by Sasha Grey
I like to see the opposing faces of Janus another way, too: one deliberately looking away so it can’t see what the other is doing. I don’t know that it’s as straightforward as us all having a dark and a light side, but most of us have that little voice of conscience that perks up with its halo when we’re about to do something it considers untoward.
It’s not like the other part of our id doesn’t fight back. We’re good at justifying things to ourselves. Self-preservation, self-confidence. Self-delusion. Self-interest. These are the things that keep us going even when it’s smarter or easier not to. Look at me, in another woman’s nightgown, lying in her bed while my loving partner hangs out with a man who might be the most dangerous president we’ll ever have. If he’s elected. What are the chances he won’t be? Who’s watching DeVille? If they dug deep enough, what would they find?
Does DeVille want me to be a ghost in his past? Maybe.
But what you do with information is where the power comes into play.
Do the ends justify the means?
I guess I’ll find out soon.
ELEVEN
WHAT’S THE BEST PART OF knowing a secret: telling it to someone else and watching her face light up in horror, revulsion, or delight? Maybe she gets a gleam of admiration in her eyes, admiration that you were the one who possessed that insider information— that someone trusted you to reveal such a scandal to.
Perhaps the best part of a secret isn’t the getting or the sharing but the having. Is it the way the knowledge burns inside of you, knowing you could tell anyone at any minute, but instead holding it inside to privately savor? Keeping it just for yourself. Knowing that information could change the way someone looks at a certain person or place if you told—but knowing you never will.
They say that if you tell a person a secret, that person will always tell at least three people, but maybe I’m an exception to that rule.
See, I like the power that comes with knowing something others don‘t. Yeah, it goes against everything about being a reporter, but it drives me forward in my search for information, like a magpie in search of something shiny. I want to expose the truth about things, but that’s why I have trouble connecting with stories sometimes—if I don’t care to know a person or a company’s secret, then what’s the point?
Sometimes a secret meshes well with things the public will be interested in, and then I’ve got my story. I’m more than happy to share my toys.
But even when I’m writing the article, I’m inordinately pleased for those few moments, days, weeks where I’m the only one who knows about a certain fact or angle and if I stopped typing, people would never really know the truth.
Sure, they could find out from someone else, but for a while, I’d know. And no one would know that I knew. I’d live on with that knowledge stretching my mind like a cock sliding into my cunt. Secrets are so intimate, mindfucks, soulfucks.
Being a beat reporter makes me privy to all kinds of secrets, but this job in the hotel has real secrets. Juicier ones.
Everything from the real names of guests—based on the names on their credit cards—to strange diet requests—why does a certain indie rock singer staying by himself require nine room service orders per day?—to things the maids pass on with regards to personal hygiene. We know how many towels you need, how much toilet paper you use, whether you’ve slept in your bed.
Hotels seem impersonal, but we get to know our guests real well.
Maybe too well.
Everyone’s got a secret. What’s yours?
Are you sure no one knows it?
Who have you told?
Do you trust them?
Maybe it’s not a secret that there’s a Swedish supermodel staying on the twenty-sixth floor, but she damn sure shouldn’t be wandering around naked. That may fly in some hotels in other countries—or cheaper hotels that want everyone to know they’ve got celebrity clientele—but in a hotel this prestigious, it’s an issue.
I happen to catch sight of her on a security monitor at the right time, and I notice her erratic, disjointed behavior as she meanders down the hall. I watch as she settles into one of the stairwells, curling up on one of the landings like a tawny cat.
I grab a clean, fluffy bathrobe from housekeeping on the way to the elevator, and I get out on the twenty-fifth floor so that I can approach her from below in case she’s gone mobile while I was making my way to her.
She’s either one of those crazy hippie artsy types, or on drugs. If you don’t know the person, the two options look suspiciously similar.
Both are remarkably unselfconscious, shedding clothes like skin cells.
Both speak in a narcissistic stream-of-consciousness pattern with a blatant disregard for what others around them are saying—sort of like Pretty Girl Syndrome, where they’re so used to everyone falling all over themselves to hear whatever tripe they have to say that they begin thinking they’re some sort of guru, dropping profundities like a herd of cows dropping shit in a field in Nebraska.
When I see she’s in the exact same position she was in when I saw her on camera, I clear my throat to get her attention. Her head snaps up from where it was resting on her forearms, and she turns her head.
Her gamine features light up when she sees me. “Have you seen my room?” She leans closer, eyes unnaturally sparkly, and whispers, “I think they moved it.”
Drugs. Definitely drugs, but Europeans tend to seem more boho than we do, with more relaxed attitudes toward nudity. We’re desensitized to violence, they’re desensitized to nipples. Their way seems better to me, but maybe if I had been born in another state, I’d feel differently. We’re all the products of our births. This girl won the genetic lottery.
Up close she’s even younger than I’d thought she was, maybe eighteen or nineteen at most, and I suddenly feel bad for her, alone and blissed out on something. People do drugs because their realities suck—what’s someone this beautiful escaping from?
