Decadence (18 page)

When I woke and staggered into the hotel bathroom,
sensual sensations dissipated, intense dreams were disremembered, yet the fiery tingles remained. I was wet. I had made honey. In my dreams I had once again made lady come. While I washed up and washed my hands I looked into the mirror. I saw edges of my biological father in my features. I saw bits and pieces, features of a man I never knew. Would never know.

When I left the bathroom I realized that Bret had opened the side of his door to our conjoined rooms. His television was on, down low, the screen glowing. That meant that he had seen me sleeping, witnessed my tossing and turning. He had been a voyeur. So I reciprocated and watched him toss and turn. I imagined that he had watched me, wanting to attempt to cool my uncoolable desire. And now I watched him wanting to do the same for him.

I crept inside of Bret's room, licking my lips, my sensual spirit all but begging me to accost a man, my body telling me that in a world that made women less than men, pleasure was a woman's entitlement, if nothing else. Then I saw documents were on the desk. Court documents. Child support. Custody battle. Ugliness, pain in black and white. Things to argue about. I read about his personal life. His ex-wife was behind on child support. He was suing her. His hidden stress came from his failed marriage and being a father two times over. I remained paused by the rough edges of Bret's life. I glanced at legal issues that I couldn't relate to. In the end, Bret's legal papers were a stop sign. A deal breaker.

Bret's information was laid out in front of me. He was no longer a mystery. Those papers reminded me why some lovers should only be zipless encounters. I decided to turn the television off, then hurry back to my room. Bret woke up when I turned the television off.

He sat up. I stared at him. I was as nude as I was naked.

His silhouette reached for mine. I wondered if he was dreaming, waking from a sex dream starring his ex-wife, maybe waking from a nightmare inspired by whatever was going on inside of his mysterious world, wondered if he knew that it was me, the woman he had had a one-night ménage à trois with and not the mother of his beautiful children. Wait. Not
the
woman he had had a ménage à trois with; I was but
one
of the women he had fucked senseless on that hot summer night. I licked my lips, swallowed, and nervously gave him my fingertips as if we were in some sort of ceremony. He pulled at me, pulled gently, pulled me toward the bed where he lay, the bed where moments ago I wanted to experience him again, just him and me, just the energy between two, what the light side of Gemini preferred. The dark side craved satisfaction as well. Both sides were simpatico because Decadence was yesterday's meal. Even when a woman found nourishment at the best buffet in the land, even if she had dined at Per Se or Alinea or Eleven Madison Park, by dinnertime the next day, maybe even by noon, maybe even by breakfast, she would feel the pangs of hunger again. No meal lasted forever. Even when Prada had come to America, when he had flown here to please me, after that forty-eight hours had ended and by the time he was boarding his flight, my sexual appetite had rumbled. Within days his touch had begun to feel irrelevant. I had gone into withdrawal. Now I felt that I was no longer addicted to him. Even if I were, he was across the pond and Bret was inches away. My famine remained strong, so strong I was light-headed. Like the unsatisfied East Indian woman had done in Decadence when her husband had pulled her diminutive hand, part of me wanted to pull away from Bret, to resist him, to deny him his power in that moment.

I inhaled Bret's pain, the hurt of many men.

If I had to choose, Prada would be the better choice.

Only Prada was not here.

Bret reached for me like he wanted to make love to me tonight, then fuck me in the morning. I ached. I always ached for this man.

I let my hair fall, took a deep breath, and inched onto Bret's bed, jettisoned my thoughts of a faraway king and eased into the disheveled bed with a warrior, a bed as messy as his private life, as tousled as my inner feelings. I was on the bed of a divorced man who had two young children. I expected him to mount me, to ride me, to exhaust his restlessness inside of me. I anticipated hot towels and a ravenous tongue. I anticipated an exchange that I would record and send to Rosetta, only my face showing, my passion filling her screen as I whispered her name and told her,
Shah mat, shah mat, shah mat
. But when I rested on my side he spooned against me. He was nude. So was I. For a long while we lay that way, my breathing beyond nervous, as if I were brand new and tonight was a night for cherry popping. I tried to be still, tried to not be restless, but as we existed in silence, I failed. The air con kicked on. Chilled the room. But it did not cool my desire. He shifted and I thought that he was about to make me the yoni beneath his lingam, but he tugged the white covers up over us and held me. Breathing in tempo, the warmth from his skin and pheromones permeating my pores, his chest against my back, his lingam smooshed up against my ass, as the sun appeared, he fell asleep that way.

