Free Decadence by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

celebrated. Tyson Beckford masturbating. Colin Farrell and Nicole Narain. Sasha Grey. Kim Kardashian. Jayne Kennedy. Paris Hilton. Daniella Cicarelli. Pamela Anderson. Spears. Lohan. Lavigne. Keeley Hazell.
    Recording was an act of vanity, a foolish act of vanity, performing for self, the eye of the camera the ultimate voyeur. That was arousing. The eye could not see itself so we needed the camera to be our eye, to allow us to see our faces of arousal. It allowed us to see our own reactions. See how intense we were. See self during a thousand little deaths. Then watch ourselves return to life, feel that awareness, that shame that came from being so primal, and smile, giggle, laugh as amazement painted our faces. The ultimate act of being a Doer.
    When I glanced above my head, once again I was in awe.
    I was walking underneath a glass floor.
    Sixteen feet above our heads, in another stunning hallway decorated with Kama Sutra art, as I paused in the crowd of women, we saw handsome, well-dressed men heading into their undressing rooms. Above us, the men looked like gods in Italian suits, business suits, adorned with Rolexes and Montblanc watches, each god in well-shined shoes. Women could come alone, but men could only enter when they were with a woman; so there were no stragglers, no perverts in search of a night of sex, not like in a strip club, not like at any other club on a Friday night. The male species had to pay four times the amount that women had to pay to join, and the same ratio for the nightly admission. Renting yoni from a renowned madam was much cheaper than a membership here. A few of the men paused and looked down at us. A few smiled down at their lovers. Some waved and flirted. Women paused, looked up, smiled at the well-dressed gentlemen, and did the same. The aesthetics were breathtaking and reassuring that this was not a lurid place where one came to cheapen his or her existence. It was opulent and elegant as if Tomas Pearce had been hired to come down from Ontario, Canada, on a private jet to design and build this exotic and stimulating space himself.
    Underneath the glass floors, I paused and read one of the colorful, playful signs.
    WE BELIEVE THAT SEX IS BEAUTIFUL.
    Â 
    Along the walls was erotic art by Frenchman Édouard-Henri Avril. Lovers in standing positions. Missionary. Woman on top. Rear entry. Socrates and Alcibiades. Fellatio. Male masturbation.
    And on display, as if it were in a museum, was a Bible. Not the standard Bible but the Wicked Bible, sometimes called the Adulterous Bible, or the Sinner’s Bible. The collectible version that had been printed by the royal printers in London back in 1631. It was probably the most famous misprint in history. I’d seen one of the Bibles when I was in London; saw it on display at the British Library, opened to the misprinted commandment. The word
not
had been omitted from Exodus 20:14, giving new meaning to the seventh commandment. The Wicked Bible was opened to that same misprinted commandment.
    Thou shalt commit adultery.
    That scandalous version of the Bible was worth close to one hundred thousand dollars. For a regular King James Version of the Bible to have that value it would have to be signed by Moses, Jesus, and God. The Bible had distracted me more than the art. That knowledge-seeking part of my brain was being stimulated. I was unaware. He probably saw me then, from above, through the glass floor, caught a glimpse as I paused and read. He had a bird’s-eye view of a woman in six-inch heels and a black dress, her hair straight, her Trinidadian features more mature, and that well-earned maturity decorated with enough makeup to make me look as if I were going to a fashion shoot. I no longer looked collegiate. I think that he had seen me and memories came, but had dismissed it, then memories dissipated, dismissed his past long before I had seen him.
    If I hadn’t been distracted by the chatty women, I might’ve looked up and