by Sasha Grey
I’m more than what I am. Maybe just knowing that is enough to be okay with the status quo from now on. I can be Jack’s Catherine.
Maybe I was filmed, maybe I wasn’t.
Maybe someone saw, maybe they didn’t.
It’s not about what it is. It’s about what it makes us feel.
It’s art.
They knew what they were doing, and so did I.
TWENTY-TWO
I’M LYING IN BED WEARING the new lingerie I bought, waiting for Jack to get home, reading the diary, when a particular entry jumps out at me.
A little blonde bombshell with a name hidden inside my own.
She likes to be marked.
I like to mark.
Who is Mark?
Anna? Does she mean Anna? If Inana was in the club a lot, she may have known Anna. Maybe they knew each other well. At least I hope. I turn over, getting more comfortable on top of the blankets, while still in a flattering position in case Jack comes in without me hearing him.
It’s strange to think about Inana and Anna hanging out together, doing the things Anna and I did together—or more.
Anna would have loved the things Inana was doing, and I can see her slipping inside of Inana’s journey, going along with it as though it were her own. I imagine Inana would have been inordinately pleased to have found a friend, a peer, someone who under stood exactly what she felt, what it was like, what she was trying to say.
But it makes me feel jealous, like two worlds that were supposed to be mine alone have collided and there are parts I’ve been excluded from.
The worst part is that I may not ever know what happened to either of them. Nothing I’ve read in the diary so far suggests Inana was suicidal. But the more I read the more I worry.
Is the diary real, or something edited like Anaïs Nin’s, and more like fiction or the wish of a disillusioned actress? Can it even be trusted as the truth? It’s more likely similar to a camera angle—you can only use it to see one aspect of the picture. But words in diaries are written by the star and the director—we’re shown what they want us to see, and the rest is blacked out by not being mentioned.
What else am I missing? What am I not being shown?
I devoured Anaïs Nin’s diaries before I even knew erotica was a genre unto itself, when I was seventeen years old, during a long, hot summer that stuck to my skin like her words. Like the sheets that clung to my body, damp with the exertion of getting myself off to the things she’d done and penned words about. It was the things she’d done, but also the things she said—and how she said them— that mattered.
The woman was a genius, a true literary giant who, like most geniuses, wasn’t appreciated until after her death. I still think she is taken for granted and not properly appreciated in a world where people don’t care about anything but the money shot. She was a wordsmith and a feminist revolutionary, freely going about her world from tryst to tryst, even being sneaky about love until she died and her two husbands found out about each other from the obituaries. I guess she had a lie box that allowed her to keep her stories straight—which lies she’d told to whom.
Most septuagenarians just collect recipes or arthritis medicines. I read Anaïs Nin’s novels and was disappointed by them, not because they weren’t great, but because they weren’t as great as her diaries were. Then again, what could be? She was a mystery, really, saving her truth for herself, only writing her true thoughts in her diary. That’s why they shine.
That’s why they stand up to the best erotica ever written, even today. Maybe especially today. Have you seen pictures of Henry Miller? In reading the diary, you get this crystalline vision of a rugged male, someone more along the lines of an alpha-male movie star who came along and swept Anaïs off her feet. She was obsessive over him.
I can’t express the wrongness I felt when I searched for him online and saw what all the fuss was about—or rather, failed to see what the fuss was about. To each their own, but I was underwhelmed, to say the least. The point was that she made him seem appealing—and that’s talent.
Henry Miller allegedly lifted the more salacious bits from her diary to put in his novels, which I find flattering, but also arrogant and mocking. To use her words as his own and be celebrated for them is the cruelest thing a lover can do.
How much of her genius is attributed to him? A foundation built on lies…but she didn’t seem to mind. Was he trying to push her, provoke her into being better, into putting herself out there the way he knew she could so she’d shine and everyone else could finally see the brave, luxurious woman he saw when he was inside her, spreading her legs?
And yet, the thing that I wonder the most is, if they were all l ies— if every word of the diaries was fiction instead of fact skewed slightly to protect anonymity—would they be as beautiful? Is their import innately tied to the fact that these events happened?
If an artist can reproduce a great artist’s painting so accurately that it’s indistinguishable from the original, does that make the painting less valuable? Does that make the second artist less talented than the first?
Some would say yes, because it’s the inception of the art in the first place, not necessarily the execution, that makes it what it is.
That would mean Anaïs’s diaries, if they were completely made up, are even more important.
Because they were still beautiful and heartbreaking.
Real. Fake. Fiction. Fact. Does that matter? Maybe it was all fiction. Maybe Inana’s diary is fiction as well. How would I know? How would I know how much is real, the things she’s saying, the places she’s been?
And even if everything happened, it’s all still skewed through her perception of events. They say there are three sides to every story— yours, mine, and the truth. No one can be one hundred percent impartial, even with the best intentions, because our egos get in the way and show us things that are pertinent to our interests.
It makes her words and the truth inside them relative.
