Decadence (7 page)

CHANGE IT TO $50K AND $50K, NEITHER APPLICABLE PURCHASE. HAVE THE SECOND YEAR REDUCED TO SIX MONTHS FOR SAME PRICE. MAKE THESE CHANGES AS WELL: PURCHASE PRICE—2 1/2% OF BUDGET. TALK SOON.

THIS TEXTING CRAP IS FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE NO TRUE SOCIAL SKILLS. FACETIME OR SKYPE OR CALL ME.

I responded,

BUSY WRITING. DON'T INTERRUPT.

DAUGHTER, THAT WAS RUDE. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE THE MOTHER OF ME?

I LEARNED FROM THE BEST.
TALK TO YOU TOMORROW AFTERNOON OR EVENING.

IN THAT CASE I WILL CALL YOU. LEAVING FOR AMSTERDAM IN THE MORNING. AND BY THE WAY FRANCOIS HENRI LEFT A MESSAGE AT MY OFFICE. THE FRENCH HAVE SILENTLY BLACKLISTED BLACK FILMS, SO HE WANTS TO GET AHEAD OF THE RACIST MACHINE, LET IT BE KNOWN THAT YOU ARE HIS DAUGHTER, SPEAK MULTIPLE LANGUAGES, HAVE YOU DO INTERVIEWS IN FRENCH AND IN SPANISH PAPERS, LEAD THE ARTICLES WITH THE FACT THAT YOU ARE LITERARY AND HAVE AN ADVANCED DEGREE, ARE WELL-TRAVELED SO YOU WILL BE GIVEN RESPECT AND TREATED FAVORABLY. I KNOW THAT ALL OF THAT SOUNDS HARSH, BUT HE'S THINKING ABOUT IT FROM A PUBLICITY PERSPECTIVE.

WOW. DAD SAID ALL OF THAT? AND YOU ONE-FINGER TYPE FASTER THAN YOU TALK.

I'M BUSY PACKING.

THAT WAS RUDE.

LET ME PREPARE FOR MY LONG JOURNEY.

I nodded.

And let me prepare for mine.

More French doors led to the anteroom,
the lounge before the changing rooms. It was a pristine area of marble, carpet, red leather sofas, chandeliers, and endless floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Sections were decorated with fresh-cut flowers and fruits, scented candles—the luxurious aroma of an exclusive spa in the mountains of a foreign country. Subtle physiological changes occurred in my body as it responded to the effect of the accumulated erotic stimuli. I wanted to be here, I craved to be here, yet I paused as if I were on the 5 Freeway in San Ysidro. This was my metaphorical last US exit, my ultimate chance to turn around before I crossed the border into a new lifestyle. I wrestled with needs and fears. This was the buffer area, graced with a beautifully lettered sign that spelled out the mantra of Decadence:

Rule 1: Never touch without asking.

Rule 2: “No” always means “no.”

Rule 3: Observe proper hygiene: shower, brush your teeth, and gargle between sex partners.

Rule 4: Progress at your own comfort level; there's no pressure to do anything you don't want to.

Rule 5: To experience hysterical paroxysm is wonderful. Enjoy as many as you like.

Rule 6: Every time a woman has an orgasm, an angel gets its wings.

Troubadourish moans lived over my head, the sounds like a church bell calling all worshippers to service, to pleasure. The language of sex filled the room, each syllable part of a sermon to the brave.

As did the attention of most who were in cahoots, my eyes went to the television. On the big screen, a Spanish man and a Latina made love. He took her on all fours. Another striking couple took to the same mattress. Skin slapped against skin and echoed like a drum beat. It echoed like a calling. Soft, slow, sensual kisses. My hand went to my neck and I hummed a kindling tune.

Thick Portuguese brogues caught my attention just as two nude Brazilians bumped by me, without apology, then paused in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling mirrors and prepped themselves. Both had long hair, super-long eyelashes, and wore diamonds that spoke of wealth and heels that looked like eight-inch pedestals. Those heels made the petite women look like
moko jumbies
, the stilt walkers back in the country of my birth. As the conceited South Americans stood touching their hair over and over, as they had love affairs with themselves in the mirrors, they prepared themselves as if they were carnal hunters.

