The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (16 page)

The girls are gifted. When they have finished, I stand and stare in the mirror, admiring
myself. I am indeed Marie Antoinette.

Except for just one thing. I am wearing
nothing
between my stockinged and gartered thighs, and the gold-threaded hem of my whalebone
corset. My carefully waxed pubic hair, my ass, everything sexual—is on display. Everything
is
framed
. The delicate and antique costuming of the rest of me serves to make my utter nudity
there
all the more emphatic.

“But what about here?” I say, panicking now. “Where’s my skirt, my dress? Underwear!”

The handmaidens shrug, smiling but unhelpful.

“Is done. Now you go to the party?”

“What?”

One girl steps back and sweeps her hand.

“Is very beautiful. You very beautiful. Now finish. Now go.”

Go?

No. No way. I cannot do this. Not this. I can feel the breeze on my naked thighs,
even on this warm Tyrrhenian evening. My ass is reflected in a dozen mirrors, visible
to every gaze. The reflex of shame makes me want to grab at something—anything—to
conceal myself.

I sway with profound embarrassment. The girls are looking at me, arms crossed. So
this really is my costume: I really do have to walk out into the middle of the party
dressed like this. Or rather, not dressed in anything between my thighs and my navel.
So that everyone can see.

There is nothing to be done about it. I must
submit
. Girding myself, girding my
loins
, I walk to the entrance of the tent, where a girl pulls back a swath of canvas and
silk, hands me a glass of champagne, and allows me to exit.

I am in a daze. The world can see my bare ass, my everything. I am following a lantern-lit
path to a kind of terrace in front of that bigger tent, where many dozens of properly
dressed people are dancing and drinking and talking. I am naked between corset and
garter.

Then the music stops. And everyone turns and looks at me.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

A
T FIRST
I
am so embarrassed, so ashamed, I want to hide in the bushes with the cicadas.

No one is laughing at me, no one is mocking, or even leering, but everything within
me is telling me that this is wrong. But I continue walking into the party-going crowds,
between these elegant people holding their slender flutes of champagne, and as I proceed
they seem to part, in silent respect.

Now I see, as the music renews, that there are several other women, mingled among
the crowd, dressed
just like me
: these are my sisters, also being initiated. I recognize one or two faces. These
are the women from the tent, and their pudenda are also on display, fabulously framed
by historic stockings and lissome silks and complex corsetry, yet displayed nonetheless.

I have an urgent desire to talk with one of them. What are they feeling? What do
they
think about all this? My slight and natural shyness restrains me, but then I remember:
Hell, X, you are walking around a crowd of elegantly dressed rich people with no clothes
there
, not where it matters. And you are abashed by the idea of striking up a conversation?

I notice one girl, slightly apart and alone, standing under a lantern strung from
a tamarisk tree. She has a glass of golden champagne in her hand. Her head is tilted.
She is listening, it seems, to the music, which is a kind of amped-up string quartet,
lyrically classical but played with a definite African rhythm. The music makes me
want to dance, but I cannot dance dressed like this. Not sober, anyway.

The girl is very beautiful, with long, dark hair, studded with fine pearls and silver
pins. She looks like a large-eyed, taller Jessica—she has the same intelligent and
shrewd demeanor.

“Hello,” I say.

She turns. Her dark eyes narrow, inquiringly.

“Bonsoir.”

“Oh, ah, sorry.” I blush. Why am I blushing
now
? “Sorry, I did not realize—”

“No, no. It is okay. I am French, but I speak English.” Her smile is thoughtful.

I smile in return.

“Hello.”

Now she stares down, quite frankly, at my nudity; then she gestures down at her own
white thighs, and dark strip of hair.

“So. What do you think of our . . .
historic
costumes?”

I shake my head.

“I don’t know . . . Are they really historic?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “They really are historic. They used to wear them at the court
of Napoleon. Haven’t you ever heard of a furbelow?”

I pause, then I laugh, rather anxiously. It’s a clever joke. I think a furbelow is
a ruffle or flounce, a frill worn by a pretty girl in the eighteenth or nineteenth
century, maybe a particularly lacy collar. But furbelows are definitely the best way
of describing the appearance of this girl and me tonight.

This girl? I realize I haven’t asked her name.

“I am Alexandra, by the way. Or X.”

“Hello, X. I’m Françoise.”

We shake hands. I inquire:

“If you don’t mind me asking—who is initiating you?”

Françoise gestures at the crowds of people, drinking and chattering and gossiping;
the crowds are definitely getting louder and more boisterous as the champagne flows.

“Daniel de Kervignac. French like me. But he is a banker in the City, we live in London.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. Though he is forty-two. So maybe not so much a boy. My
amant
is a better word.”

