elaborate than the others I’ve seen here. And then it hits me. He’s the man from my dream, the Renaissance man in the harlequin mask who unlocks me.

I figure all this out in the split‑second from when I first see him to the moment he starts moving towards me. My heart starts pounding. I’m paralyzed with anticipation and he’s honing in on me like a predator drone. Time slows down. It feels like I’m watching him move towards me in slow motion. I’m taking him all in, lost in the details.

He carries himself with a swagger, so cocksure and certain of his appeal. His skin is tanned and leathery but his body is taut and muscular and toned. He looks like he takes care of himself, like he works out. His physique is speaking to me and it tells me that this man knows his power and how to use it. And he looks good for his age, whatever that is, but I’m guessing he must be in his forties, at least.

Now he’s so close I can smell him. He smells rich. By the time he’s in front of me, I’m hooked. There’s something about him, but I just can’t put my finger on it. Then it hits me. Something about him reminds me of Jack.

Not Jack now. Jack later. Jack sometime in the future.

I always told myself that I wanted to grow old with Jack. Sometimes I liked to imagine what we’d be like when we’re in our fifties or sixties, when we’d lived half a lifetime in each other’s company. I wondered how we’d look with all that living under our belt, how we’d relate to each other, how we’d fuck.

And this guy, I’ve decided right then and there, that he represents my fantasy of how Jack might turn out when we’re older, what he’ll look like, how he’ll carry himself.

And I know how that sounds. It sounds like an excuse, and in a way it is. It’s an excuse that my brain has come up with to explain the way my body is feeling. Because I feel an immense attraction to this man, whose identity I don’t know and never will. A man who’s a blank canvas to me, on whom I can project whatever fantasy I want. And live it and experience it. For real.

He offers me his hand. I take it without hesitation or reserve. When he leads me back downstairs into the main room, it feels like we’re like two dizzy young lovers out on the boardwalk for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

As we walk in, I see Dickie and Freddie, already double‑teaming on Anna, and I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s on her hands and knees on this worn antique leather couch. Freddie is at her rear. And Dickie has his dick in Anna’s mouth and one leg up on the couch. He has his hands placed on his lower back, just above his hips, the way you sometimes see guys posed in porn when they’re getting a blow job. As if he’s got lumbago.

And, surprise, surprise, Dickie’s got his socks on. But they’re expensive‑looking socks. Argyle dress socks. By Ralph Lauren.

Freddie’s clearly not so particular. He’s buck naked. I’ve got to give it to her, Anna’s really going for it. She’s showing those two fellows a real good time. Dickie has a grin on his face a mile wide, as you would if you had a cute young chick as filthy and willing as Anna slapping her cheeks with your penis, the way Anna’s doing, and slut‑talking him at the same time.

‘You’re a dirty old man,’ she says to Dickie. ‘A dirty, dirty, dirty old man. Dickie, Dickie, Dickie. And his filthy old dickie.’

I’m not sure if she’s talking to Dickie or his penis but I’d say they’re both enjoying it equally.

Then she turns around to Freddie and tells him, ‘Oh yeah, daddy, ream with your rod. Do it, daddy Freddie, just the way I like it. Oh, fuck, yeah.’

My masked man leads me all the way to the end of the room, as if he’s parading me in front of everybody, showing me off. He motions me to sit in this oversized antique easy chair with red suede upholstery. I sit down with my legs closed together and my hands on my lap, as prim and proper as a Catholic schoolgirl. He looks at me, smiles, and taps the arm of the chair. And he doesn’t have to say anything, I already know what he wants, what he expects.

I swing my legs up over each arm of the chair and slide my butt forward to the edge of the seat. He kneels down in front of me, takes my left foot in his hands and starts kneading the sole with his thumbs, walking them up and down the way a cat tests a comfy chair before it settles down. When he reaches the top, he brushes his thumb along the base of the toes, then sweeps his finger up the length of each toe, separates them, and explores the space between.

