Dirty Diana by January James

Chapter Three

Istood in the spot the woman had told me to go and looked around. There was no sign of a black door bearing a number ‘one’ like she had said. I swayed nervously from foot-to-foot as I re-read the instructions I’d scribbled down. Then, a loud crack of thunder and the sensation of a large drop of rain landing on my freshly styled hair, sent a wave of panic through me. Luckily, just as the heavens opened, a voice called out from behind some conveniently placed foliage.

“Hello, Miss?” it whispered, discreetly.

“Yes?” I replied, wondering why I couldn’t see anyone.

“This way,” the voice called, coaxing me past the greenery to a cleverly concealed black door bearing a brass number one above a doorbell. As he came into view, my heart thudded into my stomach, firing off nerves I thought I’d managed to bury about five blocks back. I couldn’t see his face. Not just because it had disappeared inside the doorway but because something covered it; something black and opaque hiding the top half of his head.

Ever since I’d put the phone down to the Concierge, I’d been a bag of nerves. Not once in my life had I ever considered joining a sex club. I’d never even attempted online dating or one night stands, let alone secret sex with strangers. I’d watched the movies, I’d seen the orgies, I’d wondered along with the rest of the audience who in their right mind would actually do something like get involved with a bunch of sex-crazed maniacs to do filthy things in underground basements. I kept telling myself I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. I was just going to stay long enough to find out what the deal was, then I would come away, think about it, and probably never step foot near this place again.

But already I was disarmed. This was no underground basement. This was an uptown townhouse, the foyer of which had been lusciously decorated with dark damask-print wallpaper, patent detailing around the door frames, black velvet curtains concealing exits and entrances, and giant crystal chandeliers dimmed to create a calm, seductive atmosphere. I couldn’t hear any orgasmic cries or sweaty panting. In fact, I couldn’t hear a thing; the place was silent apart from the soothing sound of ambient house music—a welcome refuge from the busy Manhattan streets.

“The ladies bathroom is through there if you’d like to freshen up,” the masked man said, pointing to a door. I remembered my drowned rat appearance thanks to the sudden downpour and gratefully pushed it open, fully prepared to spend a few moments screaming silently at my reflection in the mirror and questioning why on earth I’d agreed to this madness. But before I could do any of that, my jaw dropped. Instead of the blinding blackness of the foyer, the room I’d entered was a soothing white. White walls, white floors, white doors, white vanity units, white chandeliers. Apart from the antique bronze taps and the black Aesop toiletries, everything in the bathroom was a deliciously calming and ironically virginal white.

I took a few breaths and tried to settle my nerves. A console sat to the side of the vanity units, filled with an array of styling apparatus, creams and make-up. I selected a Dyson dryer and re-styled my hair, then I applied a little Nars concealer and Chanel lip gloss. Then I laid my coat carefully over one arm while I smoothed down my Hervé Léger bandage dress—an obscenely irrational purchase made especially for this outing. I had the self-esteem of a thirteen-year-old girl, but I was determined to make as much of an effort as I could. I would only get an invitation to a place like this once, and as much as it petrified me and as out of place as I felt, I wanted to at least dress the part. I stared at myself in the mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back, but I could feel the clock ticking. I couldn’t put this off any longer.

Just as I was about to leave the bathroom, something caught my eye. A small black piece of fabric hung on the back of the door. I picked it from the hook and passed the material through my fingers. It was a silk mask like the doorman had worn, as light as a feather and so slippery I almost dropped it. I turned back to the mirror and put the material over the top of my head and pulled it down in front of my face, remembering how the doorman wore his. The elasticated edge gripped my cheekbones and led to a velvet ribbon at the back, which I tied at the nape of my neck. At first I let out a smirk; I looked like Cat Woman with a little less flesh exposed and no ears. Then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the vision in the mirror, I realized how sexy it looked. My eyes and chin were visible, but I wouldn’t have recognized myself in the street. It made me feel strangely comfortable and anonymous, as though I might actually be able to do this.

I emerged from the bathroom to an approving look from the doorman who steered me towards a desk bearing the word Concierge in the same bold, gold font as the Decadence logo on the business card. The woman behind the desk also nodded approvingly and I noticed she too wore the same slip of silk, and her hair tied back discreetly. She wore black, to match the décor, and had I looked at her from a distance I would have seen merely a small, delicate chin floating in mid-air.

“You must be S9ZEH,” she smiled warmly, and I instantly recognized her voice. “I’m so glad you came. I’m Candace, one of the Concierge team. Not my real name, of course, but I always wanted to be called Candace. From here on, you can be whoever you like. You don’t need to have a name at all, if you’d prefer not to. You could be a letter or a number—totally up to you.”

