by Sasha Grey
TEN
CONSCIOUSNESS EASES UPON ME, warm and damp like the towel that’s still encasing my torso. Unfortunately, it’s spread its wetness to the sheets. I grimace and sit up, wincing as my head protests the change in elevation with a few sick throbs. Somehow it feels soft, like an overripe piece of fruit being squeezed.
I brew some coffee, hoping at least part of the headache is a direct result of lack of caffeination, and go get dressed in panties and a tank top, not bothering with more than that. The headache passes with some deep breaths and a few gulps of coffee, so I grab my phone to face the day.
I’ve got one hundred and thirty seven missed texts.
Forty-nine new voicemails.
The last one is from my brother, telling me to turn on the television. My heart starts pounding as I head for the remote, different catastrophes playing through my mind.
The JFK assassination.
The Columbine shooting.
9/11.
Orlando.
News affects us all differently, but when big events happen, when tragedies strike, they connect us all because they remind us of our humanity. For a while, even though it never seems to last nearly long enough, we swear to do better, be better, fix the world and stop hurting each other.
But when the news strikes, people rush to their screens and then are unable to look away from what they see. The stories don’t have to be filled with deaths to be compelling.
The moon landing.
The Oscars.
I Am Cait.
But day by day, inertia creeps back in. Indifference creeps back in and we go back to our socially acceptable levels of self-absorption. We abandon the social activism, shy away from the hashtag activism and post our selfies and meaningless first-world-problem tweets with no outraged backlash from people who have also moved on to the next thing.
But today is different. This is more like a personal tragedy unfolding in the public eye.
Of course, at the root of it, every tragedy is private. Every human has family and friends, people who loved them and will miss them when something happens, but the devastation is usually local instead of national.
Imagine turning on the television and seeing yourself.
Not because you were interviewed, or because you interviewed someone else and that was getting publicity.
Not because you were captured in the background of another story and waved for Mom.
The footage is so old it’s like watching another person instead of myself, but I know it’s me immediately. Whoever filmed it knew what they were doing, but I had no idea I was being filmed or that cameras were allowed in the mansion that night.
Something drew me to the mask he was wearing, so much more elaborate than the others I’d seen there. And then it hit me. He was the man from a dream I used to have, the Renaissance man in the harlequin mask who unlocked me.
He carried himself with a swagger, so cocksure and certain of his appeal. His skin was tanned and leathery but his body was taut and muscular and toned. He looked like he took care of himself, like he worked out. His physique was speaking to me and it told me that that man knew his power and how to use it. And he looked good for his age, whatever that was, in his late forties, at least.
“As you can see, some of the footage here was quite dark, but it’s definitely her.”
The anchorwoman drones on as I drown in memories of that night.
Then he was so close I could smell him. He smelled rich and I should have recognized his cologne. By the time he was in front of me, I was hooked. There was something about him, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it at first. Then it hit me. Something about him reminded me of Jack.
Jack sometime in the future.
I’d always told myself that I wanted to grow old with Jack. Sometimes I’d liked to imagine what we’d be like when we were in our fifties or sixties, when we’d lived half a lifetime in each other’s company. I’d wondered how we’d look with all that living under our belt, how we’d relate to each other, how we’d fuck.
And this guy, I decided right then and there, that he represented my fantasy of how Jack might turn out when we were older, what he’d look like, how he’d carry himself.
And I know how that sounds, even now. It sounds like an excuse, and in a way it was. It was an excuse that my brain came up with to explain the way my body was feeling. I felt an immense attraction to that man, who was a blank canvas to me, on whom I projected the fantasy I wanted. And lived it and experienced it. For real.
I’m almost offended in hindsight that I needed an excuse to do the things I wanted when I was doing them anyways. I cheated on Jack and tried to justify it by projecting my boyfriend onto this stranger. Cheating isn’t something I condone. But if you’re going to do things, at least don’t lie to yourself about them to try to justify taking the leap. It’s disingenuous.
The camera pans in so I’m the one taking up almost all of the frame. The man offers me his hand. You clearly see me take it without hesitation or reserve. Then he leads me downstairs into the main room and all the way to the end of the room, as if he’s parading me in front of everybody, showing me off.
Knowing now that this was likely my first of The Juliette Society’s events makes me realize he probably was—especially since someone was filming it. I feel strangely violated by this. But consent isn’t just about who touches you. Secretly being filmed is disgusting and a violation because someone can watch that over and over again. It’s not fair for someone to remove your consent that way, make it so they can watch themselves fucking you in perpetuity when you said yes only one time.
The camera cuts to me sitting down with my legs closed together and my hands on my lap, as prim and proper as a Catholic schoolgirl. He taps the arm of the chair and I swing my legs up over each arm of the chair and slide my butt forward to the edge of the seat. The camera cuts the part where he knelt down in front of me, took my left foot in his hands and started kneading the sole with his thumbs. It cuts how he kissed the sole of my foot, sucking on each toe, circling around and between them with his tongue.
