The Juliette Society(2)

And Juliette? Juliette is absolutely unrepentant in her lust for sex and murder, and any carnal delight that she hasn’t yet tasted. She fucks and kills and kills and fucks, and sometimes does both at the same time. And always gets away with it and never has to pay a price for her indiscretions or her crimes.

Maybe now you start to get my drift. Maybe now you understand why this secret society, the Juliette Society, might not be as entirely innocent as it seems.

And if I told you that I’d managed to penetrate, pardon my French, the inner circle of this club, would you believe me?

It’s not as if I belong there. I’m a full-time third-year college student. I major in film. I’m no one special. I’m a regular girl with all the same regular needs and desires in life as everybody else.

Love. Security. Happiness.

And fun, I love to have fun. I like to dress well and look good but I don’t have an expensive taste in clothes. I drive a small hand-me-down Honda hatchback that my parents gave me for my eighteenth birthday and always seems to have random crap lying on the back seat that I never find time to fully clear out. I have friends who I’ve outgrown and find it hard to relate to any more and others who have stayed the course.

And, at this point, I’m not going to come across like such a smart-ass anymore. Now I’m going to start sounding all homey and humble. Because, in truth, the closest I had ever come to the seat of power was in my head.

I have this recurring sexual fantasy. No, it’s not about fucking an old billionaire in his private jet over Saint-Tropez at thirty-five thousand feet. I can’t think of anything that would gross me out more. My fantasy, it’s much more down to earth – more mundane and intimate than that.

A few times a week I’ll go to pick up my boyfriend after work and sometimes, when he’s there late and ends up being the last one to lock up, I fantasize about fooling around a bit with him in his boss’s office – but we’ve never actually done it. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she?

His boss is a senator. Or rather, a successful lawyer and would-be senator. And Jack, my boyfriend, is a staffer in his campaign office. As well as being an economics major. Which doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for us to get together because, by the time his day is finished, he’s usually so beat that he falls asleep on the couch almost the second he’s kicked off his shoes. Mornings he’s up early again for class and there usually isn’t even time for a quickie. And you know what they say about Jack and work and no play.

So I fantasize about playing my part as the dutiful girlfriend and I have this all planned out. I’ll dress for the occasion. Stockings and heels with my favorite double-breasted khaki trench coat, just like the one Anna Karina wears in Godard’s Made in U.S.A. And underneath, some lingerie; maybe a sheer black bra and panties and a matching garter belt and suspenders. Or I’ll go topless and wear knee-high white stockings and these cute little pink polka dot panties I have that seem to drive him wild. Or else just heels and bare legs with nothing else but a slinky cream silk slip or a chiffon babydoll. But always a smear of ruby-red lipstick. Got to have the red lipstick. A girl’s best friend.

The campaign office is in a storefront downtown. There are windows on all sides and the lights stay on all night to make sure that everybody who goes past sees the line of identical red, white and black posters pasted along the windows with Jack’s boss mugging for the camera under big bold type that reads, VOTE ROBERT DEVILLE.

So the only place we could get a little privacy is the utility closet, the bathroom or the office that Bob – he likes everyone to call him Bob – uses when he’s there, which isn’t very often. It’s tucked right at the back, near the exit to the parking lot, so he can sneak in and out without having to waltz in through the front entrance, on the street, in full view of everybody.

I’m pretty sure there must be at least a few people in that office whose kink is to fuck in the bathroom or the closet during working hours and hope they don’t get caught. But it’s not mine, and certainly not when we have the run of the place to ourselves. And anyway, Jack usually lets me in the back door, which leads directly out into the lot where I park my car and the office is just… right there.

I should just say this again, because I really don’t want you to get the wrong idea: we’ve never actually done this. We’ve never even discussed it, Jack and I. I’m not even sure he’d be into it. But in my fantasy, as soon as we get in that office, and the door’s closed and the lights are off, all the kissing and cuddling is over; I’d take control.