Free Decadence by Eric Jerome Dickey

love being tasted.
    By a woman or a man?
    By both.
    My interviewer, with the same casualness that she had employed when she had asked me if I desired a bottle of water, asked me if I wanted to make out with her. She wanted to experience my energy.
    Pupils dilating, voice husky and soft I asked her,
What is your name?
    Pupils dilating, breathing heavy, with a grin she whispered,
Anaïs. My name is Anaïs.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    The five senses of the interviewer Anaïs, the woman named after the Cuban Anaïs Nin, remained with me as I soaked inside my Jacuzzi bathtub. My iPad sat in a chair, the videos of the people at Decadence before my eyes. Venturing into the unknown, the dangerous always excited me.
    Maybe that was why I had been drawn to an occasional zipless encounter.
    The risk.
    The adrenaline.
    I knew that pleasure wasn’t happiness, but pleasure made me feel happy, if only for a while.
    As it had done when I was being interviewed, the sexual videos inspired and ignited me.
    I watched.
    I touched myself.
    I envisaged being loved by three stunning men.
    I fantasized about being a four-headed beast.
    I came.

SIX
    A demon of restlessness continued to govern me as I moved beyond the main entrance of the plush establishment. Wonderful fragrances seduced my sense of smell as I took in the crowd of tony sensualists outfitted in rich and sumptuous clothing.
    Waterfalls and the sounds of running water blended with mild chatter, as if this were a mainstream function and not a palladium of the secret desires of libertines. Haunting and relaxing music by E. S. Posthumus played, a score that was cinematic and classical and fused intertwined drumbeats. My heels joined the chorus of other heels that were clicking and clacking across marble floors. A woman puts on high heels and she feels like she is living inside of a brand-new body. Everything changes. Everything lifts.
    Extremely handsome, chivalrous, and gallant men opened doors for women, and those women thanked those men for opening doors, social graces that had all but gone the way of the dinosaur in the outside world. Already I was impressed by the architecture, the soft scents, and the sounds. The male species was courteous and attentive to the ladies—and every woman carried herself as if she were a lady.
    There was an area that was a dance club. Tailored suits. Dresses. Congressmen. Supermodels. Chemists. Architects. Engineers. Archaeologists. Musicians. Professional athletes. Many were dancing in couples or groups, laughing, kissing. More than impressed. Seduced. Three of five senses had been captured, the first impression remarkable.
    There was a sign that indicated this unfamiliar road that I walked was the direction to the undressing area. Underneath that sign was a quote.
    BEAUTY WHEN MOST UNCLOTHED IS CLOTHED BEST.
    â€”PHINEAS FLETCHER (1582–1650),
SICELIDES
    Â 
    I walked behind a group of graceful women dressed like they were at a political dinner party. All wore stunning shoes. Victoria Beckham no-heel boots and Louis Vuitton. They were drop-dead, marry-me-now gorgeous. They probably had super-handsome husbands, were super-rich, and made pretty babies. Wearing a backless black dress, I strolled with rhythm. Music eased into my blood. Sexual needs took a deep breath and a soft prickling sensation washed across my flesh. Arousal journeyed up my spine. I kept Need on its short leash.
    A brunette asked a wonderfully shaped blonde, “So if Alfredo puts his cock in some sexy woman’s mouth and rams it down her throat the way they did Obamacare, you going to be okay with it?”
    â€œI’d better have picked the woman.”
    More laughter came from a group of women who smelled like Scripps and Bryn Mawr collegiates. I turned left, right, then stepped onto a glass elevator. The elevator was held as a dozen more enchantresses got on, all in heels, some walking, some trotting, some with a sexy canter, others