Decadence (4 page)

Not long after,
I was showered, had made a food run to the Nam Dae Mun International Farmers Market in Smyrna on Spring Road, and was back on the fourth level of my too-large townhome, once again alone in my writer's cave, using a fork to eat slices of mango and pieces of Jamaican jackfruit, coolie plum, nesberry, and red apple. I ate while ghostwriting smut on a MacBook Pro that rested on an antique wooden table, an antique table that rested on a ragged rug. Smut, even bad smut, made me anxious, made me shift in my seat, made me damp with need. I sucked a slice of mango; let its juice fill my mouth.

On my wall was a poster I had bought at a seminar, a poster that motivated me.

A STORY IS NOT INFORMATION STRUNG INTO A NARRATIVE

BUT A DESIGN OF EVENTS THAT CARRIES US TO A MEANINGFUL CLIMAX.

—ROBERT MCKEE

 

Today the part that stayed with me was
meaningful climax
. I wanted to be carried into the depths of a
meaningful climax
. On my desk, staring at me was my membership to a private club called Decadence.

Soon I went online to read the scheduled events. One of the sexier, bolder events caught my eye. I would need amazing new shoes. I RSVP'd and used my American Express card to pay the entry fee for that night. It had to be paid in advance. Then I checked the box WATCHER. I would play it safe and register as a voyeur. I would watch. Even though I wanted to fulfill all fantasies, I wasn't ready to commit to the unknown, wasn't ready to once again take on two at once, or challenge three, wasn't ready to unleash the abnormal need that ran hot in my blood, so I left the box DOER unchecked.

My cellular rang with the ringtone that I had assigned to the man called Prada.

With a wide smile I answered, “Please tell me that you're back on this side of the pond.”

In his wonderful British voice he replied, “Sydney. But I'd rather be in North America.”

“When are you back in America, so we can repeat our amazing, fucktastic lost weekend?”

He laughed. “I'm regretting being on yet another business trip. I feel the same passion for you.”

“What's on your schedule after Australia?”

“China and Dubai are next. Meet me there. I'm staying in a suite at the Burj Al Arab.”

“Wish I could. My mom and I had a great time there. Could have more fun with you.”

“I will have meeting after meeting, but you could wait for me. I want to make love to you.”

“I don't require words like those, Prada. I want to have sex with you too.”

“It's been forever since we've seen each other.”

“Sex weeks. I mean
six
weeks without sex. Seems like forever.”

“We're finally disembarking. Full flight. They're moving slowly.”

“Oh, your flight had literally just landed at Sydney Airport.”

“As soon as the wheels touched ground, you were my first call.”

“Oh, well. If only you had a layover at Hartsfield.”

“How would that work out?”

“I'd rent a van and come to the airport in nothing but a trench coat. Parking-lot sex.”

He laughed. “You're incorrigible. Absolutely incorrigible.”

I imagined that he had his phone up to his ear as he finally retrieved his carry-on.

He said, “Nia?”

“Yeah, Prada.”

“Never mind. Now might not be the proper moment.”

My heart raced, the anticipation of bad news.

I asked, “What, Prada?”

“It's nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“We never discuss your love life.”

I paused. “My love life? What are you asking me, Prada?”

I anticipated him asking me if I had other lovers, if he was the only man I was sleeping with.

In French he said, “
We talk about profound subjects, religion, philosophy, existentialism, or we joke, or make love, but we never talk about you in depth. I feel as if I have told you much about me, as if I have revealed my deepest emotions. I was wondering, when was the last time that you were in love?
”

His words became serious and he changed languages so the people around him wouldn't understand. When he felt intensely, when he was more than serious, he spoke in French.

Again I paused, then in equally passionate French, I answered, “
Define love
.”

“
Define?
”

“
Love is a word that has many definitions and is a beast of varying degrees
.”

“
Can't-live-without-each-other kind of love
.”

Again, as my breathing slowed, I hesitated. “
Codependency
.”

“No, love.
The kind of love where you can see yourself with me forever
.”

I asked, “Where is this coming from, Prada?”

He hesitated, something he rarely did. “
Do you lust after me?
”

“
I'm lusting after you now. I want a repeat of our lost weekend
.”

“
In a way more than needing sex. Are you ever consumed by wanting me to be in your life?
”

I stood up and rubbed the back of my neck. “
Why do you ask, Prada?
”

“
Because I have a never-ending hunger for you
.”

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. Fear robbed me of my vocabulary. Fear felt like anger. Phone in hand, I paced. Like a dog on a short chain, I moved back and forth. My emotions were strong, for Prada they were strong, as they were strong for Bret, only in a different way. What I felt for Prada was powerful. I could tell him that I was in love with him. That would be easy, it would placate the moment. And it wouldn't be a lie because there were so many different types of love. I could tell him that I loved him and mean the same way women loved their shoes, the way men loved their cars, the way a fat kid loved cake.

When the silence became unbearable, in English Prada said, “No worries. I have to go now.”

“Prada—”

Then he returned to French. “
It seems that after knowing you for these months, for so many months, after the meals we've shared and conversations we've had, after things that we have done in private, after feeling as if we had established a solid connection, I've crossed a line. And I apologize
.”

I sat back down, leaned forward, my elbows on my knees.

In English, each word almost an accusation, he asked, “How is your friend?”

I knew whom he meant, and again frustration expanded, still I asked, “Which friend?”

“The one you run with. The American soldier who texts you through the night.”

I paused, offended by his asking. “Bret? Honestly, I have no idea how he is. Why?”

“You haven't seen him?”

I chose to lie to Prada. To punish him by lying. I have given him the truth, had tried to be honest and give him the real me, the convoluted me, only to have that pushed back into my face.

I ask, “Am I supposed to see him? Was there a message from you to him I need to deliver?”