Bret held me and in time I drifted to sleep, a fitful sleep, disappointed, thinking of another lover.

As Bret held me,
I relived the touch of Anaïs, my Cuban interviewer, the sensual woman whom I had met not long before. Nude. She had been with me the way that I was with Bret. We had been together as lovers. Her head was on my belly. I played in her hair. She had been a good lover, very all-inclusive for a woman so small and feminine, very comprehensive. And truly a patient teacher.

Anaïs licked my nipples and whispered, “At times promiscuity is a rebellious act. When the male does the same it has no label. Or it is ironically revered as a man sowing his wild oats and each man sees men like that as the man to imitate. When we behave as the male, they hate, call us names, they become angered because we are challenging their hypocrisy. Brainwashed women will call us the same.”

The intimacy had been good, I felt high, so very.

Speaking in English I said, “You said that you compile statistics on women and sex?”

“I have compiled lots of statistics, not that they mean much. White women with college degrees are more receptive to anal sex. Did you know that women who went to college are more likely to enjoy both the giving and receiving of oral sex more than high school dropouts? Women with a PhD are twice as likely to be interested in a one-night stand than those with only a bachelor degree.”

“Amazing what we learn in college, most not in any textbook.”

She asked, “Do you come while you sleep?”

“So much that I both look forward to and am afraid to go to sleep.”

“The frequency increases as a woman ages, especially during her childbearing years.”

“It will only get worse?”

“It only gets
better
. Many women are not able to experience the beauty of orgasm.”

“Great perspective. So I will have many orgasms while I sleep. It will go on and on.”

“It will. Men make seven million new sperm a day and we only have a limited amount of eggs. Men can make babies until they are in their eighties, if not longer. They have all the time in the world.”

“Right now it's as if Mother Nature is trying to force my hand.”

“When you arrive at Decadence, treat yourself. Let go. Celebrate. Be a rebel. Make love.”

“I'm going alone. Should I look for you? Or would that not be appropriate?”

“Please do. Come say hello to my husband. Watch us make love. Or join us. I will tell him about us. Not many women are attractive to me. What attracts me goes beyond physical beauty. You have uniqueness about you. He will know that you are a special woman.”

She gave me light kisses, her beautiful lips sticking to my skin, tongue-kissed my feet and sucked my toes, grazed my yoni with her tongue, used her hands to open my legs wider, sucked my inner thighs, navigated my hills and lingered in the warm valley of my sex.

She licked. Licked. Licked. Licked. Licked.

I pulled at my hair, moved my hips, started to die.

“I'm coming. Goddamn, I'm coming. You got me; you got me.”

“Ride it. Ride it. You're so beautiful. Ride it to the end.”

When the sensation died down, I caught my breath.

Then we laughed. We laughed like naughty girls.

While she continued touching me, we talked about men.

I said, “There is a man I am crazy about, but he's not crazy about me, not sexually.”

“Then he is a fool.”

She fingered me, played with me. As I trembled, she pulled her fingers from inside me, and then put them inside her mouth.

She whispered, “I. Am. Very. Very. Turned. On. Right. Now.”

“Me too, Anaïs. This was unexpected. Totally unexpected.”

“You want to learn the proper way to please another woman.”

“I am curious.”

She pulled my hair back, kissed my neck, sucked my ears. Soon she returned lower, held my ass, eased fingers in and out of me. I squeezed my breasts and surrendered singsong moans, she took another mouthful of my sex and sent me higher, made my body quake again. She turned around, eased her petite body one hundred and eighty degrees, first we were waist to waist, then yonis moved toward tongues.

She had done to me then what I wished that Bret would do to me now.

Late night in Atlanta,
Georgia. Restlessness had me walking the floors, riding the elevator.

I found myself in my office, wearing a RADICAL
DESIGN T-shirt, sipping on mango tea as I conversed with Margareta Liverpool via Skype. Margareta was the randy Brit woman who had swept me into her energy and given me enjoyment underneath the eyes of so many Watchers, the woman who had called me to the altar and converted me, I remembered her well, but my mind was on her well-endowed lover. Her lover-pilot's Christian name was Graham Anderson.

