Decadence (6 page)

And when you please yourself, do you imagine that a man is pleasing you?

I do.

At times do you imagine that you are the man who is fucking you?

I guess that I do. It becomes some sort of out-of-body experience.

In your mind, if that helped, yes, you could imagine that was what you were achieving.

Is that what I do? Imagine that I was a man and I was eating myself out?

It was what I did at first. Now I simply enjoy tasting the orgasm of another woman.

You make it sound so simple.

Will you require vitamin B or testosterone shots?

Testosterone shots?

Wait, sorry, that was a question for the men. Ignore that one.

Testosterone?

Give a man a testosterone shot and Viagra and he's a Ferrari in bed. He'll go all night and into the morning. We also offer love potions, natural aphrodisiacs to enhance the libido the natural way.

The secrets of men.

Women take pills and imbibe love potions that make them change from quiet and shy to sexual Lamborghinis with porn-star aspirations.

More questions were asked, two more hours of what-if scenarios.

Miss Bijou. We need to see you naked.

Why?

Well, some women who apply weren't born women.

Oh. You're concerned with gender reassignment.

We don't allow chicks with dicks.

Transvestites have tried to become members?

We have to be sure. A lot of powerful men and women who belong to the club arrive from foreign countries; actually most are from abroad, which is why we prefer to interview in New York and London. Occasionally we interview in Buenos Aires. Tokyo. Chicago. London. Paris. Osaka. Mexico City. São Paulo. Los Angeles. Philadelphia. Abu Dhabi. Ankara. Morocco. Johannesburg. Madrid. It varies year to year. This year it is in New York. We cater to clientele of a specific nature and appetite. We have nothing against transvestites. For many men and women, transvestites are their fantasies.

I opened my blouse, eased my skinny jeans down, and as she watched, I undressed for her. She inspected my genital area, looked and didn't touch, then she smiled. Her pupils dilated.

You're very toned
.
Your stomach is flat. Small waist. Nice bottom. You're in great shape
.

So are you
.

Years of ballet. I danced my way out of poverty in Cuba. Danced into the arms of an American. Now. I want you to see exactly the type of place Decadence is.You will not get there and find yourself in the company of unattractive or old or basically people you would not want to see nude or making love or make love with. We reserve the right to not admit anyone without giving cause.

But they also look clever, remarkable, imaginative. Never saw anyone do sixty-nine in that way.

Only the chosen make it this far. Only the special make it to an actual interview. Very few make it to the fifth interview.

So, you discriminate. Like Hollywood you engage in the art of lookism.

We choose to think of it as being selective.

The people were the epitome of beautiful. The sexual videos inspired and ignited me.

How do you feel watching the videos?

Lots of sharing. Lots of orgasms. Very passionate. Lots of living in the moment. The sex looks incredible. I'm sure that you're showing me the best of the best. Wow, she's coming so hard.

There are eighteen ways to stimulate the clitoris during sex. We teach that skill to the men.

Eighteen ways.

We teach women that as well. If a woman desires to learn, we teach her. Or if she is more traditional we teach eight ways to give fellatio. But the one that most seem to love is mastering the clitoris.

Really?

I took that seminar several times. If at any time you want to sign up, send me an e-mail.

I touched my face, swallowed, then rubbed the back of my neck, my tell, a habit I needed to break. But I also heard the voice of Anaïs Nin, the voice that lived inside of my brain as blood coursed through my veins, as if she were an unseen goddess, watching over me, yet allowing me to make my own choices. I heard her talking to her cousin Eduardo, asking him if the desire for orgies was one of those experiences that one must live through, and once achieved would those desires eventually extinguish themselves, or become never ending, if this was another layer of my life, another layer of my rebellious instincts.

Miss Bijou? Does anything that you have seen offend you?

No. I don't object to anything you showed me.

In case I forgot to mention, we do offer classes in oral sex. You have to bring your own partner. The men are trained and so are the women. They learn to please their partners. It's our most popular seminar. Also, we have classes in Kama Sutra and BDSM, if you are interested in expanding your horizons.