“Okay.” I sip champagne. I realize we are making casual small talk. Dressed like the
most outrageous whores in history. The contrast is odd. But less odd than it was ten
minutes ago.

“And you?”

“Marc Roscarrick.”

Her eyes widen.

“Lord Roscarrick?
The
Lord Roscarrick?”

“Yes.” My mouth gets ahead of me. “Why? You know him? You know of him? Why?”

She smiles decorously.

“X? I will call you X? Yes, X,
everyone
has heard of Marcus Roscarrick. Everyone has heard of the
molto bello
—”

“
E scapolo Lord Roscarrick,
” I add, sighing and shaking my head. “Okay, okay, I get it—I read the websites. I
suppose he is a celebrity to most people.” I look in her brown eyes. “It’s just that
I’m from
California
, and European aristocrats are like soccer players to me. We’ve never heard of them.
Might as well be moons of Neptune.”

She smiles.

“Good for you. Celeb culture is generally trash. Though your Lord Roscarrick is quite
certainly a catch—the catch of the season.” She steps a little closer and whispers
conspiratorially to me. “What is he really like? Is he, ah, a little . . . dangerous?
Like they say? Is he
really
that exciting?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean,” her mouth flutters, “his beautiful wife, the other rumors . . . Ah,
forgive me
. This is wrong. I am tattling. You are a lucky woman. And besides, we are meant to
be mysterious and enigmatic, no? Standing here with the Origin of the World on show.”

She gazes down below her waist, once again, and adds, “This better be worth it. The
Brazilian was
immoderately
painful.”

I laugh brightly once again. But my laughter is brittle and mixed with more misgivings.
What does she mean about Marc? I want to inquire further but a loud French voice interrupts.

“Françoise, J’ai cherché pour toi.”

This, evidently, is her boyfriend. He is regulation Handsome Older Guy, graying at
the temples, broad shouldered, emanating a sense of wealth and privilege, and wearing
a very top-drawer tailored tux. He is no Marc Roscarrick, though.

The Frenchman gives me a brief and courtly nod, his eyes only flickering below my
waist for a second. He shakes my hand as we are introduced, and then he takes Françoise’s
fingers in his own and guides her away. As she goes, she turns, and gives me a warm
and expressive glance.

“Good-bye, X,” she calls over her shoulder. “I am
sure
we will meet again.”

I muse on this for a moment. I suppose she is right. If she is enacting the Mysteries
through the summer, we probably
will
meet again. I am glad about this, because I felt that inkling of incipient friendship
with Françoise, and I definitely feel I need an ally. I also want to know more of
what she knows about Marc. Or do I?

Draining my glass of champagne, I watch, quite thoughtfully, as Françoise disappears
deeper into the crowds.

Her white ass looks beautiful and sexy as she walks on her stacky eighteenth-century
heels, between the dressed and normal partygoers. I had expected to find the sight
somewhat comical, but I don’t. Françoise looks imperious; she looks a little glorious;
she looks, in fact, like one of those beautiful Arab racehorses, a Thoroughbred being
led around the paddock of a racecourse—not for the purposes of leering or jeering,
but for the purposes of pure and sincere and wholly serious admiration. The glances
she is getting are respectful, maybe even a little awed.

That’s it
. Her nudity, her seminudity, is giving her a kind of
power
. She is the center of attention, the one carrying it off. I’ve heard it said before:
semi-naked men usually look ridiculous, or at least weakened; semi-naked or half-dressed
women, by contrast, have an enigmatic but awesome power—especially over men. And in
these strange, strange costumes that power is amplified, and magnified, a classical
music turned to the hundredth decibel. Deafening. The Origin of the World.

Goddammit. I take another glass of champagne from a handy silver tray borne by one
of the handmaidens, and then I plunge into the crowd myself.

And it works. I get the same awed respect. Older women gaze at me, briefly, with a
mixture of envy and nodding empathy. The men are all bowing, very slightly, like diplomats
and courtiers acknowledging a superior: a princess or a passing queen. If they had
hats they would be doffing them.

Yet there is also a decadence here, as I press between the mingled people. A girl
lightly touches my hip as she breezes past. It happens again; it is no accident. I
sense another hand, a male hand, on my ass—then it is gone. I turn, to see who it
was, yet I am not alarmed. Maybe I am somewhat drunk, but the situation is not distressing,
it is playful, delicate, and, yes, erotic.

