Heaven's Harlots: My Fifteen Years in a Sex Cult (25 page)

Andre lived in one of the swankiest private apartment buildings in Monte Carlo. Situated to have a view of the sea, the mountains, and the best spot to watch the famed Monte Carlo Grand Prix, I knew this apartment cost a fortune. Not only was Andre a noble, he also had money, which gave him a top position among the young jet-set crowd.

This evening he had invited a few models to his home. One of them was a “James Bond girl.” Since I did not go to movies very often, I would never have recognized her, but she was introduced as such.

I felt uncomfortable in this crowd, so I suggested that Sharon sing a few songs. I noticed that Andre listened intently as he tried to figure us out. People were coming and going, and a few times I tried to excuse myself, but Andre always pulled me back, insisting I stay.

Finally, Sharon took me aside.

“Andre wants to bite,” she said, reverting to her leadership role. “I have to go home, but I think you should stay here. He may never have another chance to hear the message like this.” Sharon left with a chauffeur who was called from the casino area. I wondered why Andre wanted me to stay. He had acted disinterested in me for the last couple of hours. Suddenly he seemed to notice I was there when everyone had left.

“So, tell me about this talent you have for reading palms,” he said, seemingly unaffected by the lack of sleep that made it hard for me to keep my eyes open.

“oh, I just started it. Maybe I read your hand wrong. I know you have some title or something.”

“Actually, I am a descendant of Napoleon. Come, let me show you.” He took my hand and led me on a tour of his apartment, showing me all the objects he had inherited from his famous ancestor. I was too tired to show due amazement, and I guess he took this as ignorance or lack of sophistication. We ended up in the bedroom, which sported a tiny, boatlike wooden bed that he claimed had been Napoleon’s. It looked like the right size to me, and I was hoping I could lie down in it, mainly because I was thoroughly fatigued. In fact, we did lie down, and in robotlike fashion I told him that we were really messengers from God. I told him that I was God’s Love to the lost souls in Monte Carlo. My eyes were closed. I did not know if he heard, or understood, or even cared, but I know I told him, and then we made love.

When I arrived home in the morning, Sharon and Tim were at the kitchen table eating breakfast and feeding their daughter in the highchair. We discussed our evening with the Monte Carlo jet set over croissants and coffee, and we all agreed that they were not the type we should concentrate on. They seemed too rich, young, and beautiful to think about needing God at this point in their lives, and we decided that they were just having fun, while we had a mission.

Soon after, we were told by Mo that the Monte Carlo home should be a secret in the Family. The only trouble was that it was no secret to Cal and Mara, who lived on the other side of Monaco in Cap Ferrat. I used to joke that Thor’s parents lived on the two most beautiful and exclusive Caps in the world. My main concern was that Mara and Cal insisted I could only visit Thor at their home and never brought him to my place.

There are no simple explanations of why the situation was like this.

Cal claimed that I had deserted Thor, although he knew that I had only gone to Paris temporarily. I knew he was keeping Thor as revenge against me. But I felt guilty for not having been a good wife, so I tried to work out custody of Thor while keeping Cal’s feelings a priority. Cal clearly had the cards stacked to his advantage. Not only did he have physical possession of our son, but the leaders also preferred that Thor stay with Cal. They were still saying that God wanted me to put Him first, so right now, as always, all I had for leverage was my body. That is what the leaders wanted—for God’s work, of course.

I spent every free day with my son and often spent the night so I could be with him more. I knew that Cal intended to send Thor to French school in the fall, but I kept up with his reading and writing in English and practiced math exercises with him. His chubby little five-year-old body was full of energy. Often we would take long walks around the Cap, stopping to look at fish or discover a turtle. Thor had a great imagination, and he liked to pretend he was a pirate, or a soldier, or a knight. I played all the other parts—the villain, the damsel in distress, the enemy, the poor old lady who needed defending.