Heat rising, I took a sip of my trendy water and nervously asked
, Do many people need instruction?

No matter how good one thinks he or she is, there is always room for improvement.

I know. Each new lover is like a different instrument that plays a different song. Each lover may make me sing the same notes, but every chorus is unique, as will be every refrain.

I like that. Mind if I write that in my notes? Miss Bijou?

Sorry. What was that? Was caught in watching the video. This is . . . arousing. Wait a moment. That clip that went by, was that you?

It is. I can rewind it. If you want to see me, I can rewind. How far back shall I—

There. My god, you're flexible. Very, very sexy . . . and competent . . . who is the one behind you?

That's my husband. The others are a few of our new friends, and me at Decadence.

Wow. You're amazing. And inspirational. You make triple penetration look so easy.

My slumbering arousal awoke, the heat spread from my center, my nerves tingled like fire.

Again I throbbed. Again I was swollen. Again I was moist. Again I was in need.

I was given a code and password to access their most intimate pages on the website. The code would be good for a month, then I had to e-mail a request for an updated code. Then she handed me a bag of books. A large, heavy bag. I put the books on the table.

Hot Sex. The Anal Sex Position Guide. Joy of Sex. Sexopedia. Sexual Intelligence. Marathon Sex. Spectacular Sex Moves He'll Never Forget. Oral Sex She'll Never Forget. Spectacular Sex Moves She'll Never Forget. 50 Wild Sex Positions You Probably Haven't Tried. Quickies You'll Never Forget. Erotic Massage. Threesomes. G Spot Orgasm and Female Ejaculations. Clitology. Sex Toys. Kama Sutra Erotica. The Sex Bible. Ultimate Sex Positions. How to Make Love Like A Porn Star. Fetish 101.

It felt like I was entering college all over again, this my freshman-year reading materials.

Any questions, Nia?

I have one. Are you brutally honest with everyone about your lifestyle?

No. And I will never be.

Thanks. I'm pretty much the same way.

I don't see the point of disclosing all that I feel or do.

We are all entitled to our secrets.

By then it was after two in the morning. Minutes later the interview was over. But the effect of what she had shown me remained.

Miss Bijou? Nia Simone Bijou? Are you okay?

The club . . . amazing. Everyone seems so supportive. It feels as spiritual as it is sexual.

As for me, I am craving my husband, but I wouldn't mind tasting the orgasm of a woman.

I'm craving to be tasted. I love being tasted.

By a woman or a man?

By both.

My interviewer, with the same casualness that she had employed when she had asked me if I desired a bottle of water, asked me if I wanted to make out with her. She wanted to experience my energy.

Pupils dilating, voice husky and soft I asked her,
What is your name?

Pupils dilating, breathing heavy, with a grin she whispered,
Anaïs. My name is Anaïs.

•   •   •

The five senses of the interviewer Anaïs,
the woman named after the Cuban Anaïs Nin, remained with me as I soaked inside my Jacuzzi bathtub. My iPad sat in a chair, the videos of the people at Decadence before my eyes. Venturing into the unknown, the dangerous always excited me.

Maybe that was why I had been drawn to an occasional zipless encounter.

The risk.

The adrenaline.

I knew that pleasure wasn't happiness, but pleasure made me feel happy, if only for a while.

As it had done when I was being interviewed, the sexual videos inspired and ignited me.

I watched.

I touched myself.

I envisaged being loved by three stunning men.

I fantasized about being a four-headed beast.

I came.

A demon of restlessness
continued to govern me as I moved beyond the main entrance of the plush establishment. Wonderful fragrances seduced my sense of smell as I took in the crowd of tony sensualists outfitted in rich and sumptuous clothing.

Waterfalls and the sounds of running water blended with mild chatter, as if this were a mainstream function and not a palladium of the secret desires of libertines. Haunting and relaxing music by E. S. Posthumus played, a score that was cinematic and classical and fused intertwined drumbeats. My heels joined the chorus of other heels that were clicking and clacking across marble floors. A woman puts on high heels and she feels like she is living inside of a brand-new body. Everything changes. Everything lifts.

