Part 7 (1/2)

Chapter Twelve.

The real s.e.x diary of Ashley Caulfield, September 14 It happened last night. It hasn't happened in years, but it happened last night and it was terrifying. Well, wait, let me fill you in on the back story. Who knows if in my drug addled state I'll ever remember these things in weeks to come. I like Pat. I don't mind doing scenes with Pat, my pudgy, bis.e.xual photographer. He bottoms for me and takes my photos and usually sets up great scenes with me and other women. Pat is always great at finding m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.ts who want to be bullied and pushed around, yelled at and tormented by a b.i.t.c.h like me. Sometimes I'll play with men, too, but Pat almost always sets me up with chicks probably because with men I might take it one step too far and Pat knows that. I like to shove my playmates around, show everyone who is boss, at least in the dungeon if not in real life. In real life, they're all doctors and lawyers, and I'm, well, what exactly am I? A spoiled rich girl with no ambitions. These women don't care. They let me be an absolute pig about it, too, pus.h.i.+ng and berating them until they're about at the end of their collective ropes, always leaving them wanting and begging for me, for more, for sweet release. But that's not my job. I don't have to worry about their needs because the scenes Pat sets up for me are all about me, baby. And last night was no different.

Except it was. You see, last week I let one of Pat's b.i.t.c.hes switch with me. I've been ratcheting things up for months now, so much so that vanilla s.e.x with any one person is just a huge disappointment. Well, except The One. But I can't have that, now can I? The One isn't really available, isn't always there. I have to get my rocks off somewhere, so I turn to Pat and the scenes and the little beggars that I get to push around with my paddles and pleasures. Then I let one of the women switch with me. I let her try to top me. I wanted to acquiesce, to play a good bottom, to let her control me. But it became so real, and I was flas.h.i.+ng back to those days, that first day, and I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't remember my safe words, so I just started shrieking like a howler monkey, right there in the middle of the dungeon. Everyone around me freaked out and ran to me, unlocking my collar and cuffs and trying to soothe me.

I went home mortified at losing control like that, but then I realized how great it felt afterward. I relived terror and came out the other side of it lighter, calmer. So the next night I went back and bottomed, this time with a pro. I had a dominatrix tie me to the table and drip hot wax down my back, and I felt sensations up and down my spine, but mostly in my c.l.i.t. I was frightened and aroused, and I pushed that panicky feeling back in my throat and down to my s.e.x organs, and soon my fear was blatant and energizing.

I had Pat set up a few more encounters this week. All for play parties where I bottomed, sometimes solo, sometimes with a group. Mostly, there were women, but occasionally there was a transguy there too. The vibe was the same, everybody too cautious to push me over the edge. And then last night, what always happens, happened again. I got bored.

What does a girl do when bondage and domination are no longer enough? When sweet kisses and loving caresses do nothing? When the only way to get off without The One involves taking it deeper and darker until you can't recognize yourself anymore? Because that's what I'm doing, but who knows how far I can take it, you know?

Pat says he can still conjure up a scenario that will scare me into an o.r.g.a.s.m-they don't call it the pet.i.te death for no reason, you know-so I'm letting him come up with something that'll really knock my PVC socks off.

I was in the middle of telling Shane about Ash's s.e.x journal, the one that's more shocking than any of the others I'd already read, when a funny look washed over her face. I hoped to G.o.d it wasn't turning her on, because I could only take things so far and reenacting my sister's S&M play wasn't exactly the direction I was hoping to go.

”What?” I demanded. ”Did you already know this?”

”No, it's not that. It's just...” Shane trailed off as she looked away. ”I did play with Ash once.”

”What do you mean you played with Ash once? You did S&M with her?”

”No, I, um, she asked me to be a part of a s.e.x game with her and someone else and it was kind of humiliating and I don't want to talk about it. I just wanted you to know in case she wrote about it or something.”

”What did you do?” I was not shocked. There was little at this point that truly shocked me.