At night I made up fantastic stories of Thor riding a white horse and flying off to another world to save his princess Chiara, a little girl who was his friend in Paris. We bonded intensely, and for this time I was forever grateful, since we both would need that connection to make it through some very rough years. Still, I was upset that Thor could never stay with me in my home. One morning, sleeping in Thor’s room, I woke up early before anyone in Cal’s house was stirring. It was still a little dark outside as I shook Thor awake.

“Shh, don’t say anything, Thor,” I warned him as he opened his eyes and looked at me with a smile.

“We are going on an adventure before anyone else wakes up. Do you want to do that?” He shook his little red head yes and jumped out of bed rubbing his eyes. I had already prepared a small backpack with some of Thor’s clothes, which I put over his shoulders. I didn’t want to carry a suitcase and arouse suspicion. We tiptoed through the French doors that opened up into the yard. Thor was very good about being quiet, and I could hear my own heart beat excitedly. I was planning to kidnap Thor back.

I kept looking back over my shoulder while we headed for the road, thinking that surely God would wake up somebody to run after me if this was not His Will. No one came. As soon as we reached the main road, I stuck out my thumb. Most of the light traffic that came down the road to the Cap were domestic workers coming in, not going out.

“Why aren’t we taking a bus?” asked Thor.

“Because it is too early, honey. The buses are not running yet. But this is an adventure. You want to do something different, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m hungry.”

“Okay, as soon as we get a ride out of here, we’ll stop and get something to eat.”

“Can I have a religeuse?” he asked, requesting his favorite French pastry.

“You can have as many as you want, honey, as long as you drink it with milk.” I would not be safe until we got a ride out of the Cap. Finally, I saw a gray Mercedes come down the road. I frantically waved him down.

“I have to catch a train,” I said. “Can you take us to the train station?” The driver let us in and dropped us off at the Beaulieu station.

I had decided to take the first train going in either direction.

Luckily, the first one was headed for Italy, the direction I needed to go. We got off in the Menton station, and I took the first bus going by Cap Martin.

Timothy and Sharon were just eating breakfast when I arrived with Thor.

Sharon took my little boy in her arms while I cried on Timothy’s shoulder.

“Oh, Timothy, please let me keep him. I just want to have him for the weekends. Please help me.”

“He’ll help you,” said Sharon from the side. “We’ll make sure you can have your son on weekends, Jeshanah. I promise.” Sharon stuck by her promise. Timothy called Peter and Sheila, who came out immediately knowing that Cal would throw a fit.

Cal came out to the house and searched, never thinking to go upstairs where Thor and I were hiding in the neighbor’s apartment. Peter and Sheila kept telling Cal to quiet down and go home, since they were afraid he might blow our cover.

Finally, Peter and Timothy took Cal by force back to his home. Thanks to Cal’s display of disobedience to leadership, the leaders were now on my side. They told Cal that unless he agreed to allow Thor to stay with me on weekends, I would keep Thor in an undisclosed location indefinitely.

He agreed.

Having Thor on weekends was like heaven on earth for me. Now Breeze and Abraham came over more often, first as liaisons from Cal’s home to make sure I didn’t keep Thor, and then as regular guests. Breeze was my old singing partner from Ere-sur-Mer, and she started going out to clubs with us more often, which was a relief for Sharon, who was pregnant again. We all suspected that Sharon had become pregnant from a one-night stand. Timothy took this like a real soldier of the Lord.

He cared for Sharon, and eventually he treated the new baby as if she were his own.

Breeze had been trained as a violinist, but now she wrote songs, composed music, and played the guitar. She was shorter than I and rounder, but she made the most of her good points. She wore heavy makeup that accented her big brown eyes, and she permed her shoulder-length brown hair so it hung in waves around her face. Her firm, well-endowed breasts were highlighted by the clothes she wore, revealed in a low-cut bodice or tightly wrapped in a clingy material.

Breeze knew how to make a man look twice.