A deucedly pretty and bald woman in extreme high heels, silver Lady Gaga fetish heels that added seven inches to her height, came toward me. Top-shelf alcohol was burning through her veins. A pink DECADENCE towel was low around her waist, yet high above her colorful garter; with the exception of miles of suntanned skin decorated in glitter lotion, she wore sensuality and nothing else. Her breasts were exposed, free; her areolas were beige, thick as a pinky, and erect.

She stopped in front of me and with an Amber Rose smile said, “Good fucking.”

I looked up at her, saw teeth whiter than white, and said, “What was that?”

“Good fucking. That's what we say here. Good fucking.”

“Oh. In that case, the same to you.”

A smile uses anywhere from five to fifty-three facial muscles. Hers used all fifty-three. Mine used half as many. Her breath owned the sweetness of at least one Long Island iced tea, top shelf, and her voice had both articulation and authority. All legs and breasts. Her shoes and jewelry told me that she was both a shoe whore and a spendthrift.

She said, “Your mouth is so sexy. Heart shaped, full with the promise of good loving. Lovely, full as the lips of a beautiful and aroused vagina. Bet you could suck the accent out of a Mexican.”

“Wow. That's . . . that's . . . wow. Caught me off guard with that one.”

She looked familiar. She was famous in some arena. But I didn't want to ask her for her name. I only hoped that she wasn't part of the business of Hollywood, hoped that she didn't know my name.

She asked, “You here for a swapportunity?”

“My . . . my boyfriend . . . this is my first time here and . . . I came alone.”

“Watcher or Doer?”

“Watcher.”

“Too bad. You're very hot.”

She waved her fingers and her bipedal stride took her away, skin shining from her glitter lotion, and joined a nude woman who wore pearls and Ferragamo peep-toe pumps with an origami bow. The woman she was with was as tall as she, only she looked to be Serbian.

Seeing them side-by-side, I recognized the one who had flirted. She was Canadian, a professional basketball player who played in the Turkish women's basketball league. Six foot four and wearing Lady Gaga heels, so she was at least seven feet tall. And her friend, I recognized her as well. She was another member of the Fenerbahçe basketball club. Naked, in extreme heels, makeup done, toned and tall, they were almost unrecognizable, but their heights and physiques made them incapable of looking anything but super extraordinary.

The Amazons sashayed toward the playrooms, where moans would rise like praises.

She was famous, a recognizable face, and she felt comfortable here. She was bold. It was obvious that this wasn't her first day sampling this lifestyle. Her energy told me that this was her way of life.

I recited the definition: “Swapportunity—the opportunity to swap lovers. Fair exchange.”

The Amazon would've taken me to her lover and placed me at his feet as if I were an offering.

My boyfriend. Jesus. I had actually called Prada
my boyfriend
. I needed to check myself.

My cellular hummed again and I jumped.

It was another text message. For the last two weeks it felt like I had been receiving text messages every other second. This message was professional, from one of the actresses I had befriended months ago when I visited the set. She had sent a text to the producers, the director, the cast, and the crew.

IT WAS AN HONOR TO BOTH MEET AND WORK WITH ALL OF YOU ON THIS AMAZING PROJECT. I LOOK FORWARD TO CELEBRATING WITH YOU ALL AT THE PREMIERE. UNTIL THEN, ALL THE BEST. LOLA MACK.

Before I finished reading that text, another came. It was from Bret. He wanted to make sure I had made the state-to-state drive without incident. I told him I had and thanked him for looking out for me. As soon as I hit send another text came. This one was from Prada. His message spoke of never-ending desire, of love, of lust that came from love. Tonight, in order to enjoy myself, I needed to be free of him, of the significance of him. That last conversation with him had left me feeling uneasy. Maybe I should simply stop returning his messages. I'd done that with lovers before. When I was done with them, or when something had broken inside of me, in defense I had simply gone AWOL, vanished, had stopped returning calls, e-mails, faxes, and texts.