I took a deep breath in. Nerves were raging through me and it took every ounce of focus I had to listen to what she was saying.

“You will be meeting with three members of the board. They will tell you exactly who we are and what we do here—as soon as you’ve signed our non-disclosure agreement—and they will answer any questions you have. They’re ready for you now, but you don’t have to go in just yet if…” her eyes flicked up and down my face, assessing my readiness, “if you’d like a few more minutes to think about it.”

I wanted to wait. I wanted to wait forever, to stay out here in the relative safety of the foyer. I was petrified. I’d never done anything like this before in my life. I’d become so used to just working and keeping my world so small no-one could really see inside it. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since I moved here four years ago. The closest thing I’d come to having sex with was my vibrator, which was not only gathering dust in the bottom of my bedside cabinet, but the batteries had probably run out a couple of years back. And somehow I’d found my way here, to an exclusive sex club where people wore face coverings and called each other by fake names. It was like something out of bad porn movie, only it wasn’t. There was something soothing and luxurious about the place. It was decadent. The name fit like a Saville Row tailored suit.

“No, I’ll go in now,” I heard myself say. Clearly, the memory of actually owning a vibrator had sent a new shock of reality into my core. Don’t give her time to think, Groin said to Brain. Roger that, Brain replied. Move her along, Mouth.

Candace smiled. A warm smile which was echoed in her eyes. “Come this way.”

She put a small hand to my back and steered me down a short corridor. Discreet downlights lit the way, barely, until we came to a door at the end. Candace knocked four times, waited a second, then turned the antiqued brass doorknob.

“Board members,” she announced. “I have our newest prospect here.”

She pushed the door and stood aside to let me pass but I felt frozen, like a rabbit in the headlights. Three people sat along one side of a large, black, oval shaped table, lit by an intricate crystal chandelier which stretched the entire length and must be worth no less than a million dollars. I recalled the words of both Sienna and Candace. High charisma, high energy, high net worth individuals. That’s who’d paid for the chandelier. And if this was only a meeting room, what was the rest of the place like? Then I panicked. How much did it cost to become a member here? Could I really go through the humiliation of turning down this opportunity because I wouldn’t be able to afford it?

I felt Candace’s hand on my back again and realized my silence and lack of movement were being noted with curiosity by the three pairs of eyes surveying me. I forced myself towards the lone chair at the opposite side of the table. I felt completely bare as I sat down on the black leather seat.

All three board members wore the same face coverings; it was like entering a scene in Batman, or Eyes Wide Shut. I shuddered. I still didn’t know exactly what this place was, nor if it had the potential to expose me as a brazen hussy and ruin my career. I had nothing else to my name, and even that—my job—was hanging by a thread. If the fibers separated and the thread snapped, I’d be left with nothing. Nothing to do, no apartment to live in, nowhere else to go. The nerves rattled through me like a steam train, so loud I could barely hear what one of the committee members was saying.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, in a small voice. “Can you repeat that?”

The person in the middle—a woman, similar in appearance to Candace, with the same tied-back hair, same slits for eyes, same conservatively painted mouth—smiled kindly and repeated her words.

“Welcome to Decadence. We’re looking forward to telling you about us and, of course, getting to know you a little better.”

I swallowed. My throat felt like sandpaper.

“But before we get to that, I need your autograph, here.” She pointed to a document in front of me, headlined with the unmistakable words, Declaration of Non-Disclosure. “It’s a standard agreement, but feel free to run through the clauses. Take your time.”

My eyes went straight to work, speed-reading through the contract. I’d read so many of these in the last four years that I felt I was less in the business of making music and more in the business of secrets. Talent misdemeanors, PR cover-ups, new release embargoes—I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere in the world there was an NDA for wiping someone’s backside.

My shoulders relaxed a little and I clicked the pen beside me, realizing it wasn’t just any old pen; it was a Mont Blanc Spider 1906, worth three thousand dollars. Now covered in my sweaty fingerprints. The NDA looked straightforward enough so I signed it and placed the pen back on the table, resisting the temptation to wipe it on my dress first. Then I looked up and, for the first time, allowed myself to see as much as I could of the three board members. The woman in the middle was smiling as she reached over to take the papers. She passed them to a man sitting to her left, who wasted no time in scrutinizing my signature and checking I’d initialed every page. He then looked up, also smiling.

“This gentleman here is the only one in the club who will know your name,” the woman said, clasping her hands together.

I looked across at him again. He had a nice mouth and was so clean-shaven he would have probably reflected light, if there was more of it in the room. I smiled back at him, feeling slightly more comfortable as each minute passed.

