Decadence (21 page)

I paused. “You're serious? You want to masturbate.”

“Let me watch you. Let me be a Watcher.”

“We're not at the club.”

“Just me and you. No crowds.”

“You said that you have to go.”

“It can wait.”

A long moment went by, a very long moment, a moment of inner battle, a moment where the dark side inside of me demanded servile behavior from other parts of me. In the end I stared at the man who had given his wife a seven-carat marquis-cut ring in the shape of a football, another ring that had followed the precedent set by the Archduke Maximilian of Austria, a ring that would never grace my finger.

I licked the corners of my lips. “I've never done that before.”

“Will you?”

Part of me felt excited. Another part told me to maintain my commitment to emotional maturity. For whatever reason we had found each other again. And with each breath, I felt as if I were still in college. Maybe this was fate, kismet in action, and my destiny in motion. Chris was a married swinger. I had ended up in the same lifestyle, for this period of my life. He was far away, yet close. Memories of the five senses of him moved across my flesh.

I said, “Sure. If you shower at the same time.”

“Serious?”

“Sure. Watch me and I watch you.”

“Will you masturbate?”

“Why should I?”

“Fair exchange.”

“Not exactly. Seems to be your fantasy at the moment.”

“Why not spice it up a bit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have a vibrator?”

“Chris. Seriously?”

“I bought you your first vibrator.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“Have one?”

“Jesus. Yes, I have a vibrator.”

Chris walked through his elegant property, through echoes of his self-indulgent lifestyle, a home on an island. From room to room it was as pristine as a museum. He entered a bathroom of marble and recessed light, candles throughout, the touch of a woman. He put his phone at an angle, set it up to be seen. I watched him undress. Saw his physique flex as he pulled his shirt over his head. Memories of the first time that he had undressed in front of me rose. I'd been excited and terrified because I had known what was about to happen, knew we were about to make love. The way his broad shoulders moved, the V-shape of his upper torso, it was as if I had never seen him naked before.

By then I was in my master bedroom, the bottom drawer on my dresser open, a dozen vibrators and toys staring at me, begging to be chosen, begging to vibrate against my spot, begging to intrude me.

I said, “Surprise, surprise. You're already erect.”

“Almost.”

“Bigger than I remember. But the camera does add ten pounds.”

“Watching you run . . . told you . . . that was hot.”

“You were playing with yourself.”

“I was. That's why I'm chubbed up.”

“Maybe you should go put it inside of your wife's big mouth.”

“She's not here.”

“If you don't have horse, ride cow.”

“You and that mouth. You're the one with the mouth.”

“Shame on you. I was talking to you and you were jacking off.”

“Shame on me.”

“Didn't think that I was worthy of an act of self-gratification.”

“You are.”

For a long time I had missed sneaking away, spending the night somewhere off campus, and waking up beside him. A lot had happened over those years. I had missed him poking my butt in the middle of the night and feeling him grind against me. I had missed oiling his scalp. I had missed his smell. I had missed his taste. No one ever said our names separately, spoke them as if we were to be together forever.

Then I was naked, self-conscious of my nakedness, questioning of my appeal, inside of my shower, and he was inside of his shower, his big shower. I knew that I was beautiful, knew that beauty emanated from within, but I didn't think either appealed to him. I looked at him and maintained my poker-faced stare, as if nothing about him were arousing. Water ran over his naked body, over his muscles, over his frame. It was a waterfall shower and he stood underneath, his face wet. I wet my body as I stared at him, as I evaluated him, this version of him, a man I used to know so well. Then I soaped my body. Soaped myself slowly. With him watching, I didn't put a shower cap on. There were no fantasies that included shower caps. I had two of my toys, a rabbit and a dildo formed from the cast of a porn star's penis.

Chris stroked himself. As I watched him I leaned into the wall and pulled at my nipples and bit my bottom lip. At times I loved to masturbate. So I did. Today I loved making myself feel this way. There was a joy in self-loving. There was something erotic, exotic, and again empowering in taking responsibility for my orgasm.

He had known me in college. He had seen me at Decadence. He knew this side of me, as I knew this side of him. My sex drive was strong. I was proud of its strength, of hormonal influences.

Chris masturbated as if it were as normal as breathing.

He didn't deny his nature, didn't deny being a sexual being.