And that’s even if they’re accurate representations of her journey. Maybe she was aware that her words would someday be read, and wrote with a filter in place, lying to her diary as she wrote instead of changing things after the fact. I notice she uses codes and nicknames, but was that because the events weren’t real, or because she didn’t want to get in trouble if her diary got into the wrong hands?
Can I trust the words when I didn’t know the woman who spoke them, wrote them? I can only verify so much through the videos she made, cross-reference people and events and check that the timing adds up, but there are so many things I just can’t verify.
The diary of Anaïs Nin.
The diary of Inana Luna.
It’s like I’m being spun into Zulawski’s Possession, only I don’t know who I’m supposed to be in love with, where my lover has gone, or how to get her back. I laugh, realizing it’s another Anna.
A plague of Annas.
I turn back to the diary, hoping to find more about Anna, even just confirmation that it’s her Inana is referencing.
If love is a battlefield, why are people so afraid of the scars? They hide inside soft worlds of protection and hard shells, denying what’s right to stay hidden inside loneliness.
We run from ourselves trying to find someone else. We embrace the darkness, hoping for the light to shine on us and illuminate the truth when it’s not that simple. It’s not one or the other, it’s one AND the other.
Dualities.
Dynamic duos.
Superheroes need a villain. They need the shadows to see the light. What is music without silence? Pain without pleasure. Black without white, water without wine, movies without movement.
Stasis is death.
Static is death.
Let go of intention and just be.
If you love someone, let them go.
Fuck that.
There’s a door inside the Night where you can find anything you seek. Inside that door is another door. If you enter it, you can
find a place behind yourself framed in white, because white is pure…allegedly. Find that place. Find it and you’ ll know what it means to burn inhibitions. Find it and you’ ll know what it is to be free.
It’s his place, but it’s all his place. His reach is pervasive but gentle. Everywhere but nowhere. We were all brought in for a reason.
I was told the reason. I get it, but am not sure it’s aligning with my visions of the future. Maybe it’s too much for one body to bear. Maybe it’s not enough for one giant life lived in the shadows.
Am I a shadow or a light? Which do I want to be?
Which is more important for the world and the people in it who I want to reach?
I can’t even fathom the beginnings of the answer yet. There’s no rush. Evolution waits for no one and punishes us all.
I can handle that, at least. What wouldn’t we all do for the right person, lover, friend?
Is she talking about the VIP door? No, it goes past that. I found that door.
It’s obviously a metaphor—find a place behind yourself framed in white?
It’s got to be that dark, secret room used by Max. His personal playground where he likes people to become statues for him.
We’re taught all about how much we need another person to be complete in our lives, how we’re never going to be happy unless we find the One. Why would we fight so hard to find someone only to let that person go at the first sign of trouble? Someone’s got to fight to stay together, to keep reaching out, or you’re going to inevitably drift apart from each other.
Is that what will happen to Jack and me?
No. I refuse to let that happen—hence the lingerie and coming back to surprise him like this. Sure, this was precipitated by a mistake, but it’s the result that matters: realizing we’re meant to be together. If I’ve got to be the one who fixes things, then I’ll do it. From now on, I’m renewing myself to us, the way he’s invested in us as well. How far will I go for love?
Maybe I never accepted the loss of Anna, and I recognize I’m caught up in pursuing Inana, transferring my energy to her, still focused on her, like in De Palma’s Sisters. Danielle never accepted the death of her twin Dominique. Sexual experiences awakened “Dominique”—the dark and dangerous side of Danielle’s mind—and were the only way she could cope with the survivor’s guilt she lived with every day.
Of course, this metaphor works better for Lola and Inana. What would you do if you truly lost someone? What would that do to your mind and heart?
When it comes to Anna, this doesn’t fit, except for the fact that no, I never got over losing Anna, and that’s probably the sole reason I’ve been so caught up in Inana and her life to the point where I almost lost Jack.
It’s like I’ve been somehow trying to save Anna…
No, she doesn’t need saving. To do that I’d need to find Anna.
That’s what I really want, I realize, but I’m scared of finding out at the end of all this that there’s no resolution at the end of the rainbow. Claudia never finds Anna.
Spoiler alert.
The twists in the plot aren’t what are important in that film.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Jack does. We need to engage the heat again, reforging that connection between us, as well as the emotional one that’s solid—no thanks to me. But love isn’t about being perfect. Perfection is a construct that inevitably leads to failure. I’m not perfect, but from now on I’m going to try harder—regardless of what happens with the diary.
I’m checking out the light glinting off the facets of my engagement ring when he walks in the bedroom and says, “Shit.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not quite the reaction a lady wants when she splurges on new lingerie to surprise her sexy fiancé with.”
He shakes his head, giving me a quick head-to-toe sweep. “You did this for me?”
Slowly, I turn onto my stomach to give him the rear view. “Yes.”
“You really came all the way back here to surprise me with that?” He smiles. “I’m going to rain check the hell out of this.”
“Why a rain check?”
He sends a text, then runs his hands through his hair. “There’s this charity dinner with Bob that I have to go to. He needs me there.”
