The Juliette Society(46)

As he enters me, there is an audible gasp from the crowd, one gasp made of many, and although I can’t see the reason why, I can feel it. I can feel myself opening up to take him. I can feel him opening up a part of me that’s never been accessed before. As if, in one determined thrust, he has broken through and released my desire. I find myself thinking about the bow of a ship forcing its way through the ice. And I know this is just the beginning but I’m already wondering how far I can go, how much I can take, and I want it all.

I’m distracted from his thrusts by the appearance of another man at his side. And then another, and another. Six, seven, eight, nine, forming a wall around me. All masked, naked and aroused. And others that line up behind them.

There is no bell this time. Hands swarm all over my body, pawing at my breasts, my legs, pulling at my mouth, splashing the sweat that gathers at my belly. And the intensity of their lust startles me.

I wonder who these men are and where they come from. I look at them and imagine, behind the masks, the men I’ve fantasized about alone in my bed. The men who offer friendly smiles as I pass them in the hallway of my apartment building, undress me with their eyes on the street, or steal glances on a crowded subway train.

These same men come to me as I touch myself in the deep of night when my sexual fantasies blossom, when I feel inside the deepest part of my body as if I’m being loved by them, caressing my own breast as if it’s the hand of another. These hands that are upon me now are the hands of all the lovers I’ve never had and always wanted. The hands of the man who lives opposite, whose touch I’ve never felt.

What I don’t know, even as this is happening to me, is that he is here too, sitting with the crowd in the auditorium, watching me. That he was brought here by a friend who, sensing his dissatisfaction, offered him a night’s entertainment. A very special entertainment at a most exclusive club, accessible to only the very wealthiest of patrons.

He is wearing a mask, like all the others, to disguise his identity. His initial shock at seeing me, the object of his desire, there on stage, is soon offset by the stirring he feels at being able to cast his eyes over my body, up close and in such magnificent detail, and the swell of excitement that passes through the audience.

He wants to intervene and show himself to me but fears what might happen, fears that he might bring terrible consequences on us both, that we might be set upon and torn apart. And finally, he lets go of all those thoughts, submits to his urges and throws his lot in with the lust of the crowd.

If I had only known there was someone I knew out there, that he was out there, things might have been different. I might not have submitted to my fate.

The gag is removed from my mouth, the rope that ties my hands is loosened. I’m set free. But I don’t cry for help or fight my way out. Freedom means something different to me now.

I’m hungry. As hungry as the feathered eyes and the hands that claw and grab me. And so I instinctively reach for something to fill my need, to fill my mouth and busy my hands. My body is red and raw from being slapped and pinched and grabbed. The same fiery red as the flaming oak leaves. And I don’t mind because I feel at one with my nature now, I feel that my body was made for this.

For the first time, I’m able to raise myself up off the seat and look beyond the men who tug at themselves as they wait their turn at my side, and out into the stalls of the auditorium. I see bodies all around, row upon row, arranged in twos and threes, connected at the hip and by the mouth. Figures interlocked and moving. Like glyphs in an alphabet of desire. A universal language that needs no explanation. And I realize it’s all because of me, and that’s the biggest turn-on of all. It was my desire that brought me here, that created this, and I suddenly understand what it means to be maddened by lust.



And that’s where the story left off on the last page. Where my dream would cut off night after night, year after year. No matter how much I thought I could mold and change it, I could not make it end. And I’ve dredged my mind to see if there’s something I’ve overlooked or forgotten from the first time I heard the story, something I’d missed. And all I could come up with was this.

We sat on the floor and tried to imagine all the possible endings. Fairytale endings where the girl’s secret admirer rushes onto the stage to rescue her like a shining white knight, and dashes her off through the big green door, back to her apartment where they live happily ever after. Because, to children, all tales have happy endings, and that’s what it was to us, a fairy tale, like Sleeping Beauty or Hansel and Gretel, no more dark or frightening or unreal.