The fizz of the champagne tingles in my nose. I drink more. People brush past me;
I feel more hands on my nudity. I do not mind. It is good; I am enjoying this. And
then at last I find Marc, with three other men. He turns and introduces me, but I
forget their names because I am a little drunk. The men—English and fair-haired—kiss
my hand, and they each look, for a few seconds, at my very obvious, particular, and
unusual nakedness. And my shame has gone: I feel a power over them.
Look at me. Go on, look at me. I dare you
. I am laughing now, and joking with Marc.
I
feel
decadent
.

The music steps up. It is a vividly quick waltz: amplified and underlined by that
driving pagan beat. A waltz—thank you, Dionysus—is the only formal dance I know. I
look at Marc and he takes my hand in his, guiding me to the wide stone terrace that
overlooks the sea, and there we dance, among the other dancers. We dance quickly,
my head on his chest, my hand clasped in his.

And I am glad that everyone can see everything; let everyone see it all, let everyone
do whatever they want. The night is lovely; the champagne is chilled; the moon is
amazed and pleased; the stars are cleaned and polished so bright. And Marc has placed
his hand on the small of my back where the tight lacing presses the whalebone into
my ribs, forcing my breasts up. I feel perfumed and weightless.

“You look utterly lovely,” he says.

“Not ridiculous?”

“Not ridiculous,
carissima
. The very opposite of ridiculous. I am very proud.”

“Why?”

His hand has strayed below my corset: it is now on my ass, gently squeezing.

I look at him. And smile demurely. And say nothing. We both pretend that nothing is
happening.

“I have seen other women shy away at this point. The Second Mystery is difficult.”

His hand squeezes my ass once more. The faint blue stubble of his jawline looks very
fine in this sculpting light. His lips are half apart, and smiling; there is a glimpse
of sharp white teeth.
Squeeze me more, Marc Roscarrick, squeeze me more.

“What happens to the men?” I ask. “What is the male initiation?”

He looks me in the eye; our lips are three inches apart. We step across the terrace,
dancing, and dancing, and turning, his hand still firmly on my bottom, and he says,
“It is different. Much more violent. It can be—frightening . . .”

“How?”

“Another time,” he says. “But now—just look at you, like a Dresden doll. And only
a
little
deviant.”

He steps back, releasing my ass, and he twirls me on one hand. This is barely a waltz
now, this is more like dancing as I know it normally. Young and free-form. Just heathen.
Pagan. Nearer to sex. Quite African.
Dionysian?
People in formal clothes dancing informally quite often look stupid, but here it
seems normal: dancing with billionaires and
principesse,
dancing above the ruins of the Villa of Tiberius, dancing above the great marble
palace of Iovis, where the aged roman emperor filled his scented garden with naked
boys and girls, hidden in niches and alcoves, in honor of the Gods of wildness and
debauchery, of Pan and Eros and Bacchus.

And so the night unfurls. I drink too much. Marc tells me that this is fine, he tells
me everyone drinks too much in the Second Mystery. We dance close again, and he pulls
me to his chest, and slips his hand between my thighs, and rubs me very gently just
once—just once, but oh, oh—and as he does this he tells me that drinking is the honor
due to Dionysus. Then he tells me things I don’t understand—because I am drunk. And
because I want him to keep touching me, in public. Make me come in public. Why not?

Yet he stops. Abruptly. And I turn.

Everyone has stopped. The music has ceased. What is this? Grasping my hand Marc guides
me across the terrace. Now I see that my sisters—five women who are being initiated—are
also being led by their escorting men. We are all walking up some wooden steps to
five gilded and feminine chairs that are positioned on a marble dais, above the terrace
of dancers.

Silence rules. Marc whispers in my ear:

“Sit.”

Obediently, I sit in one of the chairs. I can hear the cicadas rasping again. What
is happening? Gazing along the chairs, I notice Françoise seated on my left, with
Daniel standing at her side. She looks at me, her eyes are unfocused. She tries to
smile. But she also seems rather unnerved.

A young man in a dark suit reads from a kind of parchment. The crowd is hushed, watching
and listening. It is all in
Latin
. Then it dawns: this is the moment when I am enrolled—this is the scene on the frescoes
in Pompeii—the man reading from a scroll, announcing the induction of five more women
into the Mysteries of Dionysus.

“Quaeso, Dionysum, haec accepit mulieres in tibi honesta mysteria . . .”

The man stops speaking. I get ready to rise, but Marc leans down and whispers in my
ear, once again: “Sit, Alexandra, be still.”

I wait. The handmaidens are back. And this time one of them is holding some kind of
tool—complex, silvery and metallic, vaguely gun-shaped. Is it maybe medical? I try
to focus through the alcohol and my rising panic. What is this?

Marc is leaning closer.

“Be calm, X, be calm.
Let it happen
.”