by Sasha Grey
He shakes his head. “Everyone wonders that. Angelina fucking Jolie wonders that. Everyone’s insecure about their looks. Tell me something else. Something you fucked up.”
People usually ask you to share something when they’ve got something specific in mind they already want to tell you about. Do they ask what you do? It’s because they want to tell you what they do for a living, thinking it will be impressive. If someone asks about your hobbies, it’s usually because they have one that they’re itching to talk about. I decide to keep this about sex. “The last guy I fucked. Before you.”
He squints. “What happened?”
“I messed up. It was because I drank five whiskeys. I fucked the wrong brother. I miscalculated when I picked the less attractive and more annoying one just because he was from out of town and guaranteed to go away after finishing our business. I didn’t even come.” What I don’t tell him, is that night is basically when I lost interest in sex for quite a bit.
Dominick inhales and exhales a long cloud of smoke. “You’re not shy talking about sex.”
I shake my head. “I think that my next lover might be a woman; I’ve never been as close to the fantasy as I am now. I started looking online secretly and I just got my first flirty message from a female whose photos I’m not sure if I’m even attracted to.” My pussy hasn’t been this wet and throbbing in a long time. I don’t know if it was from thoughts of the woman or from talking to Dominick about her, but there you have it.
“Is it because you can’t find the dick you want? Or because suddenly you find yourself attracted to women?”
I shrug. “I’ve been with women before. Sex—good sex—isn’t about parts, it’s about experiences.”
He mulls this over while I ask, “What did you really want to confess to me?”
“I knew who you were, through an acquaintance, when I saw you tonight at the party.”
I’m surprised his confession isn’t phallic. “You did?” He nods and blows a smoke ring.
I take a sip of my water, mulling over his sudden confession before asking, “Were you told to fuck me?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I couldn’t resist once I saw you.”
“Who’s the acquaintance?” I ask. I’d be mad, but this doesn’t surprise me. L.A. is all about seven degrees of separation and using any in you can get. Besides, I just came really hard and am having trouble scrimping up the annoyance society thinks I should probably feel for Dominick.
“He’s a wealthy European philanthropist who often donates to civil rights campaigns, and under the radar helps journalists get access and funds their trips to get across hot zone borders. One rumor is that he helped Edward Snowden safely to Russia with the help of other influential world leaders. Nobody knows for sure. But he requested to get in touch with you and that’s why I’m here.”
Maybe if I wasn’t me, and hadn’t experienced the things I’ve experienced in my life, this would weird me out, but it’s not the first time I’ve caught the attention of someone with a political lead. You get photographed with a senator a few times and people start to notice. So, while not as direct as I’d like, it’s still not completely unforgivably underhanded. As it is, it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months, maybe a couple years. “Why does he want to get in touch with me?”
“Have you heard of Benny Arthur?”
“Who hasn’t?” Benny Arthur is a man everyone’s salivating over, trying to get an interview with. He’s come into the limelight in his own right after having run an investment firm with Senator Duncan—someone who was rumored to be the next POTUS until words like “Ponzi scheme” and “investment fraud” got bandied about. It’s worse because he’s based his whole image on being Joe American, honest as the day is long.
Somehow, he’s managed to avoid truly being hurt by the scandal, but there are those who wonder what worse things he’s done.
One skeleton in the closet usually means there are three buried in the backyard.
No charges have been laid so far against Duncan, but Benny would know if Duncan knew about the dealings or if he was a partner on paper only, as he claims.
A sanctimonious potential president who is comfortable ripping off old ladies of their life savings? Yeah, that’s news.
Dominick crosses his arms. “Mr. X can get you an exclusive with Benny Arthur.”
My stomach tightens just a little. If I got it—and the information was good enough to launch a tight story—this could be huge. But anything this good comes with a price, and I’m not naive enough to think it’s going to be free. “He’s legitimate?”
Dominic nods. “He is.”
I can’t say no. I need something like this right now. “Then you can give the man my contact info. Why wouldn’t he just email me at the paper like everyone else does? My work contact information is online.”
A smirk pulls his lips into a thin line. “He’s very…particular about the way he operates. He likes to do things his own way.” He pulls out his wallet and pulls out a card. Cream-colored with a simple but elegant spiral shape embossed on the sides. The only writing says “Mr. X” with a phone number beneath it. I take it, turning it over in my hands, strangely reminded of American Psycho. The choices put into business cards in that movie were obsessive and hilarious how they fixated on the tiniest detail from the font to the barely discernable fifty shades of off-white everyone had chosen as representations of themselves.
The room seems to shrink down to the size of this card, the air thickening and drying until it’s like breathing through pages of an old manuscript and I’m slammed with a sense of being here before.
“What’s wrong?” Dominick’s voice pierces through the haze, and I blink hard and focus on his face.
“I just feel like this has happened before.”
“Déjà vu?”
I nod.
He sits back and lights a cigarette. “One time at a party, someone told me that déjà vu is literal. You’ve literally seen that moment before, but not in this lifetime. That we choose everything about our lives before we live them, and that when we incarnate, sometimes we’re so close to the life we map out that it gives us that weird sense of recognition.”
