Decadence (19 page)

There were hundreds of beautiful,
colorful masks, each as unique as the libertine that wore them. Venetian masks. Italian masks. Costume ball masks. Half masks. Full masks. My mask was a Cignetta red, white, and black, a half mask with beautiful laser-cut swan and Austrian crystals. My heels were sky high and black with red soles. My dress was red, the color of power.

She was here.

The last bitch that I wanted to see on this planet was here.

Siobhán Kline was here with her sweet bread.

Maybe we had both been drawn here. We arrived at the same moment. She saw me when I pulled up at valet. She was holding her husband's hand, entering Decadence. She wore a red dress as well; hers like the one Jessica Rabbit wore. As fate would have it, in this moment of irony, we both had on the same brand of shoes. Just beyond the check-in, there was a marvelous dance club, an area that served as a place where people could wait for their friends, make friends, find new lovers, or dance and drink before proceeding to the undressing area. There were at least one hundred people dancing in designer gowns, tailored suits, and masks. Siobhán was dancing with Chris when I entered. Another woman was with them, laughing, her dress black and tight, and her skin as smooth as porcelain, her eyes tight, her skin as dark as her dress. A man who looked to be about twenty-one had asked me to dance. He was polite. He was from Seville. He owned a machine company that sold their products throughout Europe. He was six foot four, industrial-size, all muscles. From first impression he was a very cultured, very interesting man who loved the shape of my ass.

Delighted, he told me his name, then asked, “What do you do?”

“I'm an anpopisthographer, Giovanni.”

“Sounds very interesting, Nia Simone. Sounds very intriguing.”

“It's sort of like being an imagination engineer.”

“Then you are good at what you do because as I look at you I am imagining things. We could make those things come true.”

While we laughed and danced to a Motown record, I felt Siobhán's eyes on me. I was tempted to walk over to them and ask Chris why he had sent me a friend request on Facebook, then congratulate her on all of the lovely pictures that graced her page, but I kept on dancing and laughing. Even the intellectuals were entitled to petty moments. When the music changed, when they put on reggae, my soul came alive. So did the bodies of every woman, especially those who had spent time in the islands. Reggae gave way to soca. I pulled my dress up a bit and moved my legs like butterfly wings, wining my waist, twirling my head. Chris studied me. I felt it. So did the woman he had married. I tried not to look their way. But I did. I glanced their way. Siobhán did all of the Caribbean dances, but she was not nearly as good as I, not as good as the next woman she had befriended. The tartness of my face soured ripe grapes. My nose cringed as if I smelled a mountain goat. Siobhán was an imitator and my ancestors were the originators. I had taught her my dances in college. I had shared with her my culture and she had robbed me of my happiness. I blocked that from my mind and I danced the dollar wine, made my backside move left, center, right, shimmied with the music, made my bottom fling from side to side, did a jump and wine for a moment, changed and moved my neck and torso, made the dollar wine my dance, backed up and gyrated against my partner, wine and go dong and stick, then kept my upper body still while I wined from the waist down. When the record changed, I thanked my enamored partner, kissed him on his lips, and led him back to his Barcelonan girlfriend. I introduced myself and we shared a few words. His girlfriend was a bodybuilder, her figure incredible. They were interested in me. They were a beautiful couple, but the way Giovanni looked at me, there was something very
mamaguy
about his ways. I turned down an invitation to join them for the masquerade. Then I took my carry-on luggage and I walked away from them laughing. I wished them good fucking; they wished me the same. I pulled my luggage on wheels behind me, jewelry sparkling, designer dress tight, did a wuk and wine to the music, walked and gyrated at the same time.

I moved with a flirty crowd, an international crowd of the advantaged, eating rich chocolates and sipping high-priced wine, chatted amongst hedonists and libertines, all in pursuit of a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety. Marquis de Sade had said that hedonism ended in ataraxia.

Bret was on my mind. My feelings for him. So was Prada. His feelings for me, mine for him had garnered another compartment.

Chris and Siobhán were in front of me. They kissed good-bye and he went to the elevator that led to the glass walkway and the men's secret area. Siobhán and I ended up on the same crowded elevator. We were separated by one chatty woman. Time slowed down. She breathed like she had claustrophobia. I gritted my teeth and battled the same swelling emotional paralysis. There was so much tension in the air. It felt as if fate were conspiring against me. Wanted to scream.

When the elevator door opened she couldn't get off fast enough, couldn't walk fast enough. I exhaled, took a deep breath, stepped off the elevator last. I walked the slowest, this time not noticing the art.

But when I was underneath the glass walkway, I looked up.

