Decadence (5 page)

On my desk inside of a glass were keys from hotels. Each key was a decadent memory that had happened before I had gone to bed with Prada; a couple since I had had a one-night affair with the soldier named Bret. I wasn't ashamed, but I didn't broadcast it. Bret had been a well-built, powerful, potent, astonishing, beautiful zipless fuck. If I had met him at the LA Times Festival of Books, at the DoubleTree Hotel in Bakersfield, at the Clift Hotel in San Francisco, at the W Hotel in San Francisco, at the bar in the Hotel ZaZa in Houston, at the Holiday Inn in Killeen, in Las Vegas at the Monte Carlo, at the Hilton in South Carolina, even at the Swissotel in Amsterdam or Myhotel in Central London, he would have been my first choice for companionship those nights, for nights when I would have suffered from a mean sleep, for nights when the quicksand of loneliness pulled me down, nights when I had the morals of a man and misbehaved as a man. Prada had been just as wonderful in bed. Maybe I should've bedded Prada the night that I had met him. Maybe I should have left a lipstick heart on his mirror. Then he would have been a key amongst keys. A key to a door that had been reprogrammed, a door that he would not have the power to reopen.

Inside of one of those unpacked boxes was a newspaper article that spotlighted a nineteen-year-old Trinidadian woman, a UWI student who used to play netball and ran track and played soccer, then went home and washed all of her clothes, all of her family's clothes by hand because there was no washing machine. No washer, no dryer, no dishwasher, no hot water, no vacuum cleaner. In the article by the
Guardian
she was a pregnant teen. Probably a shame to her family, to my Caribbean family, to her church. Another woman-child to point a finger at and spread gossip. Her boyfriend had been murdered the night before and with tears in her eyes and on behalf of his family, on behalf of the unborn child in her belly, she pleaded to the people of Trinidad, begged them to donate money so that the father of her unborn child could have a proper burial. Her name was Hazel Tamana Bijou. His name was Derren Liverpool. His mother was in Tunapuna Village and his father was in Santa Cruz. I never met them. And I rarely spoke the name Derren Liverpool. He was my blood father. I didn't know him. The man I never knew. His full story remained a mystery to me.

A year later my mother met Francois Henri Wilson. She was still grieving, but life moved on. When you had a newborn, you didn't have time to rest, had to keep moving forward or become a failure.

I've never known the details of how they met, only that they met and fell in love and married.

In those boxes were copies of her wedding pictures. A small wedding on Catalina Island. She had been a Caribbean Cinderella.

Fast forward past thousands of photos and smiles became frowns. The affair. The other woman. The younger woman with the European accent. Once upon a time, my stepfather had divorced my mother. I guess he had a new lover and had deemed my mother as being redundant. Within ten months, he had remarried. He had destroyed my mother's fairy tale. Had destroyed mine. Maybe that had damaged me. Divorce, like death, damaged everyone that it touched. Only the pangs from divorce never diminished.

Francois Henri and Hazel. The only father I have known. And my Trinidadian mother. They had looked inseparable, invincible, but they had failed, the honeymoon eventually ended. Then I remembered the box of memories. I remembered Chris Eidos Alleyne. The breakup in college had been my heartbreak, my bitter divorce without a judge.

I stared at Facebook,
tempted to change my status to COMPLICATED, but they didn't have the level of complicated that I needed. I needed a COMPLICATED
AS
FUCK
AND
FRUSTRATED
AS
HELL option. Soon I returned to the information about Decadence. The paperwork that I had signed explained the club rules, the language of sex, and assured that many congregated there to play out their fantasies.

I whispered as I read, “‘To serry and taste what was forbidden, as what was forbidden tasted you. To touch one lover or be touched by many. A woman's heaven. A paradise for the feminine.'”

It still sounded like it was the perfect place for me, a woman who felt like Anaïs Nin was her alter ego. I was a Caribbean woman who too felt like the virgin-prostitute, an accidental whore, a perverse angel who wore the two faces of Gemini, one side saintly and the follower of rules, the other side as mysterious as my desires. Over the last four years my desires have become darker, as I have become bolder.

As I rested on my belly kicking my feet, I smiled a nervous and excited smile.

I remembered the questions that she'd asked during my last face-to-face interview. My fifth and final interviewer was a petite Cuban woman. An island girl. She wore a Lady Datejust Rolex, True Religion jeans, the identical Hermès Birkin handbag that Francesca Eastwood had burned like money, Rampage pumps, that and a T-shirt that read SLUT (noun): A
WOMAN
WITH
THE
MORALS
OF
A
MAN and a silver necklace, Jesus on the cross. I wore a necklace and colorful bracelets, skinny jeans, black heels, my hair down. When I entered she shook my hand, greeted me in Spanish. I reciprocated. Spanish and French were listed as the languages that I spoke fluently. She barely looked twenty, resembled actress Shari Solanis when she was in profile.