I close my eyes so I can shut out the world and concentrate on each caress and touch and, before I know it, he’s kissing the sole of my foot, sucking on each toe, circling around and between them with his tongue. And it’s heavenly.

I feel him running his fingers up the inside of my legs, tracing around the crotch and brushing against my pussy, then parting the lips with his finger and thumb. My pussy is already damp and wet and sticky. I feel him lapping at my pussy with long, steady, insistent strokes of his tongue, the way a cat cleans its fur. His mask is pressed up hard against my clit and the nose rubs back and forth against it, as he works his mouth around my crotch, licking, flicking and sucking. I feel his tongue probing around my hole. He plunges inside and it feels so good that I let out a moan and slide my hips forward so I can spear myself on his tongue. But as soon as I do, he withdraws, teasing me.

He puts his hands on my legs, clasps them together and lifts them up so my feet are over my head, and pussy is sticking out, wet and plump and in full view. I wrap my arms around my legs to hold them in place while he puts one hand on my thigh and gives my pussy a quick little slap with the other. I give out a little yelp, and I don’t know whether it’s in response to the sting or the sound, but it gives him an incentive to do it again. He slaps my pussy again and I can feel my clit throb as his hand withdraws.

Then his mouth is back on me again but this time it’s fixed firmly around my clitoris, and I can feel him drawing me into his mouth, sucking hard then flicking the head with his tongue, sweeping it across the hood, blowing on it, sucking on it again, licking it. And every time he’s gone through a cycle of sucking, blowing, biting and licking, he switches it up so I don’t know what’s coming next. And it feels so good that I let out a series of little syncopated pants and moans.

While he’s doing this, his fingers find my hole, which is so wet that I can already feel a trail of juice dripping down to my asshole. And he doesn’t waste any time, he slides his fingers right inside, probing around the soft fleshy mound behind my clitoris. He’s sucking on my clit and pumping his fingers back and forth into my pussy and I can feel myself about to come and I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I can feel the nerve endings tingle, sending shocks of electricity rushing all over my body. It surges through me. I buck against his mouth and feel his teeth, his tongue, his lips all pressing against my clit.

Then I feel him slide a thumb slick with saliva into my ass, thinking he’s got me so distracted that I won’t notice, and it brings me back down to earth with a bump. I look him in the eye and very firmly tell him, no. If I could read his face, I’d probably see disappointment, but he consents, and I don’t really care if he thinks I’m a prude. It’s not about that. I’m no anal virgin. It’s just that I want to keep something for myself. I want to keep something for Jack. And this isn’t like the Fuck Factory. It’s not a free‑for‑all that’s every man or woman for himself. Here I’m in control and in my comfort zone and I can take it as far as I want.

We switch. He sits in the seat and I climb up onto the arms, crouch down and slowly lower myself onto his cock. And my pussy’s so wet it slides right in, right to the hilt, and now it’s my turn to make him moan. I raise myself up off him again. Trails of thick, creamy white pussy juice slide down his cock and pool in his pubic hair. I spit in my hand and pump it along the shaft, sheathing with saliva and juice, and keep pumping it until I hear this low, insistent moan that lets me know I’m doing the right thing.

I slowly lower myself on his cock again, lean forward so my hands are resting on the arms and my ass is slightly tilted up at an angle, pulling his cock up with it. I alternate between slowly swiveling my hips and drawing back and forth and I can hear that low ghostly moan start up again. I’m sliding back and forth on his cock and his hands reach around to cup my breasts, his finger and thumb reach up to grab my nipples and hold them firmly in place.

Now he’s got me loose and wet and willing, he’s got another trick up his sleeve: he wants to share me with others. And I don’t know how they know, or if he gave them some kind of signal, but I’m suddenly aware that I’m surrounded. And I’m not afraid.