His breathing became shallow, thick, and deep as he wanted to be inside of me. I picked up the vibrator and eased it inside of me. I heard Chris moan. He moaned loudly. I fucked myself as he stroked himself. I made my rhythm match his, made it feel like he was fucking me. He called my name and in my post-orgasmic haze I watched him. He was about to come. As he growled, and masturbated harder and faster, as he milked himself, I closed my eyes, as it was impossible for me to come with my eyes open. Leaning against the tiled wall, I came. Then we stared at each other, panting, catching our breaths, returning to normal, both of us soaking wet, standing underneath waterfalls that were states away, cities away, miles away.

Naked. Warm water raining on us. Like Tarzan. Like Jane.

Soon he asked, “May I call you again?”

“Tell Siobhán that I said hello when she gets home.”

I ended the session. I left him without a good-bye.

My cellular chirped. It was a text message. I stepped out of the shower and checked to see who had sent me a text message.

It was Bret. As I had done yesterday, I deleted his text without reading it. After the night in Florida, after he had dropped me off at the gates to my community, I hadn't responded to any of his texts. He served no purpose in my world. He didn't desire me. So I rejected him. Now I ran by myself. I missed running with him. Missed his company. But we had nothing in common. We didn't sex. He didn't read. He was basic. I would leave him to his children and divorce drama.

Then I stepped back into the shower. I took my mind off both the warrior and the king. As the shower steamed, I continued masturbating, continued fantasizing, my refractory period almost nonexistent.

Via FaceTime,
Chris called every afternoon. Like he had done at Hampton, he rang me every day. Sometimes I answered. I answered in time for him to reveal himself having an orgasm. I would watch him come. Then I would hang up. Work took precedence. I worked on the next screenplay. I ghostwrote. I ran. With Chris on my mind, with Decadence being part of my world, with Bret and Prada humming in the background, I wrote many, many, many pages of
Abnormal Desires
. I was beyond writing about twins and insane wives and storms and madness. I included my first night at Decadence. I included my second night there. I wrote of my nights without shame. Not bowdlerized. Explicit. And during my busy season I had many calls, countless interviews, some again using Skype and FaceTime, and each day I chatted with my overly ambitious mother about our upcoming responsibilities. Once again I talked to my wonderful, underpaid, overworked New York agent about possibly doing a novel using my true name, something that I was not comfortable with.

“Give it a thought, Nia.”

“Then I would have to go out and promote.”

“I think that you would be marvelous.”

“Probably end up living out of a suitcase year round.”

“Writing books with your face up front makes you the brand and when you are the brand your job becomes selling books, so then you will be in sales. Conventions, book signings, book clubs.”

“Planes. Trains. Automobiles. Forgetting which city I'm in.”

“Early mornings and late nights, if you are successful.”

“I don't want to live out of a bag. I don't want to be up at four o'clock every morning to get to the next city in time for morning interviews. I don't want to eat hotel food and not be able to exercise. Sitting all day, a sedentary occupation is already unhealthy enough. That is why I work out. The writers that I have ghostwritten for, I have followed their careers, read their interviews. I just don't need to meet that many people. People are mean. They love to dish out backhanded compliments.”

He said, “Times are changing. eBooks are sending a shiver down the spine of the publishing industry. I have no idea how the wind will blow, so it's a good thing that you're branching out into Hollywood at this point. Novelists are taking a hard hit, but I think that you can still do well. Many predict that eBooks are either going to be the saving grace for the publishing industry, or the final nail in its coffin.”

“Books are dying. Bookstores are almost obsolete. I give it two generations.”

“And then trees shall only die to make toilet paper.”

“Unless they come up with an e-wiper.”

He laughed.

I laughed too.

He said, “This is why you would be excellent as a touring author.”

“The best that I might be willing to do, and that is a small might, is have my name on the cover of a novel that I have ghosted or worked on with someone. That and no picture on the back or inside.”

“You're so beautiful.”

“But I am from the wrong tribe. My face would not enhance sales. That's a reality. We have to do what works for the bottom line.”

“We will talk about this some more in a few days.”

“Make it a few weeks. The movie is coming up. Countless interviews. Too much on my plate and that is not top priority.”

“I'll try to make it to Los Angeles for your premiere.”

“I would love to see you there. But I know you have a sick wife right now.”

And as soon as I finished that call, I looked for Chris on FaceTime. I looked for him. I called him. He answered immediately.

I said, “I'm about to shower.”

“Let me get my lotion.”