I hold out the robe. “I brought this for you.”
“My favorite color is green. Do you have any green ones?”
“Sorry, we were all out. Maybe next time? This one’s really soft.” I pet it to entice her, and she watches intently before reaching for it.
“I want it.”
“I thought you might.” I help her shrug into it. “Now, let’s see if we can track that room of yours down.”
She docilely follows me up the hallway to the end. I employ the key card and let us into her room. The lights are still on, but thankfully not much is in disarray. I lead her to the bed. “Do you need anything before you go to sleep?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to pee, or need water first?” She hesitates, so I hand her a bottle from the minibar, and she gulps a few sips back. People on drugs make you feel like a parent when you’re sober around them.
When she’s had enough and begins tracing patterns in the condensation instead of drinking, I take the bottle back. “You’re going to stay in your room now, right?”
She nods. “I’m sleepy now.”
“Then you’re in the perfect place.” Something about her makes me feel like a big sister.
“I did a lot of things tonight.” She stretches her arms above her head, then wiggles, making the robe gape open a little. “But the painting had eyes that watched.”
“That’s interesting.”
She shivers. “I know who it was behind the face.”
“Who?” I tuck the blanket around her, hoping that it will make her feel secure enough to stay in her bed instead of running amok again and getting into more trouble. Something about her is sweet, and despite the fact that she has no modesty and reeks of sex, there’s a childlike vulnerability to her that makes me feel protective.
“Gold. Looking, always watching. He likes that,” she whispers, turning her head on the pillow.
And I see it. A little smear of gold inside the delicate folds of her ear. My heart pounds as my mind flips the pages of Inana�
�s diary, searching my memory.
Gold to his friends, of whom there aren’t many, is a billionaire industrialist and playboy philanthropist. The man is so wealthy he can buy politicians, swing elections, and manipulate laws with a checkbook. The sole goal of his pleasure palace, which caters only to the elite of the elite in an environment that offers absolute discretion, is to help further his influence.
Gold has got to be Maximilian Gold, the elusive owner of this hotel.
It only makes sense. Maximilian Gold has watched Inana fuck. Through him, through his setup here, did her work and play blur together until someone took things a step too far? Did she herself take it too far, taking it somewhere she ultimately couldn’t handle, and so she took the only way out she could find?
What could a person of his status and caliber get away with?
Murder? At the very least.
“Do you mean Maximilian?” I ask.
She smirks. “It’s not the first time, either. That’s what he likes.” She picks at a flake of gold paint on her shoulder. “See? Gold.”
Didn’t Inana mention something about being a statue in a performance for the man she couldn’t get enough of?
“What’s this about Gold?” A man with a deep, silky voice speaks behind me, startling me into taking a quick step back from the bed.
The girl laughs and holds out the flake of gold leaf. “Me. I am gold, like a statue come to life.” She flicks a warning glance my way, but covers it by smiling and making a show of handing me the shiny flake. “Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I’m not even really real.”
I take it, looking at the man who spoke. He’s anywhere from forty-five to sixty years old, hair slicked back from his forehead with something shiny but not greasy that only men that age seem to use.
He hovers near the foot of the bed, obviously not wanting to leave me alone with her. He’s protective of this girl, but clearly not her father.
Why is it that men like him can’t ever go for women their own age? Is it because they have to work harder to impress them and have nothing going for them except their money? Older women seem to know more about what they want—and know the shit they’re no longer willing to put up with. Is it ego, that the men think they should have the biggest, brightest, and best of everything simply for showing up with their bloated bank accounts and even more bloated senses of entitlement? Naturally, they want what they no longer have— the beauty of youth. He possesses her with his eyes that want to be like Mastroianni’s on Claudia, his lioness waiting for the throne, yet not ready to give up her youth-filled lust.
Maybe once in a while there’s a love match. The ubiquitous “they” do say that opposites attract, but I have to wonder, what do an eighteen-year-old and a sixty-year-old have in common?
Not much, but also not my business, so I smile at him. “I’ll leave you two alone. Ring the front desk if you need anything.”
He nods as I pass but doesn’t offer a tip. I’d have turned it down, anyway. He shouldn’t have left her alone in her condition. Where the hell was he an hour ago when she really needed him to be there for her? This breach of protection isn’t going to help her daddy issues.
But I also know she wasn’t talking about whatever statue-play scene she was in before when she said “Gold.”
She meant Maximilian. My boss.
I need to find out anything I possibly can about him from Inana’s diary to arm myself with that information—and then meet him and see what I can find out about Inana. They were connected by more than just the employer-employee relationship.
The knowledge rides my shoulder like a tiny devil on my way to the lobby. Elias, the guy who interviewed me, is waiting for me at the front desk when I return, and he stands and jerks his head toward the elevator. “Come with me.”