But it shows when he puts his hands on my legs, clasps them together and lifts them up so my feet are over my head, and pussy is sticking out, wet and plump and in full view. I wrap my arms around my legs to hold them in place while he puts one hand on my thigh and gives my pussy a quick little slap with the other.
It cuts again, not showing anything with the man’s face, only his hands and everything of me—everything except the parts they’ve blurred out on television.
The video on the internet doesn’t censor anything. You can see the trail of juice dripping down to my asshole, his fingers sliding right inside, probing around the soft fleshy mound behind my clitoris. You can watch as I climb up onto the arms, crouch down and slowly lower myself onto his cock. I spit in my hand and pump it along the shaft, sheathing with saliva and juice, and keep pumping it like I’d done it a thousand times before.
But then it cuts to the part where I’m surrounded by a wall of male flesh separating me from the rest of the room, only you can still see me and everything that I’m doing. None of the men’s faces or enough details to be incriminating to them, I notice resentfully.
You just see the anonymous cocks approach, and the way I grab for everything in my reach with everything that I’ve got. Rivers of come flooding me all over. The sheer ecstasy and hunger on my face.
And a few more shots to show that I didn’t stop for quite some time.
It’s devastating.
But not because I regret doing it. It’s devastating because someone’s using this against me, as though trying to define me by this one act I did one time in my life. They’re wielding my sexuality as a weapon against me when I’m not allowed to do the same.
Hell, if they’d pan out and see who I’m fucking, they’d forget all about me and focus on DeVille. Then again, I’d become Monica Lewinsky version 2.0 and that’s only going to assure this scandal gets permanently
etched into the history books.
I check my emails, deleting inappropriate ones that people have sent inviting me to “make a sequel.” I delete posts from my page on Facebook. But I can’t do anything about the hashtag on Twitter, or the crude things people have tagged me in on Instagram.
I can’t contain the story. It’s already too big and out of my hands. I’m just big enough for people to want to tear me down. Tears of frustration sting my eyes.
Will my career be ruined by this the way that other women who have braved scandals were? Even if this blows over tomorrow—which it will not, this is character decimation—I’ll be talked about, seen in ways I never chose to show people. It’s bullshit, and anger heats my stomach. It’s a good metaphor for how women enjoying sex is taboo and we can’t be sexual creatures in our own right without it tainting us and making us seem less than instead. But men doing exactly the same thing get an aura of power in the same situation.
It angers me because it’s unfair.
I call Diane and she picks up immediately. I’m not shocked. “Diane—”
“Save it,” she cuts in. “I don’t need to know the details. I need you to take a few days off, lie low and wait for the dust to settle. We’re looking into who released the footage, but there’s nothing so far.”
“Diane, I need to tell my side of the story.”
“Catherine, no one’s going to listen.” Her voice is gentler, but I still hear the resolve in it. In an industry where perception is everything, I’m fucked and need to do serious damage control.
I’m helpless to fix this. I can’t refute that that is indeed me, getting my brains fucked out by more than a few men. My name is being linked to Jack, and through Jack, DeVille.
Funny how no one can tell it’s him with me in the video. Then again, he was inside me there and I never noticed. The brain shows you what it wants to see, blinding you to the obvious much of the time.
It reminds me of someone else who manipulates the eye through video medium. Dominick. That bastard. I don’t know how he got this video—hell, maybe he shot it himself, but this can’t be a coincidence. I reject him and like any jilted lover, he decides to ruin my life.
Only in this case, he’s not just writing angry posts on Facebook or keying my car. He’s trying to ruin me.
Maybe I’m blindsided here, but I’m not powerless.
I send a text.
Me: Are you still willing to give me that interview?
Mr. X replies a moment later: You’re interested? You’d be leaving tomorrow.
Me: That’s perfect. I’ll gladly take you up on your offer if it’s still available.
Mr. X: It is, but I want you to prove you’re serious, so no ticket will be provided.
Fine by me. I’m not in the mood to be at the mercy of a man’s fragile ego or generosity with strings attached. Dominick can go fuck himself, and X will eat his words.
Me: I’m deadly serious.
Mr. X: Regardless, I’d like you to prove it by action, not word.
Dominick had said Mr. X liked doing things his own way.
I check my online banking and look at tickets to Honduras. If I scrape together the dregs of my savings and combine it with my air miles, I can buy the plane ticket. I’ll get there a few days early for the conference to prepare and also escape from the scandal which is already taking a toll on me emotionally.
Me: I just booked it.
Mr. X: Get ready for something huge. This is going to make your career.
Right now, I’ll settle for saving my career.
ELEVEN
IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT some countries are more corrupt than others. No country in the world is free of bloodshed, but some have seen more horrors than others.