In a matter of days, after talking of our days gone by, we agreed to meet where our paths had crossed once again. We would meet again at Decadence. I had planned on going back very soon anyway. I had circled more events. The one that intrigued me was a Unicorn Party. I was ready to meet my lover from Curaçao and his wife, was eager to have him please me as I used my hands and tongue and pleased his wife, as attractive women had pleased me. Feeling greedy, I had told myself that I could be to her what the Brit with the wicked tongue had been to me, what Kiki Sunshine had been to me in the distant past. Fair was fair and a promise was a promise. I owed the woman who was born in Geronimo, Oklahoma, a debt of gratitude. As Anaïs had suggested when I was in my interview, as she had showed me during her heated moment, I would pretend that I was a man, and that the vixen I was pleasing was me, and as a man I would do the things to me that I loved. But the past wanted to meet. Everything inside of my body said no. But my unhealed heart said yes. That was new for me. Feeling for an ex, for an old lover, that was a new sensation. Not being wanted, being refused, maybe not being pursued, that was new to me as well. Yet it was old to me at the same time. Rejection was one of the least-desired emotions.

And Chris Eidos Alleyne was right there.

Wanting me as if he had never stopped wanting me.

After he had once again masturbated, this time via Skype, he said, “So we will meet at Decadence?”

“You want me there?”

“Yes. I can fly up and take a limo over.”

“For what purpose?”

“We can be Watchers.”

“Nothing more.”

“Watch. And nothing more.”

“If you want me there, you pay my entry fee.”

“No problem. I will.”

“And you will send a limo to pick me up, deliver me there, wait for me until the end of the night, and bring me back home afterward.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Serious. I'm not driving. And have the limo on standby to drive me back home the same night. There will not be an overnight stay.”

“So, you're not spending the night at a hotel in the area?”

“And I want to be in a stretch limo with wine and peeled grapes.”

“I can arrange that. But you might have to peel your own grapes.”

“Send me the confirmation. Then delete it from your inbox.”

“Okay. You're not going to stand me up, are you?”

Naked, orgasms done and faded, this sin completed, my expression once again dour, my vibrator fell from my hand to my bed.

“Guess you'll have to show up and wait and see, Chris.”

I pushed the end button. I was a queen.

I wanted to regain my throne.

Laughing,
competitive, Chris Eidos Alleyne and I had played nude volleyball.

That physical exercise had been energizing. When we were done, we had showered separately, then I put on red lingerie—it was lingerie night at the club. My past and I reconnected in the hallway, over the glass floors, and we stood and watched lovers do their thing. But I didn't keep my lingerie on very long. Within thirty minutes we were upstairs in the glass-bottom pool. Heated from watching sex, I needed to cool off. Again I showered. Then we met and walked to one of the bars in Eros. I wore only heels. He wore only a watch. We were both nude. We drank wine that he had brought along. I ate decadent chocolate. I felt good. A while later we came upon an empty alcove.

He said, “It's just been cleaned. Has fresh flowers and brand-new sheets.”

“The maids just left. What's your point?”

“Let's claim this space before someone else does.”

“Check the ring finger on your left hand. Why would we do that?”

He had looked at me and I was once again at college, skydiving without a parachute.

He said, “We don't have to do anything.”

Music throbbed while stimulating adult movies were projected on the walls. Each wall displayed a different love affair, a different style of sex. All that showed on the wall was someone's fantasy, all that showed was someone's reality.

I told Chris, “If I did go in there with you, to talk, you know the rules of the club.”

“I can't touch you unless you ask me to or give me permission.”

“Remember that.”

“Do you still believe that the only rational behavior is to pursue your own self-interest?”

“That's Ayn Rand.”

“You used to quote her all the time. Her value system. Her radical, self-serving beliefs.”

“Did I? Wow. Well, I guess you subscribed to her philosophy more than I did.”

“Let's get an alcove. We can continue the discussion there.”

“I'm not sleeping with you, so get that fantasy out of your head.”

“We can sit. Be alone. Talk.”

“What would we talk about, exactly?”

“We've talked naked before.”

“In college. Many times. We were lovers then.”

“And a few of those times we were high on weed.”

“Yes, we were. We had smoked a tree and sipped wine. It's different now.”

“Is it?”

“I don't know what this is. But you're a married man. You've moved on to new dreams. With the humanitarian cheerleader.”

“Why do you keep bringing her up when I'm here with you?”

