The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  And part of me lost myself inside those pages. For a while, I was Inana Luna. I went to her house, slept in her bed wearing her clothes, drank coffee out of mugs her lips had once touched. I got myself off in her bathtub. I opened pages of the books on her bookshelves, and I discovered her secrets inside them, following the trail to Max Gold’s hotel where Inana worked as VIP Concierge…and where she was Gold’s lover.

  I became his lover too, though that’s part of the story that didn’t make the final version when I released it to the paper. I wanted to be her. For a while I was, until I realized I had growth of my own to focus on.

  Now, my date smiles at me, waiting while I formulate my responses. I don’t know if he’s truly interested in her or interested in trying to find a way to interest me, but talking about the specifics of her diary would be like tearing open the heart and soul of a ghost and ravaging the contents for another’s amusement or small talk fodder.

  I refuse to cheapen her legacy and my experience by doing that.

  He prompts me when I don’t continue. “You used to date a politician, right? Jack something?”

  Jack. But he hasn’t been my Jack since the night at Gold’s hotel when he fucked me on the floor before leaving me for another woman. I saw him twice after that encounter, both times his eyes had lost their warmth when they looked at me. He’d been determined to turn me back into a stranger as though our relationship had never happened, erasing our intertwined lives as though they had never left a mark or mattered. Despite the fact that ultimately we weren’t meant to be together, it hurt like hell. I mean, fine, break up with someone, but don’t try to pretend they never existed.

  Right after Jack, I dated a guy. I broke up with him with the standard, “it’s not you, it’s me” speeches when really I wanted to leave a note saying, You had a kind of smallish dick but I kept on having sex with you because a) I wanted to know if I had a loose or tight pussy b) I wanted you to fall in love with me c) I hoped that your dick could get bigger.

  I mean, dicks are not beanstalks, but there’s growers and showers. And—this happened once—some people take a while to get turned on to the biggest extent. Another guy I dated was one of them. It did get bigger.

  Jacob, my date, leans in conspiratorially when I nod about dating Jack. “What’s it like being that close to DeVille? Jack was one of his aides, right? And you were with Jack for years while going to school.” He rattles off a few of the articles I’ve written and my stomach tightens as his questions become more and more pointed and personal.

  A year ago, I decided to draw a line beneath the past and carry on with my life—difficult when certain events in my past are my bread and butter and I have to talk about them to promote myself.

  “It feels like you’ve gone all quiet,” Jacob says. “I’m not going to tell anyone what you say, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Well, I wasn’t…until he just said that.

  Jacob is clearly a fanboy of my work but hid it in our interactions until we met in person. This date has taken a turn, feeling more like a job interview. Most dates with new people seem like that; we must get to know each other with questions and answers, some sharper than others, but all of them with the purpose of getting to know the person. Yet Jacob here only seems interested in certain aspects of my life—namely, my career. Perhaps his disinterest in the rest when I attempted to engage him in other topics of conversation was feigned, designed to get me to prattle on more than I normally would in an attempt to prove myself somehow or to snag his interest. If you don’t fill the silence, the other person probably will.

  Is that what he was doing before turning the conversation toward Inana and my passions and my past?

  Now, I’m not comfortable talking to him; his questions are so strangely personal I feel like he almost might be wearing a wire to do an exposé on me later. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to turn my stories around and make me the subject of something salacious. When you’re a young, attractive female in Hollywood, you become fair game for the sexualization of the talent machine to grind up and spit out. I’m not saying it’s right—in fact, I think it’s disgusting. But it’s the reality of the industry whether you’re an actress, or a woman behind the camera, and why I prefer print to television. If you’re on camera long enough, people start to pay more attention to the way you look and how pouty your lips are instead of the words coming out of them. Look at any news anchor when she first started her career, then catch a glance at her five years later to witness her cosmetic journey. Watch as she grooms and styles herself into a different person on the transition to becoming a plastic version of themselves. Better hair, bigger tits, smaller waist. More makeup.