But Prada was different. He affected the light in me. A surge of strong emotions came and sent a sweet, warm shiver up my spine. It was the warmth of guiltiness. The goody-goody, holier-than-thou, pious part of me fought to protest. As I became mentally prepared to take this adventure to the next level, as I prepared to be unfaithful to the man who wasn't my boyfriend, Prada refused to leave my mind.

•   •   •

I saw Prada as if he were standing in the room.
Slender with golden-brown skin, always immaculately dressed. His boyish, infectious smile had stolen my heart when I had met him during a trip back home to Trinidad. His muscles, his skin against mine, it felt so good. The sensation of my senses being magnified and satisfied. The moment he slid beyond my fleshy folds. The moment his weight was on me and he sank inside of me was unforgettable. He was Kama Sutra. The man could make love. The man could fuck. He owned a stroke of many temperaments, one that made me crackle and glow with electricity, made me want to claw and climb the wall as I writhed and shuddered and moaned. Three chocolate martinis were in my system. I welcomed the power and relief of hysterical paroxysm, the liberation that came from orgasm. Once I started to come, it was as if the Hoover Dam had broken. It had been too long since I had been with a man, too long since I had had hard lingam. My body trembled with joy and I came, I came, I came, I came so goddamn good. I had been trying to be reserved. I was the daughter of Hazel Tamana Bijou. Was trying not to show all of my naughtiness at once, was hoping that he would show me his naughtiness before I revealed my hand. He thought that I was a reserved woman; I tried to live up to that lie. It was the equivalent of a brilliant woman allowing a man to think that he was smarter by lessening her vocabulary, only on a sexual level. My sexual range was far-reaching, erudite, profound.

He told me, “It's you, Nia. You are my stimulation. Cannot get enough of you.”

“Liar.”

“I want you with me all the time. More than in a physical way.”

“It was religious. I opened my legs like they were the doors to a church and you made me call God and Jesus and moan like an old Baptist woman on the front pew at a backwoods Southern church.”

“I want to be with you. I love you, Nia.”

I ignored his sentiment, but my heart skipped.

Prada said, “I bet that you would look stunning in a wedding dress.”

I surrendered to silence. Pretended that I didn't hear him say that pandering remark. When a man said things like those a woman felt as if he were planting seeds. Words were only words.

He had said three small words that had a huge meaning, three words that implied a huge responsibility, one that most couldn't live up to; it was their Peter Principle. I felt chains, I felt shackles, I felt the weight of monogamy crushing me. I didn't reciprocate the emotions.

I asked, “Have you been in love before?”

“Those were girls. You are a woman. I was a boy then. Now I am a man. What a boy wants from a girl is not what a man needs from a woman.”

I wanted him to ask me if I had had one-night stands, if I had been with more than one man at once, if I had experienced the touch of a woman, if I relished it all, if I desired that perversion all right now, if I preferred excessive behavior, if I preferred what was deviated as opposed to what was considered orthodox or normal. He asked no questions. I sighed. After a while, all conversations seemed like repeats of earlier conversations. Different men, different voices, different scents, but in the end it was the same music, only with a different dance partner. Very few men would come along and make that same old two-step seem brand-new. Each encounter with a different man was unique in its own way, but very few would make sex seem new. At some point, for many, the conversation before the dance seemed pointless. The metaphors mixed in my head, but the meaning, the emotional content was clear. No matter how good a woman looked, someone somewhere was tired of her shit. And the same for men. The same for Prada.

I should've offered him other women, ménage à trois, all the wicked things I desired. But what I felt for him, even while I was inebriated, had made me behave like a coward.

No. Not like a coward.

I had behaved like a man. A man who couldn't bear to tell a woman the truth for fear of breaking her heart and never having access to her pleasures again. I had been as selfish as men were bred to be.

What Prada gave, any normal woman wouldn't ask for anything more, wouldn't need anything else. When Prada was making love, he was as magnificent, as passionate as one man could be.

As
one
man could be, that was the problem.

Thoughts of Prada faded
and the magnificence of Decadence reappeared.