I asked, “Is Graham a Brit too?”

“Australian.”

“And by the size of his lingam, of East African blood as well.”

We laughed.

She told me that as they were leaving, many women followed them, wanted to touch his lingam, and more than a few wanted to take him on. She laughed that soft way British people did, a laugh that had no sound and was in the eyes and the corners of the lips. Her children called for her. So did her assistant, her husband, and other workers. It was as if no one could function, couldn't complete the simplest of tasks without her. I told her I could Skype her some other time, maybe some other day, but she wanted to chat. With a coy little wink she said that she wanted to talk to her old friend.

She had said, “My family can be quite loud and bolshie this early.”

She walked around a large property. It was early morning and she was fully dressed. Seeing her in expensive, conservative clothes that aged her five to ten years, the same style that had made Princess Diana look older, seeing Margareta wih her hair pulled back in a tight professional bun, a hairstyle accepted by the masses, was like looking at another person. Didn't look like a person who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Didn't look like she sucked dick, let alone clit.

I asked, “Where is your husband?”

“I think Tom went for a fag. He smokes too much. He'd better leave soon because yesterday when I was buying a Hoover I heard a bloke on the train say that today's trains would be delayed.”

When she found a spot in the far reaches of an enormous guest bedroom, she took a deep breath and dropped the dignified façade. She told me that Quince Pulgadas was flying back to the United States that week and he wanted to see me again, at Decadence. She challenged me to take him on fully as a woman was designed to accept a man.

I laughed and shook my head. “It would feel like I was having a ten-pound baby in reverse.”

“You said it intrigued you.”

“So does the Statue of Liberty, but I'm not going to sit on it.”

“Might help if you had a pint or two first.”

“I'll never be that tipsy.”

“What's the largest that you've had?”

“Stop it. You are so nasty.”

“Tell me. I reckon you've had a pretty big one.”

“Nothing that compares to that.”

“Rubbish.”

“You're one wicked lady.”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me. I'll bet you fancy a big dick.”

I laughed at her naughtiness. I had assumed that her conversation would be intellectual; if not highbrow then political, about their Conservative Party and Labour Party. I had expected and desired conversation that was challenging, and if it were challenging then it would be stimulating. But since she had met me in an environment of naughtiness and sex, that was how she saw me, as a woman gone wild.

She confessed, “In my youth, before my children, I've even been dogging a time or two.”

“Be careful over there. Jack the Ripper and all that. Be careful.”

“Oh, I'm very careful. If I were exposed, my husband would toss me from Tower Bridge. A WAG was thrown from the Tower Bridge a few years ago and I'm sure he'd want to do the same to me.”

She cringed and closed her eyes, then her eyes became tight and she owned a crooked smile. The diligent housewife faded away and the badly behaved lady from Eros had returned.

Seeing her breathing changed, seeing her eyes tighten, I asked her, “Are you touching yourself?”

She nodded and stopped talking for a while.

I watched her make love to herself. She battled with herself. She held out, kept her orgasm at bay, stroked herself, slowed down, panted, squirmed, jerked, cooed, and then surrendered to pleasure.

She had me so aroused. Once again a woman had me aroused. It made me crave lingam, hard lingam, not the touch of a kindred soul in distress. My fingers touched, patted my dampness, patted the center of my energy, felt it spread. As she touched herself, as I touched myself, I told her what I rarely told anyone, confessed my occupation in detail. Part of me wanted her to know that I wasn't a slacker, that I was my own woman, that I was capable and no man financed my existence. In reality I knew that a woman like her would pity a woman like me for having to work like a man to obtain what men had. I wanted her to know whose yoni she had eaten, to know it was blue-blooded and royal in its own way. Again, like all others at Decadence, she had seen me both literally and metaphorically nude, had seen me caught up in heated moments, had seen me have sex, had seen me come, had seen me give angels wings in front of a choir of people as other women took on a gaggle of lovers, and she had met me out of context.

She said, “The beautiful Indian couple, did you meet them?”

“I did. Her name is Chandra and her lover was Dilraj.”

“Dilraj was so horrible he was embarrassing.”

“He is her husband of three years.”

“A husband that lousy? That's utter bollocks.”

I laughed. “He definitely could use some coaching.”

“Three years of bad sex? That is insane. He should've gone down on her. She looked delicious. He should've slid her toward me.”