In the crowd of men going to their undressing room, I saw Chris. He stood there, his mask at his side, waiting, staring down. He waved at me. That seemed surreal. Unreal. Then he had the nerve to wave at me again. Old sentiments lived in that simple motion of the hand. Unspoken regrets, desires were heard. Years ago my emotions had lied to me. They had told me that Chris and I would be together until the end of the aeon. I tried to block the thoughts, but there were whispers in the back of my mind, whispers from every conversation we'd had when we were in college. Heard him whispering about misinterpreted astrological allegories. How he jokingly talked about what he called the invisible man in the sky with the special list of ten things he didn't want us to do, then engaged me in an in-depth conversation about religion and culture, how he looked at the world as a superstitious world. He gave astrological signs no power. He had said that constellations, the zodiac, have been redefined and personified and now the superstitious followed what other fools said were personality traits.

If nothing else, he had made me think in ways new to me. He used to make me laugh at what he believed, and laugh at what I believed as well. In the end there had been no laughter.

As a gaggle of women passed by me, head tilted back, I stared at him for a while. My ex. My rival's husband. Forbidden fruit.

I lowered my head and continued toward the undressing room.

After I found my assigned locker, I showered again. When I was done, I stepped barefoot past women who were talking, slapping asses, some making love. Disturbed by Siobhán being here, bothered by the idea that Chris had stood over me like a god and stared down, I stood nude at the body-length mirror at my locker putting on lotion. Siobhán was in the undressing area, naked, her body sleek, her hair in a 1940s style. As I lotioned my body, she was ten feet away, stepping into her extravagant heels. We were mere feet from each other while I prepared for the evening. She didn't say anything to me as she got ready.

One look from her, one side-eye, a word, even if it were a sweet word, one kind word and I would loose the anger that lived in my heart. As we stood naked in high heels and glitter lotion I would kindle the dead coals of war. I felt her inhaling and exhaling. She wasn't that close but I felt the heat of her breath, the energy from her skin. I didn't say anything to her. I had to take deep, deep breaths and suck on my tongue. She wore a Luna Baroque mask, a mask of blues, and a high silver leaf, varnished and waxed. Nostrils flaring, she left the undressing area before I did. But I caught her looking back at me.

My hair was in small, tight braids on both sides and a vicious Mohawk on top. Hennas covered one arm like a sleeve, the other arm from my shoulder to my elbow. This was how I felt inside. I had my makeup redone by the talented workers, had them do it extreme, as if I were a rock star, the rest of my skin covered with sparkling lotion. After imbibing wine and chocolate and putting on bracelets and necklaces by Coco Chanel, I took my Cignetta mask and explored another area, one exclusively for women. It was a quarter that I had overlooked, offering treatments to keep their backsides shaped and molded. Derriere photos were on each wall, screen shots from Mc Créu's videos, close-ups that showed not a single fault. Beauticians were on duty and there were thirty tables, most filled with women getting work done on their cellulite and stretch marks. Gregarious and loquacious workers and members chattered like sorority girls. High-tech machines were on hand and in that section the beauticians were all dressed in tight white slacks and wore BEAUTY
MATTERS
T-shirts.

“I want an awesome butt. A head-turning, traffic-stopping butt. I want to make all of the women jealous when their men can't help but look at me when I walk by in a short dress and no underwear on.”

“You've been through a lot. Glad to see you back having fun.”

“Chemo was a bitch. But we made it through. Hubby was right there at my side and didn't miss an appointment. He's the best of the best of the best. After the mastectomy I was worried about the do over, but they came out fine. It's time for me to live a little and love a lot.”

“Make sure you research before you upgrade. I can e-mail you a few doctors to check out.”

“Thanks. If I do get my buttocks enhanced, I will need the top and bottom to match. Would be great to take photos and be absolutely stunning. Want to make sure my husband stays attracted to me.”

“Just don't use polymethyl methacrylate. That hardens and your ass will be as hard as a chair.”

Beyond them was a room filled with bathtubs. Couples were in porcelain tubs bathing together. Women had their heads under the water, sucking off their lovers. Water splashed as others rode their men.

I put my mask on, took on a new personality, and entered the waiting area, again to a sea of nude men in expensive timepieces, all wearing long nose masks. Phallic masks. Venetian plague-doctor masks. Casanova. Checkered. Black. Whites. Golds. Reds. I paused and complimented a few on their masks, then moved on, filled with unbridled energy as I sashayed from room to room, saw sophisticated lovers hiding their faces behind masks designed like Farfallina wings, who wore vintage jewelry to match, lovers to lovers, level to level, a peripatetic lifestyle, then stopped at Eros, stood and watched a sex class. Men were being taught how to move, how to please, how to not come so fast, how to be better lovers.

Chris was in my periphery. He was in the crowd, without his wife.

I glanced behind me. Sea-green eyes were locked on mine.

My lips moved and formed the words, “Good fucking.”

He nodded.

His sea-green eyes radiated leftover love.

Mine radiated a hurt that was yet to heal.

Chris walked away. Naked, lingam rising, he walked away.

