The Juliette Society (19 page)

While he’s doing this, his fingers find my hole, which is so wet that I can already feel a trail of juice dripping down to my asshole. And he doesn’t waste any time, he slides his fingers right inside, probing around the soft fleshy mound behind my clitoris. He’s sucking on my clit and pumping his fingers back and forth into my pussy and I can feel myself about to come and I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I can feel the nerve endings tingle, sending shocks of electricity rushing all over my body. It surges through me. I buck against his mouth and feel his teeth, his tongue, his lips all pressing against my clit.

Then I feel him slide a thumb slick with saliva into my ass, thinking he’s got me so distracted that I won’t notice, and it brings me back down to earth with a bump. I look him in the eye and very firmly tell him, no. If I could read his face, I’d probably see disappointment, but he consents, and I don’t really care if he thinks I’m a prude. It’s not about that. I’m no anal virgin. It’s just that I want to keep something for myself. I want to keep something for Jack. And this isn’t like the Fuck Factory. It’s not a free-for-all that’s every man or woman for himself. Here I’m in control and in my comfort zone and I can take it as far as I want.

We switch. He sits in the seat and I climb up onto the arms, crouch down and slowly lower myself onto his cock. And my pussy’s so wet it slides right in, right to the hilt, and now it’s my turn to make him moan. I raise myself up off him again. Trails of thick, creamy white pussy juice slide down his cock and pool in his pubic hair. I spit in my hand and pump it along the shaft, sheathing with saliva and juice, and keep pumping it until I hear this low, insistent moan that lets me know I’m doing the right thing.

I slowly lower myself on his cock again, lean forward so my hands are resting on the arms and my ass is slightly tilted up at an angle, pulling his cock up with it. I alternate between slowly swiveling my hips and drawing back and forth and I can hear that low ghostly moan start up again. I’m sliding back and forth on his cock and his hands reach around to cup my breasts, his finger and thumb reach up to grab my nipples and hold them firmly in place.

Now he’s got me loose and wet and willing, he’s got another trick up his sleeve: he wants to share me with others. And I don’t know how they know, or if he gave them some kind of signal, but I’m suddenly aware that I’m surrounded. And I’m not afraid.

There’s a wall of male flesh separating me from the rest of the room, as if I’m cocooned. And I feel safe.

When some peel away, others take their place immediately. And I want that. The more, the better.

I lose track of how many masked faces and anonymous cocks approach, heads bowing as they move forward, begging for attention. I grab for everything in my reach with everything that I’ve got and once I’ve got a taste I realize I’m still hungry for more. The more I get, the hungrier I am and it doesn’t stop until I want it to. And I don’t.

The sex just keeps getting better and better and better. The orgasms get more and more intense and just when I think I’ve reached the peak, another one comes along that takes me even higher and I don’t want it to stop, because the pleasure is so intense.

It feels like my body is being jolted with electricity. Not just every time I come. Every time I’m touched. Like I’m being hit with a taser, over and over and over. I experience pleasure so intense it feels like pain. Dopamine floods my brain, adrenaline courses through my body and I lose track of time.

It feels like I’m fucking non-stop for twenty-four hours. And I figure if I want to I could probably keep going for another twenty-four. My body would keep going as long as my brain was stimulated. And here’s the thing: the mind never really gets tired from physical activity, it just gets distracted and bored. That’s when fatigue sets in. But if you can keep your mind focused there’s no telling how far you can go.

I go further than I ever thought I would and if I could see myself there, in that room, surrounded by all those men, I don’t know that I would recognize myself. I’d probably recognize Anna.

When I get home, I’m sore all over, my muscles are aching like I’ve hiked over a mountain and I’ve had to use every part of my body just to reach the summit. I feel invigorated, but exhausted and all I want to do is take a long hot soak.

While the bath is running, I take a look at myself in the bedroom mirror. And I’m glad Jack’s not here, so he doesn’t get a chance to see where my body is reddened from being slapped and pawed and pinched. At the same time, I’m still in a state of excitation and so fucking horny. If Jack was here, I would have his cock in my mouth in a second. I’d jump his bones and make him punish me with his cock even more.

I light a jasmine-scented candle, put some tea lights around the bath, pour in a few drops of lavender oil, and ease myself down into the water, inch by inch, until I’m all the way in and I can feel the heat start to relax my muscles, the steam seeping into the pores of my face and body, and I start to sweat it all out.

I sleep better than I’ve slept for a long time. I sleep like a baby. And when I wake, my body still aches but my mind is clear and focused. I’m getting ready to go out and run some errands and I write Jack a note, because he’s coming back today and I want everything to be perfect, in the hope that he’ll think again and we can figure something out. I write a note that tells him how much I love him. And I really mean it. I mean it more than I ever have. I want him more than I ever have.

Just before I’m about to head out the door, I rummage through my purse to check my keys are in there. Instead of my keys, I find a roll of notes. Hundred dollar bills. And I can’t for the life of me work out how they got there or when. I pick them up and just stare at them. In shock. I’m paralyzed by a jolt of realization, as if someone’s just knocked me on my ass and I’ve come to, struggling to work out what just happened.

I should have listened to Anna. ‘Bundy’s full of surprises,’ she said and I thought it was just another one of those silly things she says. Now I get it. He turned me into the very thing I never wanted to become. I got sucked into Bundy’s screwed-up reverse Pygmalion fantasy, where every female is perfection waiting to be turned into a whore. Bundy remade me as Séverine. Belle de Jour. The dish of the day. One of Bundy’s bitches.