“There is no message.”

“Then how did Bret find his way into this conversation?”

“You talk about him from time to time.”

“I mentioned him once. I said that we ran together. He's helping me train.”

“Is he someone that you are interested in?”

“Prada, he has two kids. As far as I know he doesn't have a job. I don't know the man.”

“Didn't mean to cause you to raise your voice.”

“Why are you asking about some other man that I hardly know? He's not your concern.”

“I love you and want to scream it to the world, so I apologize for my frustration.”

“Prada, there is no need to be frustrated.”

“I noticed that you haven't changed your status on Facebook.”

“My Facebook status?”

“It still says that you're single. Is that still how you regard and present yourself, as single?”

“This is a joke, right? You're confronting me about my Facebook status?”

“Mine says that I am in a relationship. Should I not have done that? I don't want to make a fool of myself. Or maybe I should change my status to say that it's complicated. Many have that as a status.”

“Prada, sweetheart, baby, man who I can't wait to see again, to fuck again, to suck and swallow again, until I am married, I am single. Until you marry, you're single. Nothing complicated about that.”

I took a breath. I imagined his expression. His frustration. Pursuing a woman for this long, and not being able to tame that wildness in her, being invited inside of her bed but not inside of her heart.

I said, “I saw Bret this morning.”

“Did you? What was the occasion?”

“We ran together. We ran, then he hopped in his car and went back home.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else that you need to know? Do you need to know if we fucked? No, we didn't have sex, Prada. Have we ever fucked? Yes. Once. Before I slept with you. After I had known you, yes, but not since I have slept with you. Does he know about you? Yes, he does. Now we're only friends. Bret isn't rich, isn't a reader, isn't a movie lover, and couldn't care less about philosophy. He doesn't compare to you, Prada. Now, does that make you feel better? I know nothing about the man. He is mysterious, but he isn't shifty, isn't sneaky, isn't a man who asks me a thousand questions. We run together, that is all.”

“You were with the soldier after you met me, but before we were intimate.”

“Six months ago. I met him when I was at a bar, when I was alone, when I was lonely, when I decided to have fun. Do you need more details? Because I will give you every detail, from the first smile to the first kiss to the insertion to the moan to the orgasm if that's what you need to hear. One time. And don't you dare judge me. I met you at a bar. You tried to bed me the night we met, Prada. You cruise bars looking all dashing and debonair and confident and pick up women all over the goddamn world. You sent me drinks before you knew my name and eased your way over and did your best to seduce me.”

In a calm tone he said, “There is a particular tone that you have when you speak of Bret.”

“And what tone is that?”

“The same tone that I have when I speak of you, when I tell my friends about you, when I tell my parents about you. We have many differences, Nia Simone, but love can overcome all obstacles.”

“Tell me about the women you have fucked, Prada. Tell me about the ones you met in bars and sent drinks and took to your room and fucked the way you fuck me. Tell me about them all. Especially the ones of late, the ones you have bedded since we have met. Cover the last four years. Tell me about every women you have fucked and I will open my diaries and tell you about every man I have fucked.”

“You're angry.”

“You want honesty, I will give honesty, but I want honesty in return. I can give you honesty the way I give you head; brutal and you will have me begging to stop before you cry. You become honest and I become honest and we take it from there. No walls. No bullshit. No pretending to feel what you don't.”

“You are very angry.”

I said, “Prada, I enjoy you. I enjoy us. Don't make the honeymoon be over.”

“The honeymoon never has to end, Nia Simone. It could go on and on and on.”

“No, it doesn't, but I don't think that the honeymoon you fantasize about is the same as the one I would desire. Mine is fun. Mine still allows you freedom to be whoever you are when you're not with me, Prada. You gave me a good fucking, as many men have given me a good fucking, as you have given many women a good fucking. I've seen you
once
in the last six weeks, Prada. Once. Not enough. We have had one magnificent weekend in the last four years. Not enough to satisfy my needs, Prada.”

“You say terrible things to me when you are drunk, and things just as harsh when you are sober.”

“I know. I apologize. It's my defense mechanism, Prada. It makes me speak that crude way.”

“It's abusive.”

“I apologize. You don't deserve to be talked to that way. You've done nothing wrong.”

“I think that you misunderstand my being a gentleman for being a weak man.”

“You do something to me not many men have been able to do.”

“It's not about quantity, Nia. It's about quality. And once again, I am not a weak man.”

“Those orgasms have faded, Prada. Yesterday's orgasms are yesterday's meals. Again I hunger.”

“It's a new day.”

“Yes. It's a new day. And every day I wake up hungry. Every day I need to be fed. I need you.”

I had almost told him then, almost told him about Decadence, about the next phase of my pilgrimage to find my inner self, about my joining, about the adventure that I was preparing to embark on alone, without anyone's permission. I almost told him about the powerfully erotic interviewer at Decadence. Enough damage had been done. What was confessed couldn't be erased.

Frustrated, head pounding, in French I whispered, “
Be safe, Prada. Be safe
.”

“
I love you, Nia
. That's all.
I love you and I want to make sure that it's appropriate.
”

“
I know. And I appreciate the sentiments that you have toward me. I really do
.”

With those awkward words I ended the call. I was always the first to hang up.

Then I set free a therapeutic high-pitched scream that spread itself from my office to the garage three levels below me. I screamed like my mind had been raped, screamed as if my mind had been fucked.

Yet there was an extravagance, an excitement that came from our frustrations and conflict. If Prada were dull, if our conversations were emotionless, if he didn't challenge a particular part of me that needed to be challenged, that needed to be confronted, if I didn't see the reflection of me in him, if I didn't feel like he was some aspect of me, an answer to some desire, he would be of no value to my spirit.