I shiver. “Do you believe that?”
He laughs. “Nah, it was just some asshole on acid at a party. It was the most interesting version of reality I’ve heard, though. What do you think?”
I jab the corner of the card beneath my nail, grounding myself in the moment with that tiny bit of pain. “That the older I get, the less I’m sure of anything.”
“Perfect reason to be a journalist is because you want to find out the answers to the world we’re in.”
FOUR
THE HARDEST PART OF SUCCESS isn’t achieving it. It’s trying to replicate it. You can’t be content to simply get to the top—you’ve got to stay there as well. It’s about staying relevant or else you’ll become a has-been or worse: a one-hit wonder. Maybe it’s safer to quit once you’ve made one great thing and coast on that greatness forever, sucking the teat of your former glory that no one can take away from you, but most of us have more to say from an artistic viewpoint than that one statement.
Besides, you never know if the sequel will hit harder, faster, better than the first. The Godfather Part II, The Bride of Frankenstein, La Notte (though I’d argue that L’Eclisse was superior and the best of the trilogy). Hell, even The Empire Strikes Back and Terminator II were better than the first installations.
Once you’ve hit it big, seen the other side of the fence, climbed that hill to the top, the follow-up is extremely important. Cripplingly important, really, as no one was expecting your initial success, so this time there’s more external pressure sucking at you from the bated breaths of the audience waiting for your next move. “What are you going to do?” is a much easier question to answer than “what are you going to do next?”
I’ve found a little slack from the chains of expectation by being enigmatic in
my answers. Keeping them guessing builds hype and garners more anticipation without me having to follow up or commit to any particulars. Now that I’ve seen success, I can’t just work on anything; I’ve got to make a statement. I need to prove to the naysayers and myself that my success wasn’t a fluke.
Part of me feels as though I lucked out finding Inana Luna. She was the perfect subject. Replicating that will be impossible, yet everyone thinks I’m cooking up something huge.
As of now, I’ve got nothing.
Oh, a few scandalous pieces here and there have kept my name in bylines and kept my juices flowing, but there’s nothing that touches Inana Luna. Nothing that’s grabbed me and refused to let go until I’ve sucked every secret from its lips. Believe me, I’ve tried to recapture it.
I click through my inbox one email at a time, not skipping a single one without at least skimming the contents for something, anything inspiring, but that’s a relative term. Something that I’m invested in and something the wider public will care about is the intersection I’m trying to find.
People send their pieces or tidbits about themselves, hoping to make the paper, hoping to find a sliver of fame. I no longer reply to everyone, finding it too hard to come up with a nice way to tell them that the world at large doesn’t care about their awesome niece who just graduated and is just the sweetest thing, or their dog who can “talk.” I get a lot of letters from actors and writers, reaching out, eager to get some free publicity. I wish I could help everyone.
But I’m not interested in hollow stories. Feel-good pieces that only stick with you if you know the person the article is about, and fade away after a day or so if you don’t—unless it goes viral. But even then, who hasn’t had something go viral at this point? We as consumers are insatiable when it comes to entertainment, wanting more and more and more.
Baby goats, babies with evil eyebrows drawn on, everyone and their neighbor dancing to whatever trendy song everyone’s going to forget about next week when another takes its place.
Entertainment for entertainment’s sake is a great thing, but I need to make something different, something with longevity.
After the article came out, the offers started coming in. A trickle first, then a rush as word spread and nominations for awards hit my inbox. I had my choice of papers and magazines trying to headhunt me and entice me from the newspaper I was at. There was even an offer from a television program, but one short, lecherous interview later, I was completely turned off by that “opportunity.”
I decided to take the offer Diane Fallows presented me with, mostly because of the magazine’s impressive track record, but also largely because of the woman herself. First black female editor-in-chief by the time she was twenty-eight, she’s intense in a way you’ll only encounter in a handful of people in your life. She’s got a quiet confidence lacking ruthlessness, and it reminded me of Inana. I wanted to see Diane in action, so I accepted her offer.
Three years later, I still haven’t been disappointed by her, though I’m beginning to worry I’m disappointing her by not wowing everyone with another massive article. My Inana article was nominated for a Society of Professional Journalists award. I didn’t win, but I didn’t expect to even be nominated. Some thought my story was more provocative and edgy and should have taken the prize. Maybe, but it’s subjective and awards aren’t my thing. I wasn’t going for a Pulitzer, anyways. I just wanted to tell Inana’s story.
Diane does seem content to parade me around at industry parties, showing me off as though that’s my contribution—bringing notoriety to the magazine.
I rub my knuckles against my lip, brushing skin against skin until my lip is slightly numb and tingly. This Mr. X interview could be the thing I’m looking for, despite the fact that I’ve wanted to stay away from politics for obvious reasons.
The hard part isn’t finding a story everyone wants to hear about—hell, every tabloid rag and Buzzfeed list does that every day. I’m more selective because I have to care about the article too. I only want to work on stories that interest me and make me care. Maybe it’s a sort of oppositional defiance borne of not being the filmmaker I wish I was right now, I don’t know, but I think the magic ingredient is care.