“You slut. I'm jealous.”

“There is enough to go around. She could've joined in.”

“I think that she might have been open to what you have to offer.”

“Really? What do you know that I don't know?”

With a wink, I yielded a smile at her from the screen of my iPad to the screen on her iPhone.

She said, “Someone has a secret. Tell me.”

“Wait.”

“Are you about to come?”

“Think so.”

She smiled. “Tell me about your wickedness as you come.”

I described the moment. The Brit swallowed, as I swallowed when totally aroused. Her arousal spread throughout her body as mine spread throughout mine. Sucking in air, jerking, panting, I struggled to tell the rest. Told her about Rosetta joining us. My rising orgasm covered my confession with a heart only a woman could understand. I relived that moment via my Skype conversation. I had come now as I had then.

Then I calmed.

I grinned that embarrassed grin that always came after orgasm.

Margareta said, “I'm going to see Quince again.”

“At Decadence?”

“If not there, then I will have him at a hotel here. I would love for you to come over and be here when I do. I will fly you over. First class. You will be my guest and you can feel free to stay as long as you like.”

“Let me give it some thought. Might be nice to spend time there.”

The Brit told me that she had to start her day now.

I said, “We will chat again, not too far in the future I hope.”

“Very soon. I wish that I lived as close to our special place as you do.”

“It's as close as you driving to Paris plus another hour. Closer than Amsterdam.”

She said, “Lucky bitch. Oh, how I envy you Americans and your freedom to fornicate.”

“Quite a bit of fornicating is going on over there too. I watch Brits fucking on Youporn.com. And I have heard about London Swingers Club and the Limelight.”

“You've been doing a bit of research.”

“They are sort of like Decadence; at least I think they are.”

“And there's the Limelight, you say? Where is that located?”

“Let's see. Online it says that the Limelight is located . . . mmm . . . next to Barons Court underground station . . . in Central London. Ages forty-five and under, same basic club rules.”

“But I am not allowed to have that sort of fun over here.” She winked. “Have to run and be a good mother and wife now.”

“Have a good rest of the morning.”

“Happy wanking.”

“Happy wanking.”

•   •   •

“Prada?
I'm surprised that you answered.”

“Nia, my love. How are you?”

“I need you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I'm en route to yet another meeting.”

“I need you right now.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I'm fine. In the middle of working and realized that I hadn't heard from you in a few days. Okay, I'm not fine. I'm feeling a little lonely. Missing you. Would love to share dinner and catch a movie with you. Then sex. Would love to sleep with your skin next to mine, then wake up and cook for you. Feeling girly. Need another weekend. Or a day. Any idea when we will be able to see each other again?”

“I have no idea.”

“I need to see you. I really do.”

“Likewise.”

“You have no idea.”

“One thing after the other continues to rear its ugly head.”

“Can we Skype later? I'm very horny and I have a new toy and new lingerie.”

“I have a long, long day today. After the meeting there is a dinner and an early flight. I'll try and look for you on Skype when I get in.”

“No worries. You'll be tired. Get rested before your next flight.”

“Are you sure that you're okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm about to get on the treadmill and burn some energy. Need to make a few calls after I put in a long run.”

“I miss you. I love you.”

“Kisses. Call me when you have a free moment.”

The interviewer Anaïs had been on point. As I matured, as seasons changed and my body began crying out to have babies, as hormones that encouraged reproduction increased and forced me into carnal battles, I was always aroused. I needed to taste a man as a man tasted me, and then have him force me on all fours. I wanted a man to do what he wanted to do and when he was done to come down my throat. Then I wanted a refuck that would leave come running down my thighs. I didn't want to be fucking intellectual. I wanted the other side of me, the unintelligent side of my brain; I wanted my hidden side to feel pleasure. I wanted him to come on my breasts, give me a pearl necklace, open my chocolate star, make me scream. So very horny. Each day was worse than the day before. I wanted to fuck. I wanted to give him head. I wanted to close my eyes and feel lingam inside of my mouth. I wanted lingam inside my mouth up to his balls. Right here. Right now.

Bret lived minutes away, but wasn't interested in a sequel to our zipless night. Prada was über interested but he was an ocean and a million miles away.

Decadence was a four-hour drive.

For every problem life presented a simple answer.

I went online. Went to the website for Decadence.

Once again I registered.