The woman spoke again. “Wonderful. Now…” She leaned her forearms along the table. I noticed a delicate gold Cartier bracelet gracing one of her wrists and, surprisingly, a giant diamond on her ring finger. Her nails were like daggers, painted immaculately in a deep crimson which matched her lips. I dragged my eyes away; I needed to focus. I needed to know exactly what I was getting involved in. “Let me tell you all about Decadence.”

I wriggled in the leather seat and tried to cross one knee over the other, pretending to be a lot more sophisticated than I felt, but my gaze inadvertently flicked to the third person in the room and suddenly, everything seemed to still.

I felt hot, as though my face was flushing bright red and my skin was burning up. I dragged my focus back to the woman in the center, but my eyes insisted on returning to the man on her right. He was staring at me with an intensity that penetrated my skin. His expression, of what I could see, was neither warm nor cold; it was simply intense, as though if he looked away, I might slither back out of the room, never to have existed in the first place. He had a presence that took up half the room. The fact I’d entered the room petrified was the only possible explanation for why I hadn’t been knocked backwards until now. His shoulders were thick, his chest rising and falling with an obvious tempo, his mouth set firm, framed by a light stubble across his jaw.

“I won’t sugar coat this; you are a mature, intelligent young lady,” the woman said, and I forced myself to look back at her. “Decadence is what you might call a sex club. But…” she held up a long straight finger, reminiscent of a primary school teacher. “It is a sex club like no other.”

She had my full attention, despite the fact my face was burning up from the intensity of the man’s stare.

“Decadence is not just a place to find pleasure, in private. It is a place for relaxation, away from the constraints of your public life. It is a place for exploration, for finding out who you really are, the person you perhaps never realized you could be.”

She paused, allowing her words to sink in. Then she continued.

“We facilitate ‘encounters’ between our clients, based on a list of preferences you give us. Not just preferences you are familiar with, I must add, but preferences you might wish to explore. This is not the place to find your next husband. This a place to find your next fantasy.”

My eyes wanted to stand out on stalks but I couldn’t let on how nervous I was. I clamped my legs together and clenched everything, in a bid to stop myself from shaking.

“As a new member, you are allowed two encounters per month. If you enjoy your experiences and wish to enhance your membership, you may upgrade to four encounters per month. We have more than three thousand members and five houses in Manhattan where you can enjoy their company. The maximum number our members can upgrade to is six encounters in one month. We do not allow more than that as we have a carefully selected pool of clientele and we do not like there to be repeat ‘encounters’. Which brings me onto the rules.”

I nodded, trying to process everything she was saying.

“We have rules of course, which allow us not only to maintain our clients’ anonymity and privacy, but to protect and safeguard our clients. Our reputation relies on this, and so we are assertive in enforcing these rules.”

I felt the man to her right shift ever so slightly in his chair, releasing a little of his scent—a full, dark woody spice mixed with a strangely intoxicating body odor. I wondered why, out of the three of them sitting opposite me, I could only smell him.

“Number one,” the woman began, holding up the same finger. The more I looked at her, the more she reminded me of a comic book villain with her sharp talons, her full, pouting lips and her clipped New York twang. “We do not permit clients to meet the same ‘encounter’ twice. This is not a place for building relationships, for becoming intimate beyond the pleasures of sexual experience. We find it can be uncomfortable if one of the two parties hopes for more and the other doesn’t. We don’t entertain commitment here; only freedom.

“Rule number two. Under no circumstances must you reveal your name or any personal information about yourself to the person you encounter. This is to protect you. We perform full checks on each of our members and we are confident of the integrity of every single one, but our clients are human at the end of the day, and humans can be unpredictable. We are driven by feelings we’re not always in control of. We help you to manage those feelings by putting in place these rules. They are there to protect you from yourselves.”

She said those last words with a warm smile, as though she was talking to a child who’d just been strapped into a stroller for their own safety.

“Finally, rule number three.” A third long finger stood to attention alongside the other two and I marveled at how otherworldly they seemed. Everything about this place seemed way out of my league, from the million dollar light fitting, to the now-soiled Mont Blanc pen, to the impeccably manicured woman sitting opposite me, to the furnace-inspiring man to her right.

“You must never show your full face. This…” she pointed one of the long fingers and circled it towards my head, “…remains on your face the entire time you meet with any of your encounters. You wear it as you enter the clubhouses; you do not allow anyone to see you without your face covered. You must always wear your drape.”

“Drape?”

