by Sasha Grey
TWELVE
I’VE HEARD IT SAID THAT people my age are part of the Entitlement Generation, and I believe it. We want what we want and want it now, with the least amount of effort expended. We were taught that we’re all unique, that we’re all brimming with limitless potential and can be anything we want to be, and society must make room for us at whichever table we want to sit at, because we’re all equally special while also each being the best.
It’s a load of shit, but it sure does engender a lot of false confidence, which feels pretty good when justifying the failure to get something you thought you were a shoo-in for.
That job, that promotion.
That free gift with purchase that sold out before you got to the store, and even though it was something you’d never in a million years want badly enough to pay for, you nonetheless feel cheated when it’s taken away.
It goes back to what I was saying about our brands. Because you secretly think that those are the things that set you apart.
If you don’t know a man like Will, you’ve seen one on television. Wearing a man bun before they were trendy, the bearish beard he sports doing no favors for his attempts at cultivating the impression that he’s a pussy magnet. He’s a reality television star turned actor, or an MMA superstar turned musician, but he doesn’t really do much of either anymore. No, now he’s the king of cameos, beating what little fame and notoriety he gleaned from his fifteen minutes right into the ground, the gleam in his eyes getting brighter as his star fades along with his audience’s interest.
He’s a fabulous trainwreck about to happen at any moment.
He’s the guy every bro dreams to be, and a publicist’s nightmare.
The back of his neck probably smells like rancid pussy from all the wannabe models who he encourages to climb onto his shoulders to make himself seem desirable in his Instagram pics. He’s loud and obnoxious, because he never learned to fake humility working his way up—his fame came overnight, and because of that, entitlement leaks from his every pore. He takes pride in not caring about anything, but like any squalling toddler, he sure gets upset when things don’t go his way.
I’ve been maintaining a polite smile for the last ten minutes while he rants in my face about not being automatically upgraded—for free—to a better room because he’s a celebrity. Somehow, he’s under the impression that this brings up our profile and property value.
It doesn’t. He’s not a real celebrity; he’s a pseudo-celeb, along with the other aging pop stars and D-listers who used to be somebody ten years, four rehab stints, and two chemical peels ago. Besides, even the cheapest rooms here put the best penthouses anywhere I’ve ever seen to shame, so any point about status or quality that he’s not-so-subtly trying to make is moot.
His stale beer breath does nothing to win me over, nor does the lecherous stare he sends crawling up my body while bawling me out in the lobby of the hotel. He seems like the kind of guy who would fuck a Hot Pocket and brag about it for views on social media, like some kid did a while back.
I wonder what that kid is doing now. Where do you go with your life from there? Does that kid grow up into Neckbeard here? One day you’re a regular horny teen, the next you’re fucking inanimate objects in an attempt to shock and garner attention. Will that be his legacy? Crumbs of sexual controversy cling to his name like that warm filling did to his crotch.
Simulated sex, again.
But say the kid moves on with his life, gets serious, buckles down to earnestly make the world a better place for generations that come after him. He could build a better mousetrap, cure cancer, invent a new green energy source—and I bet the audience members at his Nobel Prize acceptance speech would still lean close to each other and whisper, “Did you know that he fucked a Hot Pocket once?”
Reinventing yourself is hard in the age of the Internet, where nothing is forgotten and knowledge isn’t power, but a tool used to bring others down to feel better about yourself. Most people crave that insta-fame, but lack the constitution to get it. Maybe that’s a good thing. Otherwise it becomes a crazy competition, people doing more and more outrageous things to one-up each other, top what their competitors are doing, until what’s left?
The Pain Olympics? It starts out innocently enough, maybe with a contest to see who can drink the hottest hot sauce. But you know that meme, “That escalated quickly”? I can’t see that without thinking of the video I saw of the Pain Olympics.
That shit was fucked up. Combine the male ego with the competitive spirit and you’re left with trouble. The sizzle goes out of the room when someone cuts his own penis off, or another cuts his balls off and squeezes out the…maybe it was fake, but the videos looked pretty real to me.
Sad thing was, they weren’t the only ones to cut something off.
The Internet means anyone can have an audience now.
“Are you even listening to me?” Pseudo-celeb Will snaps his fingers right in front of my face.
“Of course I am,” I say with a bland smile. Speaking of cutting dicks off…
“So, what are you going to do about my little problem?” He crosses his arms in that way that insecure guys do, using his fists to push his biceps out in a vain attempt to look cut. It’s the male equivalent of the chicks on Instagram who do the skinny-arm pose.
Stop doing that. You’re fooling no one with your weird angles and unnatural contortions.
Will’s little perceived problem has become a real one for me, and unfortunately, no one else is around for me to foist him off on, citing lack of experience. I can either let this asshole rant and rave some more, potentially upsetting any true VIPs who happen to walk by, or I can get him out of sight as quickly as possible. Even though he’s an asshole, he’s still a guest, and it’s my job to keep the guests happy.
The key to bullshitting people is to make them feel two things.