I feel dirty and used. My stomach feels empty and I can feel nausea welling up inside me. I feel so sick that I want to throw up. The nausea gives way to anger. And all I can hear is this voice in my head, raging.

How could you be so stupid?

I’m shouting at myself in my head because Bundy turned me out and I didn’t even see it coming. I told myself I was in control, that I was smarter than that.

And I wasn’t.

16

This is what I’m asking myself now.

What is experience worth? And what does it cost?

And they’re not the same thing at all. One is concerned with meaning, the other with sacrifice.

We’re so used to paying a price – for our weekly shopping, our health, our mistakes, our indiscretions, and other crimes, affronts and misdemeanors – and never questioning how much, or who decides what that is and why. And, as a culture, we seem obsessed with what’s been lost – whether it’s innocence, privacy, privilege, security or respect – rarely with what’s been gained.

No one but no one can tell me what my experience is worth. No one but me. It’s something only I can know and understand and feel. It’s something only I can weigh up, measure and quantify. Something I can choose to pass on to others or keep for myself. And that’s my choice and my choice alone. It’s my freedom to decide. My responsibility to uphold.

Let’s not mince words here. We’re talking about sex. About fucking. And everyone does it. Whether in public or in private. More or less. Straight or kinky. Solo or in pairs or groups. With the opposite sex or their own. And, in practice, usually several or all of the above options in combination. Our sexuality is as at least as complex as our personality; maybe more so, because it involves our bodies, not just our minds.

This isn’t about science, it’s about being. And that’s why I don’t particularly trust the conclusions of people like Doctor Kinsey and Doctor Freud, especially when it comes to women. Because how do you quantify or categorize desire? How you can make value judgements on what’s good or bad for people, for individuals, based on how they feel? Based on how they fuck?

We’re all freaks. In secret. Under the skin. In the sack. Behind closed doors. When no one’s looking. But when someone is looking, or when someone knows, that’s when there’s a price to pay. A price that’s put on us, like a pound of flesh. And that price, it might be called many things, when it’s really just one thing.

Shame.

So consider that senior at high school who’s labeled a slut or a whore simply because she’s free with her affections and her body. When half her classmates are wearing promise rings as a prophylactic to contain their desires – as if that’s ever going to work – and, somehow, that makes them think they’re better. That she is somehow lesser, weaker, baser. Because she’s already decided that she likes sex. And she especially likes sucking cock. Under the bleachers. Between biology and chemistry. Not just with the quarterback but with the science nerd and the history teacher. Sometimes one right after the other, sometimes all at the same time. Have you ever considered what she gets out of it? What she believes it’s worth?

That girl, she’s not like me. She’s more like Anna.

That’s why I refuse to condemn Anna for the things she does.

Anna is everything to every man. She can move between all these worlds. Mistress, porn star, groupie, call girl. She doesn’t think of them as job descriptions, just categories of desire. She doesn’t feel exploited, so it doesn’t matter to her what people think. And, because she enjoys it, she doesn’t have a problem with accepting money. For her, it’s a fair trade.

Even though, to me, sometimes it feels like she’s living on a knife edge. As if the sex has become a need; and the need is there to fill the void, a void that can never be filled. She’s a smart girl so, eventually, she’ll come to a realization that she’s staring into an abyss. That’s the future I see for Anna. And it scares me. But I’m not going to condemn her for it. And neither am I going to try and save her. Because for her, at this point in time, it’s all worthwhile. She tells herself she’s fulfilled. At the end of the day, that might be good enough, for her, and who am I to tell her otherwise.

And me?

That’s the question.

What about me?

What am I getting out of all this? What’s the price I’ll have to pay?

And how could I have known? Before the fact, not after; because sex is not a supermarket aisle where you can browse all the different options and know the cost before you make your choice.

So let’s assume I was fully conscious and aware of everything that I was doing and why. It’s far more interesting that way, isn’t it? Because there are no excuses. There’s no one to blame.

I’m not just talking about the things I did, but about the things I fantasized and dreamed about. The places my subconscious lead me. Because it all comes from the same place at its core. And it will all come out in the end. That’s what I tell myself. It will all come out in the end.

I don’t know who I’m fooling, myself or Jack. My instinct tells me he already knows, that he already suspects something about me has changed. It’s not just hard to keep a secret from the person who loves you, the person who knows you the best, it’s impossible. But sometimes the things that are so blindingly obvious, about the people around us, our loved ones, ourselves, are the very things we choose to ignore.

Instinct is the most powerful sense organ we have. Not the gift of sight, of smell, of touch, of taste or hearing – instinct. It’s all of those combined and more and, if we learn to trust it, there is no path we can venture down that’s the wrong path, no action we can take that works against us, no relationship that will break off.

I knew when I first got with Jack that he was the one for me. Not just for now, for always. I remember that I couldn’t wait to confide in my older sister about this guy I’d met and told her in a breathless rush how amazing he was. I thought she’d be happy for me. She just scoffed.

She said I was too young, that I was kidding myself, that Jack sounded too perfect and soon would come a time when I’d realize he was a jerk like all the rest. And I didn’t pay her any mind, because I trusted my instinct and I knew.

As I grew up, I would watch my girlfriends go through guys, one after the other, and always find a reason to discard them, feeling dissatisfied or frustrated or used. I would look at them and realize I didn’t want to be like them. And these girls, they’re all single now, and it feels to me like they’ll always be single, because they’re always on the hunt for Mister Right. They have this image in their heads of who he is, what he looks like, what he does and how he behaves. And it’s a fantasy, a total fantasy. The same line of bullshit that’s been sold to women since… forever.