”I just said I don't want to talk about it.” Shane was adamant. ”Look, I'm just not going to talk with you about my s.e.x life with your sister.”

Wow, so they had a ”s.e.x life,” did they? I was not sure then if I was relieved to not hear the juicy details of their tete-a-tetes, or if Shane's reluctance to share meant she was harboring a secret far worse. What that might be, I was not sure, but the mere fact that she partic.i.p.ated and enjoyed one of Ash's humiliating s.e.x games revealed a great deal about Shane, almost none of it good.

But I was not the sweet girl who fell in love with Shane what seemed like a lifetime ago. I was a chick on a mission, a s.e.xual being in my own right, and I had Ash's journal to keep ciphering. f.u.c.k Shane. I was going to find Pat, this bis.e.xual photographer who played S&M Cupid for my sister, and uncover what he knew about her death.

Tracking down Pat was as easy as finding Cynthia. His studio was set squarely atop the gay district in Portland, amid what local queers call Vaseline Alley. But getting him to sit long enough to talk with me was a different story.

Pat insisted on working while we spoke, so I was following him around all day as we went from one photo shoot to another. It started in his studio with a beautiful woman in a diamond necklace wrapping a striped yellow-and-black snake around her body. It was breathtaking watching her, though the whole scenario begged for a Freudian interpretation. I got the answer when I realized the vixen posing nude in front of us couldn't have been more than fifteen. Society and the youth culture, what a f.u.c.ked up duo.

After the snake girl, we did a location shoot for a gay couple's wedding photo. It was quick and clean and this time everyone was clearly way over twenty-one. The last shoot of the day was at a nightclub called Holocene where a troupe of chubby drag queens and Rubenesque burlesque performers hosted a benefit party for something called The Fat Experience. Not sure if it was something like Esalen or Scientology, I kept my distance, marveling nonetheless at the surety of the large-bodied folks who were prancing around the stage. To be comfortable in one's skin must be so nice. Refres.h.i.+ng.

Finally, at midnight, Pat turned to me and asked, ”Well, chica, waddya want to know about your sis?”

I was flummoxed at this point, so the questions gushed out of me like an overactive waterfall. None of them actually stuck because I was saying them so fast even Pat couldn't understand me.

”I have an idea,” Pat said, holding up the shush finger in front of his lips. ”Why don't I take you to the club where your sister liked to play?”

I had never been to a play party or a dungeon or a power station-descriptors Pat used on the ride over, but none of which were listed on the sign outside, which read, ”Love Inc. A Private Retreat for Couples.” It was a bas.e.m.e.nt party palace that was only open to private members.h.i.+p. I quickly learned that in the world of s.e.x, ”couples only” meant no solo men. Women were always welcome to come alone, especially if they were the pulchritudinous kind.

I followed Pat down an ordinary wood-paneled hall, past a sign in station where we showed our driver's licenses and he a red members card, and we were on our way to the back where people were mostly just milling about in various states of leather and undress.

”Well, Pat, who's the babe?” one middle-aged woman asked, leaning in to hear the answer. ”Oh, I should have seen the resemblance. I'm Natalie.” Middle-aged pushed her hand toward me in greeting.

”Nice to meet you.” Was this how it was in a s.e.x club, I wondered. Shaking hands with folks who were thirty years older than me, not a speck of s.e.x anywhere in sight? But Pat pulled me away and started showing me around the club, back to the solo and group play rooms, where finally there were couples and groups of average-looking people in different scenarios, sporting leather, uniforms, or nothing but boots, each offering up scenes of submission, domination, and bondage. It would be salacious to Father, but nothing that was remotely shocking to me, especially not after reading Ash's journals and watching her DVDs.

After Pat disappeared into another room, I wandered around more, mostly just watching the action unfold in front of me. A few of the women looked vaguely familiar. One was that tall blonde who had the threesome with my sister. Another could have been the woman from the group encounter with the bird beak masks. But in this setting everyone looked somewhat recognizable yet wholly strange. One woman even looked a bit like my stepmother, though I was certain she wasn't. Tabitha would never be at a place like this. The very idea of it made me t.i.tter with giggles.