Extremely handsome, chivalrous, and gallant men opened doors for women, and those women thanked those men for opening doors, social graces that had all but gone the way of the dinosaur in the outside world. Already I was impressed by the architecture, the soft scents, and the sounds. The male species was courteous and attentive to the ladies—and every woman carried herself as if she were a lady.

There was an area that was a dance club. Tailored suits. Dresses. Congressmen. Supermodels. Chemists. Architects. Engineers. Archaeologists. Musicians. Professional athletes. Many were dancing in couples or groups, laughing, kissing. More than impressed. Seduced. Three of five senses had been captured, the first impression remarkable.

There was a sign that indicated this unfamiliar road that I walked was the direction to the undressing area. Underneath that sign was a quote.

BEAUTY WHEN MOST UNCLOTHED IS CLOTHED BEST.

—PHINEAS FLETCHER (1582–1650),
SICELIDES

 

I walked behind a group of graceful women dressed like they were at a political dinner party. All wore stunning shoes. Victoria Beckham no-heel boots and Louis Vuitton. They were drop-dead, marry-me-now gorgeous. They probably had super-handsome husbands, were super-rich, and made pretty babies. Wearing a backless black dress, I strolled with rhythm. Music eased into my blood. Sexual needs took a deep breath and a soft prickling sensation washed across my flesh. Arousal journeyed up my spine. I kept Need on its short leash.

A brunette asked a wonderfully shaped blonde, “So if Alfredo puts his cock in some sexy woman's mouth and rams it down her throat the way they did Obamacare, you going to be okay with it?”

“I'd better have picked the woman.”

More laughter came from a group of women who smelled like Scripps and Bryn Mawr collegiates. I turned left, right, then stepped onto a glass elevator. The elevator was held as a dozen more enchantresses got on, all in heels, some walking, some trotting, some with a sexy canter, others with a sensual gallop. Filled with bubbling enthusiasm, a strawberry blonde hurried onto the lift last; she pulled a black carry-on like she was a flight attendant.

She chuckled to her friends, “Speaking of swallowing, men love that new study.”

A redhead said, “Doctor Conroy, you're saying that women who swallow on a regular basis, I think you said once or twice a week, can reduce their risk of breast cancer by damn near forty percent.”

“That's what the study said, Doctor Norton. It's in the medical journals now.”

“And you say that the study was done in North Carolina.”

“A lot of cocksuckers in North Carolina. They should know.”

They surrendered sophisticated, conservative laugher.

They exited the elevator first. I followed them.

Dragging carry-on luggage and laughing like they were staunch Republicans on a vacation in the Hamptons, they walked ahead of me, confident, excited. I slowed down and took in my new surroundings.

My heartbeat was fast. I was nervous.

The interior was dazzling, sexy, reeked of pomp and money, should have been on the turquoise waters off the coast of the Emirati capital. When I entered, the handsome workers up front had given me chocolate made by the legendary chocolatier Paul Wittamer, chocolate imported from Brussels, Belgium, and a glass of moscato cupcake wine. The chocolate plant's botanical name was
Theobroma cacao
, which means
“food for the gods.” The chocolate was as mouth-watering as the people looked. Each nibble was orgasmic. Each taste made me moan as if I had been blindfolded and a lover was licking up and down my spine, his mouth filled with ice. The drink was another level of foreplay: It was liquid pleasure and held bright flavors and finesse, reminded me of a pineapple upside-down cake. I had to finish my arousing offerings before I left the changing rooms and went to Eros. Excitement and nervousness shaped a sensual dance, choreographed a passionate ballet inside of me. The next set of opaque French doors led to a beautiful and astounding section with the wonderful dance floor and a vast buffet with delicacies fit for kings and goddesses. I walked behind quidnunc women, relaxed women drinking chocolate martinis, margaritas, or cognacs with ginger ale and cherries, sipping their drinks as if they had sex in a glass.