There’s a wall of male flesh separating me from the rest of the room, as if I’m cocooned. And I feel safe.

When some peel away, others take their place immediately. And I want that. The more, the better.

I lose track of how many masked faces and anonymous cocks approach, heads bowing as they move forward, begging for attention. I grab for everything in my reach with everything that I’ve got and once I’ve got a taste I realize I’m still hungry for more. The more I get, the hungrier I am and it doesn’t stop until I want it to. And I don’t.

The sex just keeps getting better and better and better. The orgasms get more and more intense and just when I think I’ve reached the peak, another one comes along that takes me even higher and I don’t want it to stop, because the pleasure is so intense.

It feels like my body is being jolted with electricity. Not just every time I come. Every time I’m touched. Like I’m being hit with a taser, over and over and over. I experience pleasure so intense it feels like pain. Dopamine floods my brain, adrenaline courses through my body and I lose track of time.

It feels like I’m fucking non‑stop for twenty‑four hours. And I figure if I want to I could probably keep going for another twenty‑four. My body would keep going as long as my brain was stimulated. And here’s the thing: the mind never really gets tired from physical activity, it just gets distracted and bored. That’s when fatigue sets in. But if you can keep your mind focused there’s no telling how far you can go.

I go further than I ever thought I would and if I could see myself there, in that room, surrounded by all those men, I don’t know that I would recognize myself. I’d probably recognize Anna.

When I get home, I’m sore all over, my muscles are aching like I’ve hiked over a mountain and I’ve had to use every part of my body just to reach the summit. I feel invigorated, but exhausted and all I want to do is take a long hot soak.

While the bath is running, I take a look at myself in the bedroom mirror. And I’m glad Jack’s not here, so he doesn’t get a chance to see where my body is reddened from being slapped and pawed and pinched. At the same time, I’m still in a state of excitation and so fucking horny. If Jack was here, I would have his cock in my mouth in a second. I’d jump his bones and make him punish me with his cock even more.

I light a jasmine‑scented candle, put some tea lights around the bath, pour in a few drops of lavender oil, and ease myself down into the water, inch by inch, until I’m all the way in and I can feel the heat start to relax my muscles, the steam seeping into the pores of my face and body, and I start to sweat it all out.

I sleep better than I’ve slept for a long time. I sleep like a baby. And when I wake, my body still aches but my mind is clear and focused. I’m getting ready to go out and run some errands and I write Jack a note, because he’s coming back today and I want everything to be perfect, in the hope that he’ll think again and we can figure something out. I write a note that tells him how much I love him. And I really mean it. I mean it more than I ever have. I want him more than I ever have.

Just before I’m about to head out the door, I rummage through my purse to check my keys are in there. Instead of my keys, I find a roll of notes. Hundred dollar bills. And I can’t for the life of me work out how they got there or when. I pick them up and just stare at them. In shock. I’m paralyzed by a jolt of realization, as if someone’s just knocked me on my ass and I’ve come to, struggling to work out what just happened.

I should have listened to Anna. ‘Bundy’s full of surprises,’ she said and I thought it was just another one of those silly things she says. Now I get it. He turned me into the very thing I never wanted to become. I got sucked into Bundy’s screwed‑up reverse Pygmalion fantasy, where every female is perfection waiting to be turned into a whore. Bundy remade me as Séverine. Belle de Jour. The dish of the day. One of Bundy’s bitches.

I feel dirty and used. My stomach feels empty and I can feel nausea welling up inside me. I feel so sick that I want to throw up. The nausea gives way to anger. And all I can hear is this voice in my head, raging.

How could you be so stupid?

I’m shouting at myself in my head because Bundy turned me out and I didn’t even see it coming. I told myself I was in control, that I was smarter than that.

And I wasn’t.

This is what I’m asking myself now.

What is experience worth? And what does it cost?

And they’re not the same thing at all. One is concerned with meaning, the other with sacrifice.