Like the majority of the women in the room, women with dramatic hairstyles, jewelry made for queens, and perfumes that would seduce all men, I'd bought new shoes for this night. It was fuck-me-pumps night. And the most astonishing shoes I'd ever seen surrounded me. B Brian Atwood. Chie Mihara. Chloé. McQueen. Wang. Giuseppe Zanotti. Gucci. Choo. Givenchy. Diane von Furstenberg.

Opulent shoes were to women what luxury cars were to men.

I had worn black heels, a pair of sexy Louboutins, but the ones that I had brought for this occasion were Burberry. Red heels. Beaded platforms: The colorful beads hung around my ankle.

After I found my assigned locker, a locker that was six feet tall and more than three feet wide, I undressed, put my clothing on wooden hangers, put my black heels inside of my locker, and, barefoot, my Burberry box at my side, I stood as unclothed as the rest.

To my left a woman with a corpulent build, her raven hair shaved on one side, her heels high, her body a canvas for a thousand colorful tattoos. She asked another woman of equal size with a remarkably curvaceous shape, “What's on your agenda this evening, Jillian?”

“Guy I brought is very attractive. Generous, liberal, and ambitious. You might want to meet him in an alcove. Swapportunity?”

“Think he can handle me?”

“Give him a try. He's full service too.”

Two nude women paused as they passed by. One needed to readjust the straps on her shoe.

With sincerity, one woman asked another, “Why don't you enjoy fucking your husband?”

“Having kids changed everything. Took away the romance and now we're in the business part of parenting and being married. We joined a few swingers clubs, met some very nice and very interesting people, even did activities like hiking and movie nights with them, and it did spark it up for a while.”

“This making it any better at home?”

“Some.”

“Made it better at home for me and Ted.”

“Swapportunity?”

“Works for me if that works for you.”

“Let's check with the boys.”

“They don't get to choose.”

“It's just nice to make them think they have a choice.”

A multitude of perspiring women entered from the French doors that led to Eros, the most sacred part of the building, their adytum. Shoes in hand, they were cheering, zealous, and reveled in their nakedness. Diamonds and pearls. Skin flushed. Foreign accents. They'd engaged in consensual affairs, had shared husbands and boyfriends, experienced woman with woman, and were heading for the marble and glass showers to have more fun without the presence and needs of men. At the locker behind mine was a leggy woman with bold streaks of balayage in her hair. Colors had been painted onto chunky sections of her mane to lighten her hair, and her hair color blended well with her sun-kissed skin. She heard the zealous women talking about how great the sex was tonight, and she grinned, became overexcited, but the woman at her side, a sun-kissed woman with hair that was shaded like a gradient, the roots dark brown while the rest became light and lighter, looked very concerned, intimidated, and unsure. The gradient favored diamonds by Cartier. Both had on cowboy hats, the kind that were sold over the counter at Dairy Queen. The leggy balayage wore too much jewelry from Tiffany.

Balayage adjusted her cowboy hat and whispered to her gradient friend, “Look, decide if you're here for soft sex, hard sex, or no sex at all. If you are not here for sex, then I'd advise you go wait in the lobby or go up front and dance until I am done with my fun.”

She wrinkled her nose before she asked, “What's soft sex?”

“Jesus Fucking H. Christ, Vanessa.”

“What, Barbara Millicent Roberts?”

“Don't come here with me and turn this into a bad time. I've spent too much to have a bad time. And I gave myself an enema so that I can finally try double penetration. Maybe triple. Don't mess it up.”

“You're seriously going to let some man fuck you up your ass?”

“It's my goddamn birthday.”

“Don't say God-d no damn more. You can say eff and em-eff all you want, but no God-d.”

“And don't look at me like that. Don't judge me. God's not done with me yet.”

“Let me get this right. God finished the world and the universe and all known and unknown in six days, and you're twenty-six . . . twenty-six years and you claim that He's not done with you yet?”

“Hurry and get drunk. You're no fun when you're sober. No goddamn fun at all.”