  But it’s funny how changing the little “imperfections” can make someone go from interesting to plastic and almost a less attractive version of themselves. Actresses ruin their careers doing this. Have you seen some porcelain veneers in bright sunlight? Cheek implants, lips overblown with collagen, faces paralyzed by Botox so you’re never sure if the smiles are fake. To be fair, they probably are all fake, anyway. It’s scary.

  It’s scarier how they’re shamed into doing it by threat of irrelevance. There aren’t roles for women over a certain age—we’ve all seen comedic sketches about that very thing. Our culture—and the Hollywood scene in particular, prizes youth and beauty above all else, and scoffs at anything less than perfect, calling those people unfortunate enough to have been born without flawless genes, “character actors.”

  It’s not a testament to their acting abilities: it’s a commentary on their appearances.

  And I’m so tired of the need to be careful with the things I say.

  “Let’s talk about you for a bit.” I smile to take the edge off my words.

  He sets his phone back on the table. “What about me?” He takes a sip from the fancy blue cocktail he ordered, not caring that it looks like it should be the featured cocktail at a Mexican resort—or whorehouse. He’s a rich kid and not my type, but he’s fun in ways I’ve never experienced. I want this to be a good night. I need a good distraction.

  I googled the shit out of him before meeting him tonight. Don’t even judge me—we all do it. Social media lurking is the new black. His dad is a famous actor who married a socialite. Jacob doesn’t really have a career that I’ve been able to find, and they don’t usually call guys socialites, but that’s basically what he is, dabbling in charity events and the music industry for a while. Mostly, he’s seen at clubs and parties, and is one of the Rich Kids Of Instagram. If I’d known about that ahead of time, I’m not sure I’d have come on the date, which isn’t fair of me to pre-judge, but there it is. We’re all hypocrites in our own ways.

  Jacob and I met in traffic on La Cienega. He was in the baby blue Lambo ahead of me at a red light, and I noticed him checking me out in the rear view mirror, revving his engine to get my attention. As though there’s anything subtle about a Lamborghini in the wrong color. When I stopped behind him at the third red light in a row, he actually got out of his car and came back to talk to me as though we were in a club or coffee shop, not caring that he was holding up traffic—oblivious to the honking and shouting when the light turned green. The way he leaned against my car, casually flirting without a care in the world was embarrassing and kind of funny, and won me over enough to give him my number.

  Jack was so serious and because of politics was always aware of people’s perception. Jacob doesn’t give a fuck about what people think—he only cares about having a good time. It’s refreshing, if his application is somewhat immature. His displays don’t come from a place of confidence—they come from insecurity, ironically because of his parents’ success, but the veneer of self-assurance is thick.

  Most kids are ashamed when their parents aren’t successful. Not here in Los Angeles. Here they only care that their parents appear successful. Welcome to Hollywood, where status is everything, zip codes are God, and what the paint looks like is more important t
han what’s under the hood. See, when you have auto-validation because of Mommy and Daddy, you get all of the privileged entitlement with zero accomplishments needed.

  Celebrity kids don’t need to do anything, they’ve already got a long leg up by simply being born to their revered parents. Not all celeb kids rely on their parents’ notoriety, but a lot do. Even the good things Jacob does are funded by the trust fund given to him by his parents—and their connections provide the opportunities to set things up. Sure, people like him work, but most don’t work for what they’ve got and don’t care to learn what that’s like. They’re the worst.

  I smile. “What generally fill s your free time?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Charities and stuff. Whatever.”

  Scintillating.

  He turns to his phone again when it starts buzzing against the table, and I sigh, thoroughly disappointed. Dating’s become less and less interesting. It’s not that I’m looking to be in a committed relationship again right now, but I’d at least like my dates to be stimulating instead of feeling like a waste of my time. Where’d his intensity go? Some guys are all about the chase, but this is bipolar. He’s either uncomfortably personal or completely disinterested.