On the big screen they were playing celebrity porn. Not in an exploitive manner, but to demonstrate that the most famous of us were human, had needs, had dark sides. Regina Baptiste, her face in rapture, her orgasm apparent, her lovers come all over her hand. I knew her. I had shaken that same hand during a business meeting. Then it changed to a man and two exotic women. I recognized one of those women. She was Miss Trinidad. The other was Miss Japan. The man asked Miss Japan if she wanted it in the ass. His language was coarse, direct, exciting, like Henry Miller. She looked back at his erection and smiled, the room dark, and then she turned the light on. She laughed, a giggly, girl laugh. A woman pretending to be a naughty girl. She was facedown on a tan sofa, on her stomach, her legs together, and the camera moved and showed him giving her anal sex, her moans immediately sharp, and as he stroked her, the camerawoman, Miss Trinidad, reached in and finger-fucked Miss Japan at the same time. Miss Japan screamed, the stimulation intense. I didn't want to watch, but I watched. I watched Anya share her man. He made love to Miss Japan as Anya watched. She smiled, enjoyed being a Watcher while he was being a Doer.

A woman next to me said, “Isn't that the sexy girl from
Project Runway
?”

I nodded.

The crowd stood like passengers on a subway, silent, and watched that segment. When the next segment started, no one moved.

“I'll have to try that upside-down blow job with my husband. That's hot.”

Soon bits from other celebrity videos played and were celebrated. Tyson Beckford masturbating. Colin Farrell and Nicole Narain. Sasha Grey. Kim Kardashian. Jayne Kennedy. Paris Hilton. Daniella Cicarelli. Pamela Anderson. Spears. Lohan. Lavigne. Keeley Hazell.

Recording was an act of vanity, a foolish act of vanity, performing for self, the eye of the camera the ultimate voyeur. That was arousing. The eye could not see itself so we needed the camera to be our eye, to allow us to see our faces of arousal. It allowed us to see our own reactions. See how intense we were. See self during a thousand little deaths. Then watch ourselves return to life, feel that awareness, that shame that came from being so primal, and smile, giggle, laugh as amazement painted our faces. The ultimate act of being a Doer.

When I glanced above my head, once again I was in awe.

I was walking underneath a glass floor.

Sixteen feet above our heads, in another stunning hallway decorated with Kama Sutra art, as I paused in the crowd of women, we saw handsome, well-dressed men heading into their undressing rooms. Above us, the men looked like gods in Italian suits, business suits, adorned with Rolexes and Montblanc watches, each god in well-shined shoes. Women could come alone, but men could only enter when they were with a woman; so there were no stragglers, no perverts in search of a night of sex, not like in a strip club, not like at any other club on a Friday night. The male species had to pay four times the amount that women had to pay to join, and the same ratio for the nightly admission. Renting yoni from a renowned madam was much cheaper than a membership here. A few of the men paused and looked down at us. A few smiled down at their lovers. Some waved and flirted. Women paused, looked up, smiled at the well-dressed gentlemen, and did the same. The aesthetics were breathtaking and reassuring that this was not a lurid place where one came to cheapen his or her existence. It was opulent and elegant as if Tomas Pearce had been hired to come down from Ontario, Canada, on a private jet to design and build this exotic and stimulating space himself.

Underneath the glass floors, I paused and read one of the colorful, playful signs.

WE BELIEVE THAT SEX IS BEAUTIFUL.

 

Along the walls was erotic art by Frenchman Édouard-Henri Avril. Lovers in standing positions. Missionary. Woman on top. Rear entry. Socrates and Alcibiades. Fellatio. Male masturbation.

And on display, as if it were in a museum, was a Bible. Not the standard Bible but the Wicked Bible, sometimes called the Adulterous Bible, or the Sinner's Bible. The collectible version that had been printed by the royal printers in London back in 1631. It was probably the most famous misprint in history. I'd seen one of the Bibles when I was in London; saw it on display at the British Library, opened to the misprinted commandment. The word
not
had been omitted from Exodus 20:14, giving new meaning to the seventh commandment. The Wicked Bible was opened to that same misprinted commandment.

Thou shalt commit adultery.