A different woman opened the locker to my right. She'd just reentered the room. I think that she had been in the salon section, where women could get their hair touched up, eyebrows done, or a full manicure and pedicure. Her waist was small, her breasts remarkable breathtaking globes. Her vagina was like a pitted peach. Her sex looked beautiful, well cared for, a work of art she was proud to display. She saw me admiring her nakedness. She smiled an appreciative smile. Then, as I opened a box that had been inside of my big bag, her smile widened and she complimented me on my brand-new shoes.

I asked her, “Which wonderful fragrance are you wearing?”

“It's called Anaïs Anaïs.”

Hearing that name, hearing the name of one who had inspired me, again I paused, felt as if this were my destiny. I didn't believe in destiny, yet in that moment I subscribed to that foolish notion.

She asked, “Which scent are you wearing tonight? Your fragrance smells very lovely as well.”

“Ce Soir ou Jamais.”

“Your scent is as delicious and as eatable as you appear to be.”

I smiled at her wonderful body, at her curves. “Love your red shoes. Those are stunning.”

“Stuart Weitzman's wonderful creation. Special made.”

“Weitzman? Then those are real rubies.”

She grinned as if to say
of course
. “They were a cumshaw from my wonderful husband.”

“Very nice present. Were they for a special occasion?”

“Sort of. We had great sex one night. Actually two nights. One night, the first time I had the balls to let go and do what I wanted, was at Sushi-Hiro. Best sushi in London. I gave him a moment of oral sex inside of the restaurant. It's a tiny restaurant, mind you.”

“Sounds daring.”

“It was daring. Blame the saki. Had always wanted to give a blow job in a restaurant. Then, after I had sucked him and aroused him, I looked around the room and held on to his wanker. As he sat next to me in the restaurant, I kept my hand underneath the table. I was sipping my saki as I masturbated him.”

“You must have wonderful coordination.”

“Practice makes perfect. Anyway, I put the half-empty glass of saki under the white tablecloth right before he was about to come.”

“Wow. Bet your husband wanted to remarry you after that.”

“I told him I wished he had put his special sauce to my dragon roll. He was shocked.”

“Sounds like an exciting marriage.”

“Another time we were at the Fat Duck. I was tipsy and begged him to take me inside of the men's room. He did it, but afterward, despite his orgasm, he didn't approve of my behavior. He's a modest man. A wife and a mother should not behave that way, so he says. We have to worry about what others would think of such low-class behavior. I must be proper. Respectable. You never know who's watching. He's a famous man across the pond, a man who wouldn't be willing to do much in public. All said and done, after those wonder escapades, despite his complaints, these shoes were my tip.”

I laughed. “Wow. Awesome. You pleased him in public. Twice.”

“As always. Unfortunately that river runs only in one direction. He's good, just not great. Great provider, decent lover. It is hard to find someone who knows how to keep the romance in a relationship. Sex. Love. You always think that you want one more than the other, but in the end you need both.”

“Sorry to hear that. Think I overheard another woman here with the same problems at home.”

“We seldom marry the man who fucks us the best, but we are lucky if we marry the one who loves us the most. But that man who fucked us senseless, fucked us often, he will never leave our memory.”

“I know.”

“And on those days when we need what we need the way we need it, we do tend to think of that old lover. We do miss the great lover.”

“Question.”

“Yes?”

“Just to be clear, did you imbibe the elixir after you made your husband come in the saki?”

“Of course. Never waste saki. That would be beyond rude.”

As chatter and the sounds of orgasms echoed in the area, we shared a laugh and we bonded.

Then the Brit grinned and asked me, “Did you bring someone to play with this evening?”

“I came alone.”

“Coming alone is called masturbation. And you're too pretty a woman for that.”

We exchanged naughty grins. Her wedding ring sparkled, caught my eye. She raised her left hand and showed me. Her pupils dilated as she stared at me, and she caught her breath when I touched her hand.

I said, “Sorry, didn't mean to—to—break the rules.”

“No, it's fine. Your energy is strong. I could feel so much of your remarkable energy.”

“Yours is very strong as well.” Words caught in my throat. “I was just admiring your ring.”