“That is what we call them. Not masks—we are not participating in a carnival. These are drapes: decadent pieces of silk designed to conceal distinguishing features without being intrusive or uncomfortable. They are made of the finest silk so they are extremely light and breathable, and our members report that they do not provide a distraction. In fact, these drapes often serve to enhance the experience of an encounter, providing an additional layer of mystery.”

“Finally, while it is not a rule, per se, we do discourage kissing. Kissing triggers emotions and there is no place for emotion in our club, only desire and fulfilment. We find that when members kiss, they become attached and, as I mentioned earlier, that can be uncomfortable for one or both parties if those emotions and feelings are not reciprocated. As I also mentioned, we do not permit the sharing of personal details or repeat ‘encounters’ so, the inciting of emotion through the act of kissing is, quite frankly, pointless.”

I thanked God that at that moment half my face was covered so the three people couldn’t see my eyebrows raised up to my hairline. She made it sound so incredibly clinical.

“What about hair?” I asked. My hair was hanging loose down my back but I noticed both Candace and this woman had their tied up neatly in a bun at the nape of their necks.

“We prefer all clients—men and women—to keep their hair tidy and out of view while they are walking freely around the houses. When you are inside one of our rooms, you are free to untie your hair and do whatever you like with it. But hair can be a distinguishing feature so we advise you to only let your hair down, so to speak, if you feel one hundred percent comfortable.”

“Right,” I replied. The reality was starting to sink in, slowly. It was undeniable. I was inside a sex club—an actual sex club—talking about rules and desire and fantasy. And I was seriously considering becoming a member. I felt at once knee-bucklingly embarrassed, and intensely liberated. I took another deep breath.

“Can I ask…” I said, quietly. “The membership fee. What do I need to pay?”

This time, the man to her left spoke. “This is where you get to thank your recruiter, Sienna. All our recruiters have a very small number of free introductory spaces to give. We need to keep a regular influx of new members to satisfy some of our higher paying clients; we need continual variety.”

For some reason, my gaze was drawn back to the man on the right, and for a fraction of a second, he blinked away. But I saw it. Was he one of those ‘clients’? Even though he was a member of the board? I assumed they were entitled to use the very service they were selling.

“For whatever reason,” the man continued, “Sienna felt you were deserving of one of those codes.”

I raised an eyebrow, inwardly. I knew exactly why Sienna felt I was deserving. I just wished she’d been nicer about it.

“Therefore, you have received a complimentary three months’ membership. After that, if you wish to continue, we charge a minimum fee of eight thousand dollars a month.”

I sucked in a breath. I should have guessed. A place like this, offering a service this specialized, this protected, wasn’t going to come cheap. The three board members heard my gasp and I noticed the man on the left sneaking a glance at the man on the right, whose eyes still wouldn’t leave my own, but another slight shift in his weight upon the seat communicated some small discomfort.

“It, erm,” the other man continued, slightly flustered. “The fee can be negotiable. To a point.”

“Of course,” I said, amazed my voice still worked.

“Would you like me to show you around?” The woman asked, moving the topic along.

“Um, sure,” I replied, feeling quite the opposite.

“First things first,” she said, reaching for a small box on the table and pulling out a black hair band. She rose to her feet and walked round to my chair, stopping right behind me.

“I need to tie up your hair. Do you mind?”

I shook my head, feeling suddenly childlike, remembering how my mom used to comb my hair and tie it back into all kinds of styles. I’d always had long hair. Long, thick chestnut hair that routinely refused to be tamed, hence the avoidance of a hairdryer for so long.

As she pulled her fingers through my hair, I glanced again—as though my eyes were programmed—to the man who was on her right. He was sitting taller than before and his breath had quickened. I had no idea how I knew this; I hadn’t been keeping tabs on his posture or speed of breath, just the rise and fall of his chest.

I felt her hands run through the long strands, picking up stray pieces that tickled the base of my neck. It felt weirdly sensual. There I was, sitting in a dark room with a mask over my face, with three other masked people, talking about sex as though it was a simple pleasure-money transaction, having my hair tousled by another woman. She pulled the band from her fingers and fastened my hair in a low knot at the nape of my neck. I felt her nails trace the skin across the top of my shoulders and I shivered beneath them. Everyone in the room saw.

“I’ll stay back here,” said the NDA man. “It was nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The woman looked pointedly at the other man whose eyes had been burning a hole in my neck the entire time my hair was being styled. “Are you staying here or coming with us?”

He cleared his throat—the first sign I got that he had a voice at all. When he did speak I was stunned. Not because of what he said—the words “I’ll come with you” were hardly flooring—but the way he said them. With a British accent.