“She garnered the tiara. I tutored her. I hate her. She fucked you behind my back. After all the fights she was given the crown, the ring, and I guess I was Miss Congeniality. Well, I snapped, lost my cool and I guess that that secondary title was stripped from me as well. With you I had been a star, then this star collapsed. When a star collapses it becomes infinitely dense and creates a black hole. A black hole sucks in everything in its vicinity, destroys everything, and consumes everything. That is what it felt like I tried to do for a long, long time.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I know that there is at least one couple here looking for a unicorn. I saw this woman in the undressing room. She's very hot. And you're pretty hot yourself, Chris. There are a lot of Siobháns here. I hear foreign women talk about their Mandingo fantasies so I know at least one Russian husband here would love to watch you please his wife. Amazes me how men get off watching their wives fuck a man of another race or nationality. But the contrast is sexy. Getting to partake of the pleasures of a new country. We can go our separate ways and we can meet again in an hour, and maybe talk some more.”

He smiled. “What if I just want to look at you and jack off?”

“That's grown old. We've done that enough.” I smiled. “Siobhán has no idea that you're here. You broke a promise and came with me.”

“She has no idea.”

“You used me to be able to get in.”

“And to be fair, at this moment, I have no idea what she's doing.”

“Feeding the poor?”

“Beyond that.”

“She's had sexual experiences beyond the confines of this marriage, surreptitiously.”

“A man never knows what a woman will do given space and opportunity. She travels a lot. At times she's impossible to reach.”

We commandeered an alcove. Watchers gathered. But I smiled, shook my head, and shut the thick curtains on curious eyes. When I closed the curtains, it was as if this other part of me opened up. I'd never imagined being alone with my past, not after the horrible way he had treated me at the end of our affair. Never thought that I would be able to look at him and not want to stab him in his heart.

I asked, “Where is the wife?”

“Lima, Peru. I'm joining her the day after tomorrow.”

“Peru. Sounds interesting.”

He said, “I really want you.”

“That's direct.”

“It's how I feel.”

“We said talk only.”

“I want you. I've missed you. I've regretted not being with you.”

For a moment, I glared at him, at his weakness, a weakness that had been inside of him when we had been a couple, and I contemplated the power that I had over him, a power that he used to have over me.

I said, “You want to behave badly one more time.”

“I want to make love to you. Like we did in college.”

“We're not in love and we're definitely not in college anymore.”

“I'm in love.”

“No you're not.”

“It sure feels that way.”

“That season of insanity and youthful folly has come and gone.”

“The smell of you, the taste of you, I'm back in college.”

“Are you?”

“In my brain, in my heart, the way that I have longed for you every day and night, the way I hear old songs and think of you, it wasn't that long ago. To me it was only yesterday.”

Memories joined us. Stood before me smiling.

He said, “I would leave her for you.”

“Would you?”

“I would. I have always felt that way.”

“Did she ask you the same? In college, did she ask you if you would leave me for her? Was it that easy back then?”

“If only you hadn't come by the dorm that day.”

“But I did. Wish I hadn't. But I did. Was it easy to have me thrown out of your dorm and to watch me beg for you to take me back? I had walked in on you and her fucking and in the end I was the one crying and apologizing for my behavior. Chris, I was with you that morning. We had made love. I mean, was it really that easy for you?”

He rubbed his head. “It wasn't easy. I didn't know she was coming by. She popped up. Next thing I know, you're walking into my dorm room.”

“What a moment. I opened the door and what a moment.”

“Yeah. Every day I've missed the fun we had and shared. I've missed the love. The meals. The conversations. We were friends, Nia.”

At last I whispered, “We did have good times. More than I can count. More than I want to remember. My sentiments were strong. I was uxorial back then. Like a wife. When it was good, it was fantastic. Can't deny that. I have a big box filled with cards, letters, and pictures. I look at those and see the smile on my face and I can feel it all.”

“For old time's sake.”

I searched for words, for a certain combination of words to be arranged in a specific order to tell him how I felt at that moment.

I said, “Eat me.”

“What?”

“Crawl to me in slow motion. Beg me. Eat me.”

I was no longer the naïve girl that I had been back then. I was a woman now. But in reality I knew that no matter how old I was, when I saw him, I would regress to being in college again. This was the part of me that had risen from the ashes of our failed relationship. Now I always sought out what wasn't available. I had been robbed, so I robbed others. This was nefarious, yet it felt comfortable; again my nature took the road less traveled, and pursued the unattainable.

He fell to his knees like a soldier surrendering to his queen, and he licked me. I placed both hands on his head, guided him.

Tingles rose. Ice melted. Anger dissipated. I stopped him, paused our battle when old feelings metastasized, infected my heart, and I started to feel light-headed, like an obsessed flibbertigibbet.

He backed away and said, “That's all I get?”