“Archduke Maximilian of Austria gave the first diamond engagement ring to Mary of Burgundy in the fifteenth century. That set a precedent. Since then every bride-to-be has wanted to be like her.”

“I've never seen a ring as spectacular as yours.”

“Ten carat. Radiant cut diamond.”

“Jesus. In the United States that would be a two-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding ring.”

“I am guilty of envy and gluttony. We all emulate and try to outshine all others.”

“I must admit that I'm impressed. The ring has the eye of every woman in the room. So does your footwear. Not all of us get to be a real-life Cinderella. Not all of us get to meet a real-life Cinderella.”

“Cinderella's slippers were originally made out of fur.”

“Really?”

“Squirrel fur to be exact.”

“Had no idea that Cinder wore the cousins to rats on her feet.”

“Without the glass slippers, the fairy tale would have fallen flat. All about the shoes.”

“Yeah. Definitely not as sexy wearing rat fur shoes to the ball.”

“The story was changed and that folk tale retold so many times it seemed the truth. There were over three hundred versions. A Chinese version with shoes made of gold thread with golden soles, French version with the squirrel fur, on and on. The original one did not have a pleasant ending, mind you. It was a bloody massacre at the end. Since I'm talking fairy tales, in the original ‘Sleeping Beauty' the prince opened her legs and raped her while she slept.”

“Good thing that was rewritten.”

“Not so sure. The prince was pretty hot. Oh, to have a hot sexy man appear in my bedroom. A lot of us have that sort of fantasy.”

“Speak for yourself.”

I smiled at the Brit. She was under thirty, maybe twenty-five.

At the moment, everyone in the undressing room definitely looked under thirty. Ivy League. I couldn't have imagined being here when I was in college. There were many things that I couldn't have imagined doing back then before I was forced to face a fork in the road.

The Brit nodded. “I'd best finish preparing myself and go and meet my favorite pilot.”

“Your husband is a pilot. Kudos.”

“A lady like me wouldn't bring her husband to a place like this.”

“Oh. Got it.”

“I have spent and still spend most days being the veriest good. That requires so much time and so much energy. And it's boring. Every now and then a woman has the right to be the veriest bad.”

“Understood. So you're here with a friend who appreciates your need to be your veriest bad.”

She made the corners of her deep-red lips rise. “My pilot friend, they call him Quince Pulgadas.”

I laughed. “If that's true either you're a brave woman, or one of remarkable depth.”

“I'm profound. But I'm not that deep.” She winked and grinned. “This will be our first time.”

“Maybe I can watch.”

“Oh, I'll probably hide inside of a private room. Hope one is available. I like to do it in private.”

“Aren't you excited?”

“I have a new lover and he has a big dick. I'm across the pond. I have no accountability here. I have no concerns here in America so I can pretend I am whoever I want to be and alleviate and make more bearable this full life that I lead. I am full of estrogen and wine tonight. That makes me a very bad girl who is anxious to be filled with dick.”

“Maybe I should go to London where I have no accountability.”

“Have to run. Would hate for him to get started without me. I wouldn't appreciate that. Happy wanking.”

“In that case, happy wanking
.
”

She abandoned her towel and left.

More women came inside. There was much chatter.

A shapely woman winked at me. “Hey, cutie. Were you here last month for Threesome Night?”

Her voice was very professional, very take-charge, very privileged, and very Southern all at once.

I shook my head. “Threesome night? Sounds intriguing. Where do I sign up?”

“You sort of remind me of this girl who was here.”

“I take it that you're here a lot.”

“No place I'd rather be on a Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night. My only complaint is that they're not open Mondays, Tuesdays, and Sundays after church—Lord knows that I hate Mondays, they're always bad in court. All of the weekend offenders wear me out, so after hearing case after case after case, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, I need to get laid, and since I hate Mondays I'm stressed all day Tuesday and need to get laid. And Sunday, after sitting in church and listening to the preacher talk about all the depressing shit that God has done to his so-called children—the floods and killing first-born males and crucifixions and threatening people with eternal damnation and burning for eternity—I leave there so depressed I need a good fucking.”