The man was British, like me. My head spun to face him and he caught it, a slight twinge of recognition crossing his face the way it does when you meet someone who went to the same school as you a few years earlier. You don’t know each other but you instantly have something in common. That must have been why he couldn’t stop staring, I decided. He’d recognized me as a fellow Brit. That was the only explanation.

I followed the woman out of the room, feeling the heat of the man behind beating down on my back. He was walking close to me, too close. The smell of him was intoxicating. I put it down to the mystery and sexual tension flying around me, with the mask, the darkness, the woman’s hands in my hair. I heard voices up ahead getting louder, then a couple appeared, both wearing the designated drapes and non-descript hairstyles. As they came closer I felt a large hand cup my hip, pulling me gently towards the wall. The couple strode past, thanking us, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t form a thought, let alone a sentence. I wanted that hand to stay at my side forever. It felt as though his touch burned straight through my dress to the bare skin beneath. Minutes seemed to pass before I realized I’d stopped mid-stride. His hand was still on my hip, burning, and his breath caught in my ear. The woman had walked ahead and turned a corner leaving me alone momentarily with the British man, the man whose hand was turning my skin inside out.

“I…” I gasped, staring straight ahead.

The woman re-appeared and jerked her head in the other direction. The eye slits in the drapes were so small I couldn’t make out her expression, but her movements suggested she wasn’t at all surprised by my behavior. I pushed myself away from the wall, reluctantly feeling the large hand fall away from my hip, leaving a cold, bare mark in its place.

I followed the woman, mechanically, along another corridor and up a small stairwell lined with tiny lights illuminating each step. As I reached the top, I felt his fingertips brush against mine sending tendrils of heat up the veins in my arm. I’d never had such a visceral reaction to anyone before in my life. Then again, I’d never visited anywhere so sensually decorated, to wear, and be shown around by people wearing, a slip of silk over my face. The gently lit darkness, the soft ambient beats playing from discreetly located speakers, and the decadence of the silk I could hide behind like a cowardly troll on Twitter, combined to create a deliciously seductive atmosphere in which I felt in control of my destiny—something I hadn’t felt for a very long time.

We followed the woman through to a circular room with a bar placed right in the center.

“This is the House Bar,” the woman said, as I arrived beside her. “Feel free to come here anytime. Even if you don’t have an encounter for the night, it’s a place to come and relax, to meet members you might like to encounter. You can take note of their chosen name and make a request at the Concierge desk. Or, you can simply enjoy their company for an evening, no strings attached. It’s really very informal.”

I nodded.

“Down there…” the woman pointed to a long corridor that ran off the far end of the room, “…are the spaces we provide for encounters to happen.” She turned to face me. If I could see her eyebrows I’d have sworn she’d just arched one, conspiratorially. There was a reason she’d said ‘spaces’ and not ‘rooms’. I didn’t need to wait long for her to elaborate.

“Each space is furnished like a hotel suite, complete with a seating area, a small kitchenette, a window looking out over the city, a bed… of course. Along with other furnishings that may help to enhance our members’ experience of the evening.”

I nodded again. I really didn’t know what to say. I felt strangely empowered by the effect this place was having on me but, at the end of the day, I was still being given the grand tour of a sex club. A sex club of which I was apparently now a member.

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging an encounter for you this evening,” she said, smiling. My heart stopped and thudded to the floor right there, and I fought the urge to spin around and look into the eyes of the man behind me. And I had no idea why; he was hardly likely to help me. This was the whole point of the club—to provide opportunities for complete strangers to meet and have sex. He had a vested interest in those encounters being successful, so they would continue and the membership fees would be paid, and his pockets would be lined. Despite that, I heard the rhythm of his breathing pick up, and I felt tension oozing out of his lungs in long controlled breaths.

“I have your key here. Room eight. Are you ready?”

I stared back at her in disbelief. This was it? I was going to have sex with a stranger, right here and right now? With a man my pheromones were clearly obsessed with standing just inches away from me? My brain was reeling so my damn body took over again. Fingers, grab the keys. Feet, start walking. Eyes, focus. Before I knew it, I was moving in the direction the woman had pointed, away from the man I’d felt an inexplicable connection to, towards another who was expecting sex from me any minute now.

This wasn’t my life. It wasn’t possible. In the space of one hour, with a piece of silk gauze over my face and a manicured hand running through my hair, I’d become a different person. As I reached the door and placed the large key inside the lock, I looked back. The man with the British accent was still standing there, filling the corridor, his shoulders almost touching each wall, his legs planted firmly into the floor, his chest rising up and down. I had no idea who he was. All I knew was I’d had one taste of his chemistry, through the tips of our fingers, and I was drowning in it. I dipped my head and turned the key, stepping away from him and towards another.