Unlike most of the girls in the Family who worked with me, Breeze never seemed bothered by famous worries of competition. In fact, seeing my poor knowledge of makeup and clothes, she took it upon herself to give me a make over. She suggested that my waist-length hair be cut a few inches and curled in spiral waves. An experienced seamstress, she made dresses for me that accented my figure and drew attention to the curve of my derriere. She even encouraged me to wear shorter skirts that flaunted my long legs. I felt safe with Breeze and trusted her opinion almost as much as I trusted Sharon’s. More than any other home I had ever been in, I thought that the members of this home embraced the ideal of true brotherly and sisterly love.

With Breeze on our team, I had pink business cards printed that read SONGS OF LOVE, IMPRESARIO, JESHANAH and our phone number printed on the bottom. We now passed as professional singers, which mainly meant that it was easier for me to book us at private parties. I carried these cards with me at all times, handing them out freely, and this became our cover for many activities during our time in Monte Carlo.

While waiting for final approval from Peter and Sheila for Breeze to join our home, I met Salim, a dashing figure, well known in elite European circles. Once I saw a picture of Salim and his wife in a national magazine, accompanying a story about a high-society party in Paris, and only because of this did I know of his privileged status in society. I eventually discovered that he was a financier who was respected and feared as one of the top players in the international finance world, but since wealth and materialism meant little to me at the time, I never inquired into his business or his private life.

As I have already described, Salim was the man who first gave me money for sex. Until that point, if I received any money it was understood beforehand by the man that it would pay for rent, food, or necessities for the Family. I would ask them to take me shopping, and of course some were surprised to find me buying baby clothes, children’s shoes, or a blender. This might not seem like an obvious difference, but receiving necessities and other supplies instead of hard money somehow made it seem less of a monetary exchange for sex. However, around the time I met Salim, we began receiving the letters from Mo saying that we should take money for it!“My Lord, you’re providing enough it service and getting laid, it’s time you got paid!” (“Make it Pay!” 684, 11). Women started to accept money for giving love, then they asked for it, and finally the Family set up its own escort services. Taking the money from Salim was a turning point for me and for our work in Monte Carlo. He was to be my first steady fish in Monte Carlo. I eventually thought of him as a friend who showed his appreciation with gifts, but he also provided introduction to quite a few Middle Eastern billionaires.

As I became more acquainted with Salim and his lifestyle, I was often reminded of the quote attributed to Lord Byron, which Mo had highlighted for us in his letters,“I have drunk every cup of fame and tasted every pleasure, and yet I die of thirst” (“War and Peace” 255, 98). The more I met these men who had all the material wealth they wanted, the more I felt like a true angel of mercy, bringing their wasted and thirsty souls the water of life. I don’t know if they shared this sentiment, but I certainly let them know how I felt, especially Salim, who was the recipient of my letters and poems. In fact, I first thought that he truly cared about me when I saw a card I had written to him stuck under the glass top of his desk, in view for all his closest acquaintances to see.

Salim was not the only one I sent poems to, on the contrary, sending notes to the men I met was part of my witnessing procedure. I usually followed a night together with a pretty card I personally selected that reminded me in some way of the man or our experience together. I wrote a verse or a Mo quote that made reference to the salvation message or continuing in God’s Love. However, for Salim, due to our lengthy relationship, I began to write personal poems. These were not love poems, in the usual sense, but instead they explained a spiritual love in “higher realms” of eternal life, such as this excerpt taken from one long poem I composed and sent to Salim:

Then from the view of this great mountain height, The world’s injustices there plainly in sight, If your heart is breaking, then let us cry, For the pain, for the suffering, for all those who die, For the greed, for the selfishness, for these things not right, Our weeping surely may endure for this night.

This was the type of poem I wrote to a millionaire who introduced me to billionaires, some of whom have been accused of making their money by dealing in arms. I believed I was giving them spiritual insight, and I consoled my conscience that I was taking from the rich to give to the poor. Once Salim understood that I used none of the money he gave me for myself, he started to buy me personal presents.

“Do you ever buy yourself a dress with the money I give you?” he asked me one evening as I dressed in his hotel bedroom. I had on what I thought my best dress, which he had probably seen a dozen times now.

“No, I give everything to the Lord’s work. You know that.”

“But don’t you work for the Lord too?” he responded, playing in the fantasy I had shared with him.