  But maybe it’s because the juiciest details are ones no one else knows and I’ve never shared. Somehow I’ve become as careful as the politicians I hated Jack emulating.

  Jacob finally looks up. “My friend’s having a party right now. Want to go check it out?”

  At least there will be fresh people to talk to. “Sure.”

  TWO

  WE PULL UP TO A HOUSE in the hills after a short drive—then again, with the way Jacob speeds around in the Lambo, I’m fairly certain he turns every journey into a short drive.

  It’s an older-style house, not like some of the newer modern ones with razor sharp lines and metal and glass. Twelve or thirteen high-end luxury cars litter the driveway, parked at strange angles, some blocking others in for the duration, so I’m glad we’re one of the later to show up.

  A burly security guard at the door actually asks to see our IDs like it’s a club, and we flash them. They must have had trouble with underage drinking, or else this guy’s been told to keep an eye out for serious A-listers and to notify the host when they make an appearance—the more likely of the two scenarios. He asks the loud group of friends behind us to stop laughing, as if it were a crime. I glance back at them and shrug, just as confused as they are. You’d be surprised the problems that can be paid to disappear when money is truly no object.

  When we walk inside and there’s no furniture in sight, I know the party is going to be fucking weird. A guy with giant pupils and no pants walks by with a towel around his neck, headed for the corner of the great room where a group of people look similarly messed up on something—probably mushrooms based on the way two girls sit looking at their hands and laughing. There are about nine of them sprawled out on the floor, tripping, talking about some really weird things.

  “Let’s go find something to drink. Maybe in the kitchen.” Jacob leads me farther into the house. Still no furniture. It’s either someone’s place and they’re moving out—or in—or it’s a rental someone bought to be a party house, and doesn’t care to deal with cleanup or repair costs or party casualties. Fair enough. I learned right off the bat never to host parties—the cleanup always ends up falling on you—and it’s your things that get broken when someone’s had one too many to drink.

  Near an open glass door that leads outside to an enclosed yard, a group of guys in suits stand with plastic cups in their hands, taking turns furiously talking at each other, though no one’s hearing anything based on the amount of coke they’re loaded up on. Jaws clenched, faces sweating, periodic sniffing back the post nasal drip, I never saw the appeal or anything glamorous about cocaine. No one high on coke looks like they’re actually having a good time—rather, it resembles someone just before they have a panic attack. They never stand around mentioning how good they feel; all you hear them talk about is finding more coke. At least the people on hallucinogens were discussing the nature of the universe and reality.

  If I did drugs, I know which trip I’d rather experience. For now, I’ll stick with tequila.

  The kitchen’s basically empty when we get there and when I see the selection, I get why. There’s only drugstore-brand plastic bottled alcohol, no mixers, and no ice. No glasses either, only red plastic cups like a frat house party.

  I guess this party caters more to the drug partakers—and alcoholics, judging by the lack of mixers—than those casually drinking. Jacob pours four fingers of vodka into my plastic cup and gives an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

  I take a sip to show I’m game, but the sharp, cheap liquid burns like lighter fluid all the way down my throat and makes my eyes water.

  Jacob nods at someone across the room. “I’ll be right back, Catherine.” He takes off and I take another sip.

  Nope, I can’t do it. I poke around in the fridge for anything to dilute the liquor in my cup, adding some ice from the dispenser, a little water, and a liberal douse of the lemon juice I find. Strange for a wealthy host not to actually care about their guests when it comes to drinks and food. Appearance and image is everything for this group of people and the lack of aesthetics and presentation for their guests is truly confusing. It’s funny to think that growing up in my lower class neighborhood, families took pride in putting everything they could into a party. I get it though, fake bohemians who want to show they can get down and be authentic like the rest of us plebeians. But the facade doesn’t work on me; I can see right through it, but I’ve been around it enough now where the sting is a little easier to take each time.