You hear the horror movies say that houses are haunted because they were built on graveyards, but name me a part of America where someone hasn’t died on it. Civil wars have been fought on our soil from the beginning to today and probably tomorrow as well because we never seem to learn. But it’s not just America; it’s the world.
I’ve noticed that warmer places have more violence. Maybe it’s the heat and the effect it has on our primitive minds. When we were cold, we had to worry about not freezing to death and gathering enough food to outlast the winter before focusing on slaughtering the people in neighboring villages.
People used to have to either run or ride horses to war. Sure, soldiers must follow orders, but when you had to run for days, weeks, months, years to get into the fight, it took the frivolity out of it. Nowadays our leaders can kill people from the comfort of their office, sitting on their asses sipping full-fat lattes while others drop the bombs—or while the missiles launch themselves. A push of a button… So as advanced as we’ve become, war’s definitely gotten less personal from when leaders fought on the battlegrounds with their soldiers.
I’m not sure if they’d care more or less if they were forced to witness firsthand the lives literally blown apart by their conflicts. To look the people fighting for them in the eyes and tell them to charge forward knowing all of them won’t make it home. Maybe those in charge would strive harder to avoid the battles in the first place when it became that personal again.
But probably not.
War is personal for the soldiers, not the people in charge. It’s personal for the civilians left standing in the rubble of their home countries wondering how the hell they’ll ever rebuild from a loss greater than the scope of imagination.
Central America is about as poor as it gets as a whole. Corruption is rife, and people can’t get the help they need. It’s something that should anger a lot more people, knowing some are dying and mired in lives that have no hope or opportunities, but it’s not news.
We already know that people need help. But then again, kids are starving and unsafe and being killed in America too.
The hotel’s state is a jarring reminder of the privilege we have in America. I didn’t really look ahead when I booked, but this is at about the level of an hourly motel back home. And fair enough. I’m not exactly staying in a touristy area, so this area probably has less money than others because of it. Last time I stayed at a star-rated hotel, even with my lack of experience, it was clear that five stars does not mean the same thing everywhere you go in the world.
I drop my bag off in my room and head down to the desk to give them my passport to put inside their safe since the room didn’t have one. There’s not a big time difference, so I’m not going to face jetlag, but I could use something to drink and maybe a bite to eat, so I head to the hotel’s little restaurant.
I’m looking at the small paper menu they have at the table, trying to decide what to get to drink when the scent of Hermès d’Orange Verte creeps into my awareness.
I look up. Penelope. But out of context, it’s like I almost don’t recognize her for a moment, because why the hell would she be here of all pl aces?
“Penelope?” I get up and hug her, enveloped in the older woman’s scent. It’s been a couple years, but she still feels like strength and safety. “What are you doing here?”
Penelope gives me a squeeze. “I’m here for you.”
Tears of frustration well in my eyes. “Penny, someone did something to me. He released a video of me—of a JS party from years ago. I don’t know how he got it.”
She holds up her hand. “I know. And we’re not about to let him get away with it.”
Relief, gratitude, outrage, fear, disbelief war inside me for a moment. But underneath it all, affection for this woman. Old friend. Former lover.
See, when I’d said that Penelope had been the friend I’d so desperately needed, that was true. But we’d also been lovers. She lit up parts of me that I’d never felt before. I was her mistress. She made me feel so wanted and needed in a different way than a man, and I frantically needed that in my life then.
We parted ways in a remarkably drama-free manner, but she’s still one of the people I think about the most fondly. Every split shoul
d go as well as ours did.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
“No. You’re right.
She tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “Let’s get your things and get out of here.”
For the first time since the video was released—was it only a couple days ago?—I feel like things might be okay. I feel like I can relax because here is a woman who no one would dare mess with. Penelope is powerful, confident, and radiates competence. I am no longer alone in this battle.
Penelope and I take a car to the private jet she calls Winifred.
I don’t ask where we’re going. I trust this woman with my life. She already saved me once. I study her face when she’s not looking, noting the new faint lines around her eyes and the way the ones around her mouth are a little deeper, though it hasn’t been long since we last saw each other. What does a person like Penelope worry about?
About an hour later, the plane begins its descent and I peer out the window, suddenly curious about where we are.
A compound in the jungle. An exquisite community. We’re flying low, low enough I can see details of the buildings and how they all flow perfectly together as one, some connected by indoor and outdoor bridges and meeting squares that extend into grand gardens, none of them private. Yet there’s no one milling around outside, watering the lawn, and few cars are present. No kids are in sight.
We swoop lower, heading across the wall.
There’s something written on the gate, ornate and in wrought-iron. I crane my neck and squint to see what the name of this place is. If it’s pretentious or intellectual or raunchy—something to give me an idea of what it is before I land.
I recognize the words and a chill goes through me.