We’re so used to paying a price – for our weekly shopping, our health, our mistakes, our indiscretions, and other crimes, affronts and misdemeanors – and never questioning how much, or who decides what that is and why. And, as a culture, we seem obsessed with what’s been lost – whether it’s innocence, privacy, privilege, security or respect – rarely with what’s been gained.

No one but no one can tell me what my experience is worth. No one but me. It’s something only I can know and understand and feel. It’s something only I can weigh up, measure and quantify. Something I can choose to pass on to others or keep for myself. And that’s my choice and my choice alone. It’s my freedom to decide. My responsibility to uphold.

Let’s not mince words here. We’re talking about sex. About fucking. And everyone does it. Whether in public or in private. More or less. Straight or kinky. Solo or in pairs or groups. With the opposite sex or their own. And, in practice, usually several or all of the above options in combination. Our sexuality is as at least as complex as our personality; maybe more so, because it involves our bodies, not just our minds.

This isn’t about science, it’s about being. And that’s why I don’t particularly trust the conclusions of people like Doctor Kinsey and Doctor Freud, especially when it comes to women. Because how do you quantify or categorize desire? How you can make value judgements on what’s good or bad for people, for individuals, based on how they feel? Based on how they fuck?

We’re all freaks. In secret. Under the skin. In the sack. Behind closed doors. When no one’s looking. But when someone is looking, or when someone knows, that’s when there’s a price to pay. A price that’s put on us, like a pound of flesh. And that price, it might be called many things, when it’s really just one thing.

Shame.

So consider that senior at high school who’s labeled a slut or a whore simply because she’s free with her affections and her body. When half her classmates are wearing promise rings as a prophylactic to contain their desires – as if that’s ever going to work – and, somehow, that makes them think they’re better. That she is somehow lesser, weaker, baser. Because she’s already decided that she likes sex. And she especially likes sucking cock. Under the bleachers. Between biology and chemistry. Not just with the quarterback but with the science nerd and the history teacher. Sometimes one right after the other, sometimes all at the same time. Have you ever considered what she gets out of it? What she believes it’s worth?

That girl, she’s not like me. She’s more like Anna.

That’s why I refuse to condemn Anna for the things she does.

Anna is everything to every man. She can move between all these worlds. Mistress, porn star, groupie, call girl. She doesn’t think of them as job descriptions, just categories of desire. She doesn’t feel exploited, so it doesn’t matter to her what people think. And, because she enjoys it, she doesn’t have a problem with accepting money. For her, it’s a fair trade.

Even though, to me, sometimes it feels like she’s living on a knife edge. As if the sex has become a need; and the need is there to fill the void, a void that can never be filled. She’s a smart girl so, eventually, she’ll come to a realization that she’s staring into an abyss. That’s the future I see for Anna. And it scares me. But I’m not going to condemn her for it. And neither am I going to try and save her. Because for her, at this point in time, it’s all worthwhile. She tells herself she’s fulfilled. At the end of the day, that might be good enough, for her, and who am I to tell her otherwise.

And me?

That’s the question.

What about me?

What am I getting out of all this? What’s the price I’ll have to pay?

And how could I have known? Before the fact, not after; because sex is not a supermarket aisle where you can browse all the different options and know the cost before you make your choice.

So let’s assume I was fully conscious and aware of everything that I was doing and why. It’s far more interesting that way, isn’t it? Because there are no excuses. There’s no one to blame.

I’m not just talking about the things I did, but about the things I fantasized and dreamed about. The places my subconscious lead me. Because it all comes from the same place at its core. And it will all come out in the end. That’s what I tell myself. It will all come out in the end.

I don’t know who I’m fooling, myself or Jack. My instinct tells me he already knows, that he already suspects something about me has changed. It’s not just hard to keep a secret from the person who loves you, the person who knows you the best, it’s impossible. But sometimes the things that are so blindingly obvious, about the people around us, our loved ones, ourselves, are the very things we choose to ignore.