”Enjoying yourself, I see?” The brunette from another video sidled up to me.

”Oh, I was imagining someone here that wouldn't dare step foot in a joint like this.”

She nodded and smiled and I could see she was quite attractive up close, when not visualized through pixilated video, though I was having trouble imagining her without a ginormous d.i.l.d.o strapped to her thigh. I guess this was the downside to seeing so many folks naked; real life could be a bit of a letdown. No wonder Ash had to keep ratcheting up the tension more and more just to get off.

”You'd be surprised at the people who do come in here,'' the brunette drawled, her short hair flipping up at her collar, a little s.h.a.ggy bang showing off her eyes. ”Is this your first time?”

”Indeed it is. I'm Megan.”

”I know. I recognize the resemblance.” Like everyone else, she clearly knew my sister. She didn't offer up her own name, nor did her demeanor betray curiosity. ”What brought you here? If you don't mind me asking.”

”I'm trying to find out who my sister Ash really was. She came here a lot.”

”Do you know why she came here?”

I shook my head. I was mildly curious, oddly fascinated by these naked, blithe people and their willingness to act out roles of power and submission. The scene fascinated me the way many parts of Ash's world had come to fascinate me, but I still couldn't say I knew why Ash came here, to this particular place, to this particular club, or why she stopped coming here.

”She was working through something in her past. I can't say any more, but I think she'd be glad to know that you knew that about her.” The nameless brunette began to turn, to walk away from me, but I stopped her before she did, pus.h.i.+ng myself in front of her as nicely and calmly as possible.

”Wait, what do you mean? Please tell me what you mean. I have to find out what was going on with her before she died or I'll never know who killed her.”

”Listen, kiddo, some questions are better left unanswered. Your sister's death may just be one of those questions.” That was it. I had had enough.

”Oh, for the love of G.o.d,” I said, my voice raising just a pinch. ”Why does everyone around me speak in f.u.c.king riddles these days? I feel like I'm Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and every time I try to get a logical answer out of someone, something cryptic comes out of their f.u.c.king mouth. It's like living with Mister Miyagi, for f.u.c.k's sake. Don't tell me to go east or west or feel the wind or learn which questions weren't meant to be answered. These cryptic answers might be fine for the Mad Hatter, but they're driving me batty. I have to know what you're talking about. Please just tell me.”

She looked stunned, which I hoped was a good thing. She didn't let me know, but steered me rather forcefully down a darkened stairwell that led down another flight below the ground-level club. I began to worry. Where was she taking me? What did I know about this woman, or Pat, for that matter, or any of these people? Nothing. n.o.body knew I was even here. For all I knew this woman was a serial killer, leading me to the fruit cellar to carve my body up like a Halloween pumpkin.

Before our feet hit the ground floor, she stopped and turned toward me, whispering in my ear, ”Do you really want to know?”

”Of course,” I said with more certainty than I felt.

”Okay,” she said and calmly laid it all out. ”Ash was abused as a kid. She was trying to work through it with SM.”

No, she wasn't. She couldn't have been. How could she have been abused and not told me?

”You're lying. She lied. I don't believe you.” A dozen denials rushed forth all at once.

”I figured as much. She s.h.i.+elded you from it.” The woman was calm, collected. Why was she lying to me? Maybe Ash wanted attention so badly she told the women here she was an abuse victim.

”Who supposedly abused her? I would have known!” We shared a room until Mother died, had all the same uncles and priests and deacons as each other. It wasn't possible.

”I don't know. All I know is that she was s.e.xually a.s.saulted as a child and took it upon herself to protect you from the abuse. We don't normally let abuse victims play at our parties because it can be hard for them to distinguish pleasure pain from what was thrust upon them, but Ash had already gone through therapy, had moved beyond her abuse to this different place. This was her safe s.p.a.ce to work out her self-injurious behavior without harming herself. We watched over her to make sure she never went too far.”