Free Decadence by Eric Jerome Dickey Page A

with a sensual gallop. Filled with bubbling enthusiasm, a strawberry blonde hurried onto the lift last; she pulled a black carry-on like she was a flight attendant.
    She chuckled to her friends, “Speaking of swallowing, men love that new study.”
    A redhead said, “Doctor Conroy, you’re saying that women who swallow on a regular basis, I think you said once or twice a week, can reduce their risk of breast cancer by damn near forty percent.”
    â€œThat’s what the study said, Doctor Norton. It’s in the medical journals now.”
    â€œAnd you say that the study was done in North Carolina.”
    â€œA lot of cocksuckers in North Carolina. They should know.”
    They surrendered sophisticated, conservative laugher.
    They exited the elevator first. I followed them.
    Dragging carry-on luggage and laughing like they were staunch Republicans on a vacation in the Hamptons, they walked ahead of me, confident, excited. I slowed down and took in my new surroundings.
    My heartbeat was fast. I was nervous.
    The interior was dazzling, sexy, reeked of pomp and money, should have been on the turquoise waters off the coast of the Emirati capital. When I entered, the handsome workers up front had given me chocolate made by the legendary chocolatier Paul Wittamer, chocolate imported from Brussels, Belgium, and a glass of moscato cupcake wine. The chocolate plant’s botanical name was
Theobroma cacao
, which means
“food for the gods.” The chocolate was as mouth-watering as the people looked. Each nibble was orgasmic. Each taste made me moan as if I had been blindfolded and a lover was licking up and down my spine, his mouth filled with ice. The drink was another level of foreplay: It was liquid pleasure and held bright flavors and finesse, reminded me of a pineapple upside-down cake. I had to finish my arousing offerings before I left the changing rooms and went to Eros. Excitement and nervousness shaped a sensual dance, choreographed a passionate ballet inside of me. The next set of opaque French doors led to a beautiful and astounding section with the wonderful dance floor and a vast buffet with delicacies fit for kings and goddesses. I walked behind quidnunc women, relaxed women drinking chocolate martinis, margaritas, or cognacs with ginger ale and cherries, sipping their drinks as if they had sex in a glass.
    On the big screen they were playing celebrity porn. Not in an exploitive manner, but to demonstrate that the most famous of us were human, had needs, had dark sides. Regina Baptiste, her face in rapture, her orgasm apparent, her lovers come all over her hand. I knew her. I had shaken that same hand during a business meeting. Then it changed to a man and two exotic women. I recognized one of those women. She was Miss Trinidad. The other was Miss Japan. The man asked Miss Japan if she wanted it in the ass. His language was coarse, direct, exciting, like Henry Miller. She looked back at his erection and smiled, the room dark, and then she turned the light on. She laughed, a giggly, girl laugh. A woman pretending to be a naughty girl. She was facedown on a tan sofa, on her stomach, her legs together, and the camera moved and showed him giving her anal sex, her moans immediately sharp, and as he stroked her, the camerawoman, Miss Trinidad, reached in and finger-fucked Miss Japan at the same time. Miss Japan screamed, the stimulation intense. I didn’t want to watch, but I watched. I watched Anya share her man. He made love to Miss Japan as Anya watched. She smiled, enjoyed being a Watcher while he was being a Doer.
    A woman next to me said, “Isn’t that the sexy girl from
Project Runway
?”
    I nodded.
    The crowd stood like passengers on a subway, silent, and watched that segment. When the next segment started, no one moved.
    â€œI’ll have to try that upside-down blow job with my husband. That’s hot.”
    Soon bits from other celebrity videos played and were