That scandalous version of the Bible was worth close to one hundred thousand dollars. For a regular King James Version of the Bible to have that value it would have to be signed by Moses, Jesus, and God. The Bible had distracted me more than the art. That knowledge-seeking part of my brain was being stimulated. I was unaware. He probably saw me then, from above, through the glass floor, caught a glimpse as I paused and read. He had a bird's-eye view of a woman in six-inch heels and a black dress, her hair straight, her Trinidadian features more mature, and that well-earned maturity decorated with enough makeup to make me look as if I were going to a fashion shoot. I no longer looked collegiate. I think that he had seen me and memories came, but had dismissed it, then memories dissipated, dismissed his past long before I had seen him.

If I hadn't been distracted by the chatty women, I might've looked up and seen my past from sixteen feet away, would've seen him paused over my head, through two feet of glass. Maybe I wouldn't have recognized him right away. Not in the smart shoes and suit of a businessman. Years ago he had lived in clichéd football jerseys or fraternity clothing and worn long dreadlocks. Time had changed us all.

Purse over my shoulder, winter coat underneath my arm, sipping a libido-enhancing liquid mood modifier, I walked down a corridor that didn't have a mote of dust and passed dozens who were drinking their poisons of choice and flirting. Some danced in groups. This was their carnal carnival. Several couples were engaged in sensual kisses and erotic foreplay. Slow, soul-stirring romantic kisses. Some engaged in three-way kisses. Movement was over my head. I looked up and saw that I was below the glass bottom of the Olympic-size pool. More than a dozen nude couples were at the bottom of the pool waving at us all.

I whispered, “This is fucking amazing.”

So many naked bodies swam by as if they were mermen and mermaids in the London Aquarium.

Some were making out, kissing and playing in the pool. From where I stood I saw what appeared to be the makings of a bunga bunga, a marvelous orgy where people had sex, made love underwater.

There was nude volleyball going on in the upper level too. Already I was in love with this lifestyle. From the moment I had stepped across the threshold, I felt that this was where I was supposed to be. There were statues of Bacchus and Dionysus. The Roman with the Greek. Maybe it was a metaphor for no cultural boundaries, no sexual boundaries. That paused me as if I were in the Musée du Louvre. I loved mythology. Loved history. I walked a few more feet and once again was in awe. There were three statues of the type of satyrs called sileni, art that depicted men with huge erect peens, some with erections that went higher than their heads. I touched each, ran my fingers across each erection the way contestants at the Apollo ran their hands over the stump known as the Tree of Hope for good luck. Provocative movies were being projected onto the walls, onto almost every wall. I walked into the projection of Abi Titmuss's celebrity sex tape. My silhouette and I paused. A dark-skinned girl tasted her, sucked the magic button. The scene changed and Abi reciprocated. I reached to touch Abi's face, my silhouette becoming part of her sensual experience. My clit owned a rapid heartbeat.

My cellular buzzed and I lost my breath as if a probing tongue were touching my ache. It was a text message from my forever-working mother, Hazel Tamana Bijou-Wilson.

Awakened, incited, out of habit, a habit that I was struggling to conquer, I patted my legs, licked my lips, felt like a wayward daughter and the dark side of Gemini cursed as the light side laughed.

My mother had called ten minutes ago as I was checking in, placing my index finger into the fingerprint scanner and entering my secret code, and I hadn't answered, so now she was texting.

I read the message.

YOUR NEXT SCRIPT. OFFER CAME INTO MY OFFICE. THE BUZZ ON THE NEW MOVIE IS AMAZING SO WE WILL BE ABLE TO ASK FOR MORE MONEY UP FRONT AND ON THE BACK END. GOING OVER THE PROPOSAL.

Even when she texted for business, I knew that she did it because she was my mother, and at times was worried. And even when I was in the pursuit of pleasure, I'd never forgo business.

Pleasure was wonderful, pleasure was needed, but pleasure paid no bills. For some the freedom that money allowed was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs on the planet.

I typed,

HOW MUCH IS THE PRODUCTION COMPANY OFFERING?

$50K FOR 12 MONTHS, APPLICABLE TO PURCHASE. $50K FOR AN ADDITIONAL YEAR, NOT APPLICABLE.