With a satisfied nod she returned to a stack of newspapers that were on the desk.
Granma
. A paper published by the Communist Party of Cuba
. Juventud Rebelde
, published by the Union of Young Communists, and
Trabajadores
, the newspaper published by the Centre of Cuban Workers.

So, Miss Bijou—

Nia is fine.

I am acquainted with quite a few Trinidadians. And I love the way the people from Trinidad speak. I love your singsong voices. Yours is very mild. It's as if people from your country have their own dialect.

We have one of the most fascinating languages on earth. Trini isn't broken English. Those are the white man's terms, his political spin used to put down the languages created by non-Europeans.

I see. And to a certain extent, I do agree.

She motioned to an armless chair facing her desk. She was comfortable with me. I had passed some test. I sat, leaning away from her, legs crossed. I wouldn't sit without being offered, not even if there were a thousand chairs. Etiquette. She sat. Next she offered me bottled water, antioxidant rich, which I accepted out of manners. She dug a thin file out of her one-hundred-thousand-dollar purse, my file, and eased on her frameless glasses, then sipped alkaline water and skimmed a few pages in silence. Silence was unnerving. I was being judged. It made me feel as if my heart would explode, as if I had Chagas disease.

With the casual tone of a professional she asked,
Ideally, how often would you like to have sex?

How often?

Yes. How often?

Every day. I say that, but I don't think I would want to every day. I think that in reality I would like to have that option. Like having a refrigerator filled with food and you could eat whenever you chose.

She nodded.

I said,
Would love to please and be pleased every day. But I rarely do have sex, actually. For me it comes in spurts. No pun intended. I have long, dry seasons of famine. Then I feast, become a glutton. I have fantasies, some extreme, some violent, some loving, and I act on them. Sometimes I need a day where I have a lover and all he does is please me. I have days where I really need to fuck a man, ride, suck a man. When I'm having sex I feel so alive, the world, my existence feels so wonderful. Sometimes I want the friendship of a man but other times I only want his passion. Friendship can be false; passion never lies.

She nodded.

I sipped my water. It felt like I was unemployed and on an important job interview.

She asked,
How would you feel if someone were interested in your mate, but not in you?

I don't have a mate. I checked the box for single, never married on the form.

Yet you paused.

I do see someone, but we're not a couple. Not officially. It's a very gray area.

Hypothetically.

I prefer realism.

A fiction writer who prefers realism?

We're all hypocrites in some way. But the work that I take the most pride in is unpublished. It's the story of my life, my journals, my diaries, my truth, my struggle, my flaws, my humanness.

Humor me. What if you did have a mate? What if someone became your official partner?

I would be fine with that. Especially if I could watch. I enjoy watching others. Seeing them interact, studying how they are intimate with each other. I would study him. His pleasure would be mine.

If you weren't invited to watch? What if the other woman wanted to be alone?

Then I would be free to roam the compound alone, find new pleasure on my own.

What if he objected to you seeking your own satisfaction with one or more lovers?

Then he wouldn't be there with me. That night I would probably be kind, wouldn't cause a scene, but I'd know that we would be done as lovers. He wouldn't fit in that extraordinary lifestyle, not with me. I can't allow any man to set the agenda for my existence. I can't allow anyone to oversee my soul.

What if you witness people of opposing religions sharing a sexual experience?

That would be better than witnessing them bombing the shit out of each other.

Seriously.

I am serious. I prefer sex to violence, but many are more comfortable with violence on television and in books than sex. Watching opposing religions do and share the one thing all cultures have in common? That would be beautiful. Everyone on this planet, we exist because two people were in pursuit of pleasure. That is one thing all races, religions, and cultures have in common, the pursuit of pleasure.

Or power.

I agree. Or power.

Have you ever had group sex?

Yes.

Size of group?

The largest has been four. Few three-ways, but the largest has been four.

How did it turn out for you?

It was beautiful.

What made it beautiful?

It was spontaneous. It was naughty.

Go on.

The sharing. The lack of selfishness. Probably the best sexual experience of my life.

Why did you engage in group sex?

It was a fantasy and when the opportunity presented itself, with the right partners, of course, I gave myself permission to explore. I wanted to learn more about this body, this soul, this sexual spirit inside of me. For me it was about the senses. One lover can be wonderful, but can only do so much.