  Blue-collar people seem to have more real fun, like they care about having a good time, not looking like they’re having a good time. It’s a small but important distinction. Non-celebrity partiers aren’t at a party to be seen. They’re there to cut loose after a long week, see their friends and maybe make some new ones. In Hollywood, no one has friends. They have contacts, acquaintances if they’re lucky, but I wouldn’t count on making any new ones here. Tinseltown is full of phonies and flakes—I learned that early on when arranging meetings with people. Trying to nail down interviews was a constant whack-a-mole game with people’s schedules and appointments.

  Drink marginally improved, I turn back to people-watch until my date returns. More guests have shown up and the music’s gotten louder. Now that I’m not preoccupied with which drugs people are doing, I recognize a few people. There’s a hot photographer here and a million young girls, barely twenty-one years old, clambering up the staircase to the house, their acts as cheap as their outfits, as they try to impress this guy. Like flies to a dead carcass, they cling to him, hoping to dip their fingers into his sickly sweet rot and feed off the prestige of being near to him.

  Even better if they get to be the one sucking him off at the end of the night.

  He doesn’t care about them at all. It’s so obvious. Everyone calls him “babe” or “sweetie”—I think because they don’t actually know who he is but he’s got a flock of followers so they think they should join in too. Strange they don’t know who he is but they’re right there too, in hopes to be his next side piece, or muse. I can tell it will never happen.

  I’ve studied body language extensively in the past couple years to better read people when interviewing them. It helps to know how to get them to open up, to know when to back off instead of pushing harder and questioning them more aggressively. This guy only cares about one person: himself. The rest are as disposable as the red plastic cups we are all drinking from.

  A hand snakes across my lower back and I turn to tell the person hands off, but it’s Jacob. “Hey.”

  I relax a little. “Hey. I found a way to make my drink better.”

  He sniffs. “Oh?”

  Oh. Jaw clenching, eyes brighter. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say my date leveled up on coke during his absence. Noth
ing flatters a girl more than her date needing to do hard drugs while in her presence. I’m not saying I’m as electrifying as blow, but it really grosses me out that he’s done this.

  He grins, oblivious to my regret at coming here with him. “Shall we walk around? Mingle? I’d love to show you off.”

  More like he’d love to move because his heart is racing and he’s got the attention span of a gnat. Show me off? I swallow my pride and with a hint of grace, I am able to muster up, “Sure.”

  The mushroom party group has progressed to the stage where someone’s dragged a lamp over to them, and they all stare at the jeweled facets as though they contain the meaning of life which will be unlocked if they look long enough.

  A group of people bump and grind in the far corner—some more than dancing, if you catch my drift.

  Jacob bumps fists with a few people as we make a circuit around the main floor, but doesn’t introduce me to anyone or “show me off” which is a sweet relief. Most people are so obliterated at this point they wouldn’t remember me unless I stripped naked and let people paint me with condiments they found in the fridge. Actually, that wouldn’t work. There were no condiments in the fridge. Besides, with the string bikinis with postage-stamp tops that barely cover areolas, nudity wouldn’t be memorable here.

  I clock a forty-something guy with a goatee and sunglasses as a girl pathetically tries to flirt with him by trying them on, giving him her best O face. Jacob gives him a brotherly embrace and introduces me, the name sounding familiar. I hear a French accent so I kiss him on the cheek instead of shaking his hand. Jacob whispers something in my ear about him having just won best music video at some awards show, and I realize the goatee and I have several friends—acquaintances—in common, so it’s more than likely he knows me as well. Now that I realize who he is, I feel slightly sick that I gave him a proper French introduction even though I shouldn’t. People flock to him, telling him which project they just acted in, hoping to be the next star. Some don’t care about being the star; they just want to get close enough to rub up against one for as long as it takes to shoot the video—maybe getting to fuck that musician in the video.