Instinct is the most powerful sense organ we have. Not the gift of sight, of smell, of touch, of taste or hearing – instinct. It’s all of those combined and more and, if we learn to trust it, there is no path we can venture down that’s the wrong path, no action we can take that works against us, no relationship that will break off.

I knew when I first got with Jack that he was the one for me. Not just for now, for always. I remember that I couldn’t wait to confide in my older sister about this guy I’d met and told her in a breathless rush how amazing he was. I thought she’d be happy for me. She just scoffed.

She said I was too young, that I was kidding myself, that Jack sounded too perfect and soon would come a time when I’d realize he was a jerk like all the rest. And I didn’t pay her any mind, because I trusted my instinct and I knew.

As I grew up, I would watch my girlfriends go through guys, one after the other, and always find a reason to discard them, feeling dissatisfied or frustrated or used. I would look at them and realize I didn’t want to be like them. And these girls, they’re all single now, and it feels to me like they’ll always be single, because they’re always on the hunt for Mister Right. They have this image in their heads of who he is, what he looks like, what he does and how he behaves. And it’s a fantasy, a total fantasy. The same line of bullshit that’s been sold to women since… forever.

Prince Charming. The perfect male. Ken Doll. The perfect specimen. The Bachelor. The perfect husband. Because those guys, the impossibly good‑looking ones, the charming ones, the ones that sweep you off your feet, the ones that seem too‑good‑to‑be‑true, well, they usually are too‑good‑to‑be‑true. There’s another word for charmer, a more accurate description.

Sociopath.

It’s amazing how many women fall for guys like that, fall for the same ruse, time and time again, and then rue the day they ever met them.

The game of love, it’s one of the oldest cons going. What it really is, is this:

A shell game.

Watch the cups move round and round, and guess which one contains the perfect man. Play that game and you’re going to lose. Always. It’s a foregone conclusion.

No one wants to believe they’ve been conned, especially in love. Because that fucking hurts. Probably more than anything in the world. It hits you right in the gut. Makes you feel sick. Makes you feel stupid. Really, really stupid. And so the best thing for anyone in that situation to do is this:

Pretend they saw right through him.

Pretend they knew all along.

Pretend it never happened.

Start all over again.

And this time, tell themselves, never again. I’ll never fall for the same trick again.

But they will.

They will because they don’t know what they want in life and, until they do, they’re destined to fall into the same pattern time and time again, destined to repeat their failures. Because they’re pursuing an unattainable fantasy. Of the perfect man. The perfect husband. The perfect lover.

And life isn’t like that.

It really isn’t.

People aren’t like that.

And this doesn’t just apply to women. Guys fall prey to their own self‑deception too. The sensitive ones, at least. The ones who are evolved enough to think of women as more than just a convenient receptacle for their come. Sometimes they’re too evolved. They think too much. They put women up on a pedestal, idealize their perfect companion into something that no one can live up to. At least, I know I can’t. And to me, that just seems like a recipe for a lifetime of disappointment, a lifetime of failed relationships. Of looking for Mr or Mrs Right and always ending up with someone wrong. So wrong.

This is the game of love. A cup and ball game in which everyone loses.

You say, that’s cynical.

I say, it’s realistic.

I’m not saying that I don’t believe in love, because I do. And, if hard pushed, I’ll probably admit that it’s the only I thing I believe in. Not God, not money, not people. Just love. And I’m not suggesting anyone lower their standards, or settle for second best. Far from it.

I’ll tell you something else. My relationship with Jack, it isn’t like that. It’s not based on what we’re not, it’s based on who we are. And we’re imperfect, as human beings, as lovers, as partners. And I love the imperfections, I celebrate the failings, I worship the flaws. I’m comfortable with who I am, warts and all. I’m comfortable with who he is. I’m speaking for myself here, not for Jack.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 695