Reflexively, I wonder if the man fucking the young model got annoyed with me and decided to try to get me fired to hide something, but I force the paranoia down. I don’t ask about Gold, either, but my tongue itches with the dots I just connected a few minutes ago. I also don’t ask where we’re going, because I’ll see it soon, obviously, but also because that’s a rank amateur move.
Words are cheap—politics have taught me a lot about posturing. Asking anything about our destination in this situation shows insecurity, and that the balance of power is on his side.
Elias sends me a few loaded glances, like he can’t wait to see my face when I realize where we’re going, but I keep my eyes focused on the elevator lights so as not to appear too eager or wary.
“Good job earlier, by the way,” he says.
Big Brother is always watching. “Thanks.”
“You’ll be at the desk dealing with things, but a lot of the time— the majority of it, actually—you’ll be taking care of the guests in this club.” The elevator dings as we come to a halt, as if punctuating his words, and the doors slide open with a well-oiled alacrity that borders on sentience.
The beat hits me along with the darkness.
It’s a club.
Bodies twine sinuously around each other. Men in suits, women in scraps of fabric. But there are half-naked men milling about as well.
The décor is lush, like something Louis XIV would have gone for. Even in low light, everything is gleaming and polished, giving the impression of wealth even though it could just be shiny from lube and body glitter—or could be if it were anywhere but here. Max wouldn’t allow such an oversight in his hotel.
Everything is grand, high ceilings, big chairs covered in velvet— which is a bad choice when body fluids come into play.
Then again, it’s not like Max couldn’t afford to have them reup-holstered every ten minutes when they started getting a little less than fresh.
This club doesn’t just give the impression of wealth—it is wealth. I’m guessing that the pillars aren’t granite but marble; the moldings not gold-colored paint, but actual gold leaf painstakingly applied by someone from Italy or France who knew what they were doing and had a team of assistants fluttering with their every barked command.
It reeks of the façade and fashion of BDSM, the flirtation, immersed in the imagery without commitment, understanding, or respect.
Staring across the expanse of space, I notice that what I took for huge works of art on the walls, hung in massive gilt frames, aren’t paintings at all, but mirrors that send back images of us that look more like something Hieronymus Bosch could have painted than like a nightclub.
Mirrors are the favorite playground of the ego. Men and women like the ones here have egos big enough to fill these twelve-foot-wide mirrors.
It’s not enough to have a good time and be seen having a good time. They need to watch themselves while they’re seen having a good time.
Everything is carved and polished and decorated.
It’s in direct opposition to the people in it. Hungry eyes, like they’ve never had a good time in their lives, set inside expressions showing the aloofness of those who have done it all.
But maybe it’s just the Botox preventing them from emoting.
It’s a fetish club inside the hotel. It reminds me of the Fuck Factory, but watered down, and it probably has a ridiculous name to go with it.
For a dizzying moment, I’m caught up remembering another time and place. A blond guy at a bar. Pressing me against the wall from behind. People crowding around to watch.
The same guy is sitting at the bar now.
But no, he turns and I see it’s not him at all, but an androgynous woman. I take in the surroundings, taking care not to stare at some of the things happening in the corners—but really? This is Kink for Dummies, and tame compared to what I’ve done.
A memory quivers in my subconscious, but I force it back down, focusing on the tall dominatrix with G-cups and a flogger, flirting with a businessman and his table of lackeys. Again with the secrets swelling beneath the surface of my skin.
“What do you think?” Elias asks me. I almost want to speak, to tell Elias about the th
ings I’ve done, things that are more shocking than anything happening in this room, that would raise his eyebrows and make him clutch his pearls.
I shrug. “The décor is great.” It’s nothing compared to my memories, compared to my dreams. But it’s better to keep that inside. He’s showing me this not so that I can try to one-up it with stories of my past, but to see my reaction.
But what else? Does he want me to make this a regular part of my days and nights? Is this to see if I’m into kink on a personal level? Men only want to know your proclivities if they want to be in the scene with you. You don’t ask a stranger their favorite sexual position if you don’t want to at least imagine them naked in that position, probably with yourself there, sticking a finger into an orifice for you to feel them from the inside. This isn’t personal—it’s a job, but something tells me nothing is one-sided here.
Instead, it’s prismatic. Facets you don’t know are there until someone shines a light into them.
And what is this place?
It’s the club for tourists who think they’re into kink. It’s not what I want, but it’s a pale imitation of it, and I’m happy to have this again in some capacity, even if only while I’m here investigating Inana.
“Did my predecessor take care of this place, too?”
Elias nods. “She did.”
I clasp my hands behind my back and smile at this turn of events. “I can definitely handle this.”
Elias grins. “That won’t be a problem for someone like you, will it?” His gaze crawls over my starched blouse and prim pencil skirt.
The funny thing? Today my secret is that I’m not wearing panties to work.
“Not at all.”
It’s that sort of weirdly satisfying thing that I’ve been craving my whole life.
If this is going to be the average night at work, I can’t wait to see what happens next.