The first: Special. Again, it harkens back to the idea that there is a unique snowflake inside of all of us, planted by grandmothers too eager to spoil, or parents who saw that you could play one note on a piano and got dollar signs in their eyes, eager to ride your ass to the top of Easy Street. So, you make the person feel like they’re perceptive enough to have seen behind the curtain, seen past the lies, and you gather them close and praise them for being oh-so-smart. You make them feel like they’re part of the exclusive club, and all of a sudden they’re halfway to getting that stick of outrage out of their asses.
And the second thing you want to make them feel is like they’re getting their own way. Everyone wants to be right, no matter how far off the mark they are, no matter how ridiculous the request they’re making is. “What do you mean pomegranates aren’t in season? I just had one last Thursday!” How dare you lie about this to make them feel stupid! Sometimes things like this are a real stumbling block, because you can’t manifest out-of-season fruit out of thin air, but like a good magician, you pull out the misdi rection. “Of course you did. And I didn’t want to say anything in front of that other guest, but we’ve got something even better than those pomegranates: pears hand-picked by a virgin tribe of Tibetan acolytes to the Dalai Lama himself. Only three survived the trip, but we were saving them for someone who truly appreciates quality.”
Sure, it’s all a huge lie, but people love the warm, gentle swirl of smoke being blown up their assholes, because it feels good.
And everyone wants to feel good.
Especially Will.
I weave some bullshit legend about one of the rooms on the second floor, and how it was on hold for a notoriously reclusive A-Lister, giving sketchy half-details and letting him fill in every blank for me about who he wants it to be, but not confirming or denying anything. If he wants that actor to have been the one whose reservation was switched to next week instead, freeing the room for him, it makes my sale that much easier.
It’s all a lie.
There are always other, better rooms available in hotels. Always.
I don’t care if they’ve told you the American Ol
ympic hockey team is staying and there’s a sex-toy convention and three weddings happening that weekend. There are always rooms available, because they make sure there are always rooms available in case someone better comes along.
When it comes to celebrities, there’s always room for one more.
Will found his way here, which says something—even if it was only through a friend. That may be the person we’re trying to keep happy.
And I make goddamn sure he struts away from the desk to his new “upgraded” room with a smile on his face. The new room is exactly the same as his old one, but with a mirror-image layout and a small balcony for him to stand on and pretend he’s someone important.
Pseudo-celebrities love looking down at people. Literally and figuratively.
I’m hanging up the phone, having ordered a small bottle of mid-quality Scotch to be delivered to Will’s room on the house, when someone taps the desk by my hand.
Mr. Gold.
Max. I’ve seen him wandering the halls, never really seeming to be in a hurry, but always moving, like he’s pulled along inside eddies only he can feel.
I’ve read about him in Inana’s diary.
“I saw the way you handled that situation, Catherine.”
It’s the first thing he’s ever said to me—the first time I’ve heard him speak at all. He’s smaller than I thought he was, yet still imposing in that way truly confident and influential people are. They suck the oxygen from the air with their very presence, as if the very molecules rush to see what they’re going to do next. His voice is low-pitched, but it sounds like he’s trying to deepen it.
I keep a neutral expression, unsure if this is going in the direction of praise or recrimination. “You did?”
He nods. His skin is vaguely pink, like he’s either suppressing emotions that he finds upsetting, or always just getting over a sunburn. His eyes are slightly too close together for him to be truly appealing, at least to me, but there’s something about him that’s compelling. He stares at me for a long moment before speaking again. “You did very well. Elias told me about the other day, too. We did well in hiring you, Catherine.”
This is the man who watches. The man who owns. The man who Inana wanted—the man who may have driven her over the edge of obsession. “Thank you, sir,” I say, emphasizing the last word to gauge his reaction, not moving away or fidgeting to betray anything.
“You remind me of someone,” he says suddenly, and I lick my lips, hoping he means Inana.
“Do I?”
“I’ve seen you poking around room fourteen.”
Shit. That’s true. Inana had mentioned it, and I wanted to find out what was behind that door, but it’s the one door that my all access keycard doesn’t open.
Or the VIP section I know is somewhere, just out of reach.
I’ve been slinking around for the past couple of days, searching the hallways for doors without numbers, staircases that go up a flight too far, elevators that go sideways into the places I want to see— the land behind the curtains. I smile.
He looks at my hand but doesn’t take it. “Come with me.”
We walk for a couple minutes in silence. He breaks it. “You’ve already signed the NDA that’s standard in all my hotels, but this isn’t about forcing you to keep quiet about something. I already know you can keep your mouth shut, or I wouldn’t have hired you.”
Interesting. I murmur assent.
He spreads his hands. “This is about keeping our guests happy, and some of them have different.appetites than others. Certain proclivities they don’t necessarily want the rest of the world to know about.” A low buzz of excitement hums over my skin as he stops in front of room fourteen and puts a meaty hand in his pocket. “When you first walk into the room, you never know who you’ll find behind the door, what you’ll be required to do. You are given no prior warning, no privileged information. You enter naked. Metaphorically. This is the game. You have to adapt. Quickly. Think on your feet. To be caught out is to fail, to lose your place in the pecking order. It’s all about the competition. Not Best in Show, Best in Sex. We fuck like dogs to win. Do you understand?”