Explain.

A man can't kiss you while he sucks your toes. He can't suck your ear and eat you out at the same time. Or you can't kiss him while he eats you out. You can't suck him while he rides you doggie. You can't ride reverse cowboy and give him head. With more than one lover so many needs can be met, so many senses can be stimulated. It can be beautiful with the right people. It was for me. I learned a lot about myself. Did things I never thought that I would.

Double penetration?

Enjoyed it. Never knew that I could orgasm anally.

Triple?

Define that for me, please.

Vaginally, anally, and orally, all at once.

Never tried it. But you have planted a seed. The thought is blooming in my mind now.

Noted. Additional terminology will be posted on our secure website.

Vaginally, anally, and orally all at once. Challenging. I wonder what that would do for the senses, which additional nerve endings would be set on fire, how hard could I come while filled that way.

I've seen a woman take on five men at once.

Five? Wow. Sounds like she's a professional.

She is a shy professor at a prestigious college on the East Coast. The youngest in her profession. She looks so innocent, so well-spoken and demure, but the sensuality of Sasha Grey lives inside of her.

What did she do, put one inside of each ear?

As she took on five as she engaged in triple-P, she gave two of the gentlemen hand jobs.

I'm not that coordinated. Nor am I that ambitious. At some point it becomes a circus act.

But the triple penetration interests you?

As of this very moment, it's officially on my bucket list. Maybe I should call it my fuck-it list. A woman has the right to be amalgamated or integrated with the lover or lovers of her choice, assuming all are consenting adults and are there to share and experience pleasure and make the woman feel good.

I see.

Low on the list. But if I ever meet triplets, triple penetration will be moved to the top.

Interesting.

Any triplets belong to Decadence? One would have to have a small penis.

I'm not allowed to say. I said too much when I spoke of the shy professor. That was unprofessional of me. I must ask that you keep that between us.

Wait, would two guys and a girl count? In that case I've done that once.

Not sure. I think that they mean three men on the form. Penetration.

Then, no.

Two guys and a girl.

Long time ago.

And you had no problem with that sexual activity?

I'm telling you things that I've never talked about, not with anyone.

Not to worry. Everything is confidential.

It was fun. Was incredible. Addictive. More stimulation than I had imagined I could handle.

For you it seems to be all about the stimulation, not the act itself, but from the sensations.

For me it's about the indulgence of the five senses. And the release. My body needs the release.

Afterward, psychologically, did anything change about your perception of sex?

Only that I had learned that vanilla sex no longer appeased my appetite.

Guilt?

None.

What are your limits?

No idea. It may not mean more people, but something different from what I am used to.

Golden shower?

Not interested in any water sports or anything involving bodily functions.

Tell me how you perceive love and sex.

Apples and oranges.

Explain.

Love is for the soul and sex is for the body. Both cry out for satisfaction.

Interesting.

I've learned that I can be in love with someone and not have sex with the object of my affection.

Interesting.

I've also realized that I can need sex and not be interested in being in love.

I know you're joining alone, you're single, never married, but in a future setting, hypothetically, how would you feel seeing your partner obtaining lustful satisfaction with another person?

Didn't you just ask me that?

Some questions may sound repetitive, but they are in some ways different.

This is a psychological evaluation. Like having a conversation with Kinsey or Freud, or both.

How would you feel? The man you love is with another woman. A beautiful woman. He's having the time of his life, maybe even enjoying sex with her more than he does with you.

It would turn me on, but I wouldn't have to be included. And hopefully he will feel the same. Every man makes a woman feel good in a different way. No two dicks or yonis are the same.

Have you been with a woman?

You already asked me that.

Please, Miss Bijou. Would you mind answering again?

Yes.

Yes, you would mind answering or, yes, you have been with a woman?

Yes, I have.

More than once?

Uh. Yes.

You paused.

It was a complicated answer.

So now, after consideration, there seems to be a different answer.

Asking me again, it sort of put my mind in a different place.

That's why some questions are duplicated. So there was more than one woman?

It happened so fast. The second one . . . my situation, back then, was very complicated. You're making me remember that rainy day, that storm, the thunder and lightning.

Why haven't you tasted a woman?

Pleasing a man comes naturally, is instinctual, but I wouldn't know what to do with a woman.

It's easy. Just pretend. Pretend that you are the man and you're pleasing yourself. Pretend that you are doing the things that you want a man to do to you. Do that and being with a woman will be easy.

Pretend to be a man.

Pretend that you are pleasing yourself, if you could please yourself in that way.

Female version of autofellatio.

Do you masturbate?

Of course.