“Can’t he do without you for one day? I’ve missed you. I want you.” I undulate my hips a little. “Skip the meeting. Stay with me.”
“I really wish I could.”
“There’s nothing stopping you. What does he need you for? He’ll be busy schmoozing. Does he really need you there to jerk his ego off? Can’t he find someone else to fill in for you for one fucking night?” The words come out harshly, pushed out by sexual frustration and guilt, making me lash out because he’s spoiling the recon ciliation. All because of Bob, which makes me so resentful I can barely see straight.
Trying to take it from resentful back to sexy, I trail my hands down my ribs, toying with the hem of my panties. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with me instead of him? Blow him off.”
He loosens his tie. “I can’t. And I really think you should come with me, think how awesome it will be for both of us to be there together.” His eyes light up, but I feel the scowl overtake my face.
None of this is going the way I’d planned, and now I have to deal with Bob on top of it all? “Who cares about some lame fundraiser?”
Jack frowns. “Babe.”
I go from feeling sexy to ridiculous in that one syllable. “Fine.”
“Catherine.”
What the hell am I doing? I’m here to fix things, and I’m acting like a child. I sigh and smile, a real one this time. “No, it’s fine. I’ll go put something on.” I slide off the bed and head to the closet, hating every inch of exposed flesh for making me feel vulnerable and rejected even though I shouldn’t. “How formal is it?”
“Pretty formal, but it’s a big group of people. Bob’s trying to swing some bigwigs and I’m there to help sway votes. I know you’d be able to help me with that.”
I can hear the flattery in his voice, but it’s not enough to smooth my ruffled feathers. It’s not shocking—women are taught that men are always DTF, and on the rare occasions that we’re rejected in any way, it stings like hell. When someone gives you an invitation to possess her, don’t turn it down. Then again, it feels like we’re okay, so I should count my blessings. “Okay. Where are we going?”
“La Notte.”
All the air gets sucked from my lungs.
TWENTY-THREE
THE RIDE OVER WAS EXHAUSTING, questions burning a hole in my mind from the constant rotation at too high an RPM to measure.
Why is Bob doing this here?
What does Jack know?
What should I tell him? Everything?
Can I fake a realistic seizure and get out of this?
Instead of being led through the lobby, Jack takes us through a private entrance and down the hallway to Ballroom B, and I relax a little.
My new colleagues won’t wonder why I’m at a party with Bob DeVille and his friends, since this is the room where events are set up and then, for confidentiality reasons, the waitstaff get out of Dodge.
But twenty minutes in, I’m tired of the posturing.
Everything is calculated with DeVille, from the music to the wine selections, gambits he runs to lull everyone into feeling safe and relaxed, never realizing that just overhead is a spider with perfect teeth, fangs gleaming with poison, legs spread out in every direction, making deals with your potential allies—or other enemies.
It’s not a sit-down dinner like I’d assumed it would be. It’s a silent auction—yawn—filled with items of cultural import, which makes me wonder why the hell they’re here at all, but then I realize they were donated by the guests here and the bidding itself is a metaphor to Bob for world trade or some other concept he’s trying to promote at the moment.
Maybe it’s me, but I’m not egotistical enough to think all this effort is about me.
The whole sit
uation is surreal. This is my new workplace, and it’s also strange because I’m trying to keep my cover, but interested in watching my lives as Inana and as Catherine bleed together like this. Did Bob know Inana?
I have a feeling Bob knows way more than I ever thought he did.
Is Max watching this whole evening take place? All of the guests are actors and musicians, or wealthy artists and politicians.
I wander around the perimeter looking at the items, pausing as though intently studying a tiny gold dolphin pendant, riddled with gemstones like it’s got a vicious case of herpes, when really I can’t believe someone’s bid sixty thousand dollars for it.
And the night’s not over yet.
Something brushes my ass—the hand of an older guy, maybe forty-five-ish? “Interesting piece,” he says, lurching toward my breast in the most obvious accidental grope ever, but I catch his hand and turn it into a handshake, gripping slightly too hard, putting too much iciness in my eyes.
He has the good sense to look away and speak to me like I’m a human being when I release his hand. “Are you into dolphins?” But there’s still a weird glint in his eyes that makes his words feel like a double entendre.
The supercreeps come out at night, drawn by wealth and boredom. I’ve been immersed in the club so deeply I’ve almost forgotten the weird situations that occur when sex is implied rather than open. Clumsy attempts at seduction. Lecherous winks over glasses as people try to ascertain your interest level based on the way you respond to their seemingly innocuous questions about the book you’re currently reading.
I grit my teeth, raise my eyebrows, and say, “Not really.”
An arm snakes around my shoulders. “Catherine, there you are! I’m sorry, sir, I need to steal her away for a while.”
From this angle, his doughnut tattoo is especially vivid. I let him pull me to the next piece, never so thankful to see Bundy in my life.
Unfortunately for me, it’s a tribal statue of a Pan-like god with a huge, erect penis.
Eighty-four thousand, if you’re wondering.