I felt his energy fade as I pretended to be interested in the abecedarians of erotic love. I was aroused, damp being at a fête where sexual gratification wasn't forbidden for women. I was comfortable in that state. I embraced that sensation, my prelude to finding a handsome man, or men, or joining a couple and exploring, laughing, making love as we aided wingless angels. Bret hadn't touched me the way I had needed to be touched. Prada was nonexistent. So I was a woman who could manage her own needs. I allowed my sway to move me from room to room, speaking in English to some, in French to others, and conversing in Spanish at times. Again I was the new girl, the mysterious vixen, the single woman, and for many the desired unicorn.

While I watched lovers share pleasure, someone put a hand on the small of my back. I turned around and it was a suntanned, petite woman wearing a beautiful half mask, one that looked like the cut of a swan. I grinned. She put her hands underneath my breasts, made them bounce. We laughed. It was Anaïs. She was with her husband, a tall man, the nose on his mask so long it brought to mind the stud we called Quince Pulgadas. Anaïs wore golden stilettos, her golden mask, and a beautiful chain was around her waist, her earrings long. We hugged, breasts to breasts, skin to skin, and she kissed me on my cheeks.

On the big screens I saw Ricardo and Yesenia. The Curaçaoan did marvelous and loving things to his wife, while the woman from Geronimo pulled at the sheets and stared into the eye of the camera.

I asked Anaïs, “Which room are they in?”

“They are home.”

“Really?”

“If you like you can connect via Skype and be broadcast live.”

“Live streaming.”

“They can't see the club. We wouldn't risk anyone recording us.”

Anaïs had a large red purse with her.

I asked her what she carried.

She told me that I would find out.

Her husband grinned.

I followed them and we searched for an alcove, ready to give angels their wings. As we walked I saw Siobhán. She was with her husband, his mask was black, and its nose an erection.

Soon a luxurious alcove became available.

We left the curtains opened wide.

Chris and Siobhán appeared on the monitor. They had found themselves a glamorous unicorn. They had recruited a tall, modelesque woman who appeared to be East African, maybe Ethiopian, her skin the softest brown, hair wavy and long, her mask as dark as my feelings toward Chris and his egotistical, backstabbing sylph wife. I stared at the couple that had sponsored the rudest of rude awakenings.

Anaïs asked, “Do you want to watch them? We could join them.”

“No. Your husband and you are all that I will need tonight.”

For a while he sucked my fingers as she sucked my neck. He kissed my lips. She licked my breasts. Anaïs and her husband tied my ankles with colorful satin scarves. She put handcuffs on me, the kind that used Velcro to close. My heart raced. He removed my mask, he removed what hid me, removed the colors of my island from my face. He stared at me. Ran his fingers across my henna. The contact of skin. I tingled. I made more honey. I made honey as I had done with Bret. For Bret I had made honey that had gone untasted. For Bret I had made honey that I had wished Prada had been available to lick away. My breathing was heavy, anticipatory, nervous, excited. I was moist. Anaïs blindfolded me with a black silk scarf, one that still allowed me to catch glimpses of them and the outline of the Watchers, of the curious poltroons. She sucked my neck as her husband kissed up and down my thighs. Moaning and whispering in heated, aroused, intoxicating Spanish, Anaïs put her mouth close to my ear, licked my ear, sucked my ear and told me that she had a fantasy, something that she had never done and always wanted to do, wanted me to be her first. Delicately asked me if I would object to her using toys. Her husband's tongue danced inside of my yoni. As he sucked my clit, my back arched and I told Anaïs that I was hers for the evening, that if this was what she wanted, was what she needed, then I would be hers. She desired me. She didn't reject me. I didn't have to play a guessing game with her intentions. I expected nothing from her but pleasure and I promised to share with her my inner fire. She couldn't betray me. Her husband used the stiff nose of his mask, rubbed its smoothness against my yoni, then eased it in and out of me. Anaïs asked me if she could make love to me wearing a strap-on. If I did not want that, then she wanted me to make love to her with the strap-on that she had just bought at the store in the lobby. I swallowed. Trembled. Wanted to give an angel its wings. She gave me her tongue. We kissed. Her husband moved his mask away and put his mouth on my sex, put his tongue inside of my sex, and sucked me gently. Orgasm made me vanish from this world. When I regained control, as I rode on this high, as my appetite felt enormous, I told Anaïs that she could do whatever she desired, take me with her strap-on or I could take her. I could try and be the man, or we could take turns. It would be new. It would be my first time. Anaïs and her husband changed positions. Her tongue moved down my thighs and stopped at my fleshy folds as his tongue moved up to my mouth. Her husband moved his mask away, gave me his tongue. Slow kisses. He sucked my tongue as he had done my clit and in Spanish told me I was extremely beautiful. I tingled. Soon they turned me on my side. She ate me from the front as he ate me from behind. So much stimulation. Absolute arousal. Tears fell from my eyes. Anaïs came back to me, stroked my face, and as her husband sucked my clit again, as I came, Anaïs and I kissed. Women kissing fascinated men. Aroused me. Aroused other women.