Maybe I’ll never find another story that overtakes me.
Maybe I’d be having this problem if I were making films.
Malaise. Life’s been okay for a couple years now, but the glow’s been slowly, steadily fading. It could be that I’m the one who’s fading.
Is it better to succeed at a job you don’t care about, or to fail at your dreams having risked it all? Either way you’re not where you expect or hope to be. Maybe the discontent is in the wondering. They do say we regret things we don’t go for.
But in this economy, it’s good to have a job like mine that actually allows me to live comfortably. It’s hard to give that up.
I scroll through the invitations in my inbox again. If I continue being successful as a person I’m not—for I am not meant to be this forever, surely—does that mean I’m actually right where I’m meant to be? Would that mean my dreams were never my fate at all, but a delusion or distraction?
For now, I’ll stay here at the magazine, telling someone else’s stories until I find the ones I need to tell.
Right now, the best lead is the one from Mr. X. As loath as I am to embrace the political world again, this is my career we’re talking about. Some things are worth pressing pause on your aversions to them.
I pick up the phone and punch in his number.
FIVE
I GOT IT.
Benny sang like the proverbial canary, not just implicating his old friend the senator, but burying him after a little coaxing on my part—not that he needed it. I got the distinct impression he was waiting to spill, but we had to build some suspense first.
We talked for a bit before I started recording—in this day and age, if you don’t have audio or video, you’re just asking for a source to pretend they didn’t say something and then it’s just your word against theirs, so I always play it safe. He mentioned Mr. X who, surprisingly, wasn’t even there. I wasn’t excited exactly to meet the man, but was very intrigued at the man who was able to get the interview of the year for me.
I was under the distinct impression of being under the microscope the whole time, though. Maybe it’s just because of the unconventional situation, but it seems absurd and egotistical to me that someone would give me something like that out of the blue and then not show up to see how it went, or to even let me shake their hand in thanks.
The gentle sweetness of fresh roses fills my senses before I see the arrangement sitting in front of the door to my apartment. Two dozen red roses, artfully positioned in a square-cut vase.
Penelope.
I smile and do a slow spin, hoping to catch her peeking around the corner of the hallway, though that type of frivolity isn’t quite her nature.
Roses aren’t my favorite flower. They seem like the old standby when for the price, you can get much more original blooms that are underrated and equally beautiful. But roses are classic—just like Penelope, and from her, they always make me smile.
I pick up the vase, elegant just like her, and take it into my apartment, setting it and my purse on the counter so I can read the card. The small, printed words read, “Happy Birthday, Catherine. P.”
I hold the card beneath my nose, practically smelling her Chanel No. 5 perfume on the card, even though there’s no way she wrote on it or even touched it. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until now.
I lean against the counter for a moment, my hip pressing the edge, letting the past overtake me with memories of France.
Penelope took me under her wing a few years ago just after Jack and I broke up. Not soon enough to head off the self-destructive spiral I began, tearing up online dating sites seeking external validation, receiving only disappointment. I’m lucky that’s all I received with how reckless I was for that month, putting myself at risk, bare
ly self-aware.
I was in mourning. I’d lost a long-term relationship, but I’d also lost Inana. Getting to know her by being her and then emerging from that cocoon of awakening was awful. It tore down who I thought I was, being Inana, and losing Jack.
Then again, I’d lost Jack before La Notte took over my life, heating things up in the desert. The Juliette Society saw to Jack and my separation, I’m sure of it. They set up the perfect distraction for Jack in the form of a beautiful, fragile woman who needed rescuing. The victim-slash-princess to Jack’s wannabe white knight. I guess I wasn’t enough of a damsel in distress to appeal to the alpha male side of Jack that so desperately needed its ego stroked. I’d thought he was secure enough without that. A lot of incorrect assumptions were blown apart around then, shattered into pieces too small for wishful thinking even to put them back together. So, I was angry about that as well.
You hear people say they’d rather have the truth, no matter how painful it is. I’m one who shares that opinion. Yet it’s hard to remember why that’s your preference when you’re standing in the rubble of the life you’d thought was truly perfect. For a brief, dark period after La Notte but before the interview caught fire, I dreamed of bringing them all down, not caring if the facts and lives I destroyed as collateral damage in the process piled on top of me until I was crushed by them—metaphorically and literally. If I couldn’t have Inana, if I couldn’t continue to be her, then why should the rest of them continue to be who they wanted in a place that wanted my silence as the price? I’d made my choice but wanted them to join me.
Perhaps that’s why they gave me Penelope: to mitigate the potential for destruction I walked around with.
She contacted me with a plane ticket and an invitation to Paris the week the article came out. I’d have refused it on the grounds of it being strange and unsafe—in the age of the internet where everyone can hide behind a screen, it’s universally unwise to get on a plane to meet a stranger for a coffee across the world. But somehow the fact that she was a woman made it feel safe and exciting.