I made him back away as music throbbed, as I danced Caribbean dances, as I danced the Dutty Wine, as I dropped my ass, eased it back up, rocked my hips left and right and forward and straight back. I made erotic faces and danced the tick tock, did some downright provocative dancehall moves. Then I balanced myself on my head, used my hands for stability, moving to the beat in the background, moved in waves like the ocean, and I danced a raunchy head-top.

While blood rushed to my head and added to my high, while mixed emotions battled inside of me, he stood where my legs parted, held my ass and lowered his face, gave me his tongue, allowed his tongue to dart inside of me, to plunge inside of me, to paint long strokes, to write numbers as if he were writing me a bad check; and Chris Eidos Alleyne ate my yoni better than he had eaten me in college—not as good as other lovers, but he was decent—he was famished, proved to me that I was as esculent as his trophy wife, if not more. He had tasted me, then paused and looked at my response. After I had been on my head so long I felt as if I was about to pass out, he eased me to the floor, and where my yoni went his tongue followed.

I controlled him.

In college, he was so popular that many men were no more than his servants and would have extended to their running-back king the privileges of
prima nocta
, where a lord had the right to take a man's wife for himself on her wedding night. I wanted to kick him off his pedestal and make him less than a servant. I made myself the queen and I had sexual rights to the husband of any woman I chose.

I said, “Don't stop eating me. Don't you dare stop.”

Chris Eidos Alleyne took the mouth that was meant for his wife, the tongue that was meant for her pleasure and tasted my yoni as I gripped his head and tried to push his face inside of me. Making him eat me, it was a hard-core rush, right or wrong.

It was about power. I found that rousing. It was invigorating.

I wished Siobhán had walked in. I would once again tutor her. It was not in my spirit to see another woman shattered, wasn't in me to do intentional harm but there was an exception to every rule.

Orgasm rose.

In college he would give me head, but never like this. He was a different lover now. I had to stare at him, this man who no longer had dreadlocks, this man licked me like he was losing his mind.

I said, “You've missed Trinidad, haven't you?”

He nodded, told me that he had missed my yoni, that he had missed my presence in his life, that he had dreamed of me so many times, had looked for me and found me online, but was afraid to send me a message. He had fantasized on the day he married that I would magically show up and ruin the event. But it had already gone too far. The dress had been bought. Everything had been reserved. Invitations had been sent out. Expectations were high. The wedding planner had been paid. Nothing was refundable. Four hundred people had taken vacation and bought plane tickets and rented hotel rooms.

He paused, softened his timbre. “I wish that I had married you.”

“I wish that you had only been a zipless fuck.”

“What is that? A zipless fuck?”

“A one-night stand.”

“That stabs me deep.”

“And I really want to twist the knife. You have no idea how badly I want to twist the knife.”

He said, “I want to be inside of you again.”

“When you stood in Eros spying on me, you liked what you saw.”

He said, “I want to make love to you again.”

“You want to fuck me. You want your orgasm to be your victory, your trophy made of spunk.”

“Nia.”

“The truth? Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

“Yes. Sure. The truth.”

“After we broke up, even as I fell into rebound relationships, even as I was a bitch and mean to nice men who really cared for me, even when my heart had gone cold, I wanted you. I had sex and saw your face on their faces. And you invaded my fucking dreams. Nighttime was the worst. In some strange, perverse way, I wanted you. Everyone knew. Everyone at Hampton knew. They knew that you had left me for her. They knew about the incident. I was almost thrown off campus. My mother went off on me. I had almost ruined my life, my education, over you. My mother hates you. She hates your fucking guts the way Jewish immigrants hate the name Hitler. I did too. So if I saw you, I walked by as if you were invisible, or I just took another route, went across campus hoping not to run into you or your friends. I had to be strong. I always found something in my life to remind me of you. A T-shirt that you bought me. A cup that you left behind. A bracelet that you gave me. A scientific calculator you left. I threw it all away. Didn't help much. Everywhere I went, there were reminders of you. Your homies. The newspaper. Everyone treated you like a deity. And since I'm not the worshipper of pagan gods, or of any man, I put on my big girl panties and rode the heartache out. Cried so much, I still loved you, but I loved me more. That was when I became less outgoing at school. Not easy walking around with a scarlet
F
for
fool
on your chest.”

“It was never my intent to leave you. Siobhán wasn't the endgame. You walked in on us and the best way I can express that moment, the most eloquent way that moment can be expressed is by saying . . . I fucked up and the shit hit the fan and you set Wilder on fire.”

“What a fight that was. I didn't even recognize myself that day.”