This is a little too familiar for comfort, but I nod with a bland expression on my face. What’s he going to try to get me to do? I thought he was only showing me something, a secret, not wanting me to fuck anyone. Swear to Christ, if he tries to get me to blow him in a broom closet.
He takes a black key from his pocket—not a keycard, I notice, and slides it into the door, raising an eyebrow at me as he does so. “What you’re about to see will change your life. It’s not too late to turn back, but soon it will be.”
My body battles between wanting to roll my eyes and wanting to shove him out of my way so I can open the door faster and see what the hell is on the other side of it. Did Inana see this? Was this what she was talking about? Did she hear this speech on her first day, or did she have to earn it over time?
Was her journey of sexual self-expression the main reason Max hired her in the first place, knowing her voyage down this hallway was inevitable?
I smile. “It takes a lot to shock me.”
His smirk is well rehearsed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And he pulls the door open, revealing a second door. I step into the space between them, and he does, too, shutting the first door behind us. Though the space is cramped, he is careful not to touch me, which makes me feel simultaneously relieved and disappointed. He’s odious, yet compelling.
He reaches around me, sliding another key into the next locked door, pushing it open to reveal a dark passageway thick with shadows. A sense of déjà vu rises in me as he waves at me to go ahead of him.
Maybe I should feel nervous, walking into the unknown with someone I’m vaguely repulsed by, in a place that’s so remote and easy to dispose of a body in.
And I damn sure should be wondering why Max has selected me to see this, with me having been at the hotel for only a breath of time.
But all I feel is curiosity. Anticipation. There’s a rush that comes with embracing the unknown, not with a reckless disregard for your own safety, but with a willingness to explore. And more than a small part of me wonders if Inana was presented with this same offer, this same temptation to walk through the door that was opened for her.
And maybe Max is trying to train her replacement in whatever capacity she served him.
I want to know what that was, so becoming her replacement in every sense is utterly vital. So when he opens this door for me, I wonder briefly if she’d have walked through it.
She’d have done it, no hesitation, only slowing to let the moment melt against her to better savor it and remember later in great detail. The thing I love about Inana’s diary is the way she bombards every sense with description.
So it’s with her in mind that I close my eyes and feel the cool air waft over my skin, taking a deep breath to catch the scent, but it’s mostly the same as in the hall behind us.
A deep, pulsing bass pounds up toward me, faintly. The walls are thick, secure. Are there other entrances or exits? There have to be.
I want to find them all.
“Nervous?” Max asks, voice sardonic in the dark. “The opposite, actually. I want to remember every detail of this. I know that it’s important.”
“Good girl. Welcome to the VIP section.”
I step forward, heels clicking on the stairs underfoot. I reach out for a handrail and find nothing to support me or draw me along.
THIRTEEN
THE MUSIC IS LOUDER AT the bottom of the stairs, filtering through the crack at the bottom of the burgundy door. Max is close behind me, so without hesitation, I pull the door open. Radiant lights and the deep bass of the minimal techno hit my body, ratcheting up my energy a few notches.
I’d thought the club upstairs was the only one we had.
Max lets me lead the way around the perimeter of the room. It shouldn’t matter, but it does—this isn’t about “ladies first” politeness. He’s gi
ving me the lead for a reason.
A muscular Asian man in black vinyl fetish wear sits in an antique clawfoot tub near the door with a red ball gag in his mouth and a sign taped into his bound hands that reads “Spit on me.”
From the looks of his face, his body, and the inch of fluid in the tub, people have not only spit on him, but either poured drinks or urinated on him as well.
When in Rome.
I look him in the eyes for a moment and he tips his head back, smiling around the gag.
I spit on his face, and he moans and closes his eyes with a violent shiver of pleasure.
Max’s lips twitch, in amusement or surprise, I don’t know. I think both are a good thing when it comes to this man. Like the rest of the one percent, the worst thing they can feel is bored. It gets them—and the people around them—in trouble.
Millionaires are only slightly better than billionaires at keeping themselves entertained. When you reach a certain level of wealth and can have absolutely anything your heart desires, what happens next?
You stop following your heart and begin following your dreams.
And when those are done, your nightmares.
Or other people’s nightmares. It depends on the person’s character. Will you turn into Trump or Gates?
Will your creations aim to build or destroy?
Will you build a kink club beneath a monolithic, palatial hotel in the desert?
I turn to Max. “Interesting. Am I still on the clock, or is this more of an extracurricular activity?”
“It’s a reward for dealing with Will—who knows nothing of this place. But maybe it’s a test to see if you can handle it.”
“Isn’t everything?” In a way, I’ve sort of earned this, but they don’t want to give me too much free rein in the fetish club, or he wouldn’t have tagged along with me to observe. And he never said that I’m not on the clock.
Now this is a place that screams kink.
The club I saw with Elias screams wealth and class. It’s a place where you could bring the snootiest patron, and they wouldn’t find fault with the design or execution. This place is the polar opposite— and for a very good reason.
