Deconstructing Delilah, page 8
“Oh, good grief.” Lorelai laughs. “That was a bad one, even for you.” I’ve become an expert at dumb dad jokes, tending to let one loose whenever emotions run a little high around me. It’s a coping mechanism, I know, but at least it’s not a harmful one.
“I’ll be fine, Lore. Cookie has my back,” I say.
“I’m your ride or die,” my friend confirms.
“I know, I know. Maybe I just don’t like change,” Lorelai muses.
Maybe she’s pregnant again.
“It’s a good change,” Noah says. “Remember how far you’ve come.”
“Remember who you are,” Lorelai says, a reminder she often gives me, so that I don’t fall to societal pressures. She frames my face with her warm hands for the next part. “You can handle whatever comes your way. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” I confirm, letting her know I understand.
“I love you, sweet girl.”
“I love you, too, Lorelai.” I smile warmly and hug her tightly before they leave.
“Wine?” Cookie asks.
“Yes, please. Let’s celebrate our new place before I call it a night.”
“You’re going to do fine at the new job. My mom wouldn’t have hired you if she didn’t have faith in you.”
Jasmine initially hired me to intern at the talent agency she owns. It was a paid position, and since I had no bills of my own, I invested my paychecks. My returns were sizeable. Jasmine was so impressed with both my skills in the office and with my portfolio that she got her friend who owns a brokerage firm to sponsor my securities testing and series 7 and 65 exams. After that, she offered me a position at a club she now co-owns. Technically, I won’t be just a financial advisor for the club, I’ll be more of an office manager with plans to eventually be the CFO.
She wants to expand to other cities and states. She’d like to offer more services to her clientele. All of which takes capital. Jasmine would prefer not to keep increasing membership fees. That’s where I come in. Maximize investments and capital.
For a twenty-three-year-old woman, it’s an insane ask. Jasmine assures me I’m up to it. Succeed or fail, it’s a great opportunity for me straight out of college and with a past like mine.
“I’d rather hire a young, tenacious woman than a crusty old asshole who thinks he knows everything,” Jasmine had said when I expressed my concern.
I agreed to a trial contract, giving her an out if I mess everything up. It’s not that I’m not confident in my skills at investing. I am. These past several years I’ve done little else but throw myself into learning everything I can about the business of making money. I’m very good, if I allow myself a little bit of vanity.
Noah thinks that not having a lifetime of preconceived notions about business helps me see things from a fresh perspective. I’m not tied to the norms and traditions. Maybe that’s true, or maybe it’s a sole focus to never be reliant on a man to provide me with my basic needs again.
My anxiety about this new position isn’t due to so much to my lack of experience in business, though. I can learn anything I need to on that end. The environment, the people I will be working with and around – that’s what has me most nervous.
I’m still rather awkward around people, the years away from the ranch haven’t fully remedied that. Dating has helped force me out of my shell, even if I’m not very active with all of that. I did have a boyfriend for several months though. Andrew, he was a sweet guy, pious and understanding about my past. We got on well until he was ready for more. He proposed one Saturday night along the river, under the stars. It was romantic, but it didn’t feel right. I asked for time to consider it. Though he said that was fine, and I could take all the time I needed, two days later, he took it all back. He hasn’t spoken to me since. I reached out for weeks and got nothing in return. It’s hard to understand what went wrong.
Losing a friend made me sad, losing Andrew as a boyfriend did not. So, I guess no would have been my answer regardless. Besides, we’d only been dating for a few months, it was too fast.
“I’m proud of you, too,” Cookie says, handing me a glass of red and taking a seat next to me.
“What for?”
“You’ve come a long way since that day I forced you to be my friend,” she says, and I laugh because that’s not exactly how I remember it. “You’re confident in yourself and your abilities. You don’t shy away from any sort of challenge. I’ve never known anyone to push themselves as hard as you do to learn something or accomplish whatever you’ve put your mind to. Plus, you’re kind of fun to be around.”
“You only say that because I’ll watch all the movies with you that other people think are cheesy.”
“Bring it On and Step Up are not cheesy.” She frowns.
“We cheer and we lead.
We act like we're on speed!
Hate us 'cause we're beautiful. Well, we don't like you either!
We're cheerleaders!
We are cheerleaders,” I yell as I do my best to move my arms in the right positions without spilling my wine all over our carpet.
“Yeah, okay,” Cookie laughs. “It’s a little cheesy. But you love it!”
I didn’t get the jokes the first time we watched it, but I’m much less sheltered these days. Cookie always takes the time to clarify things for me. We’ve only grown closer these past years. She’s my confidant in all things, and I am hers.
She has told me how much pressure she felt growing up with such a strong and ambitious mother figure, how embarrassing it was when some high-school classmates figured out who her parents are and what they’re like in their private lives. Cookie doesn’t have a dominant bone in her. Fig, her brother, takes after their mother more than she does. Cookie is much more like her father, Bradley. Quiet, observant, and caring.
She felt unremarkable in her mother’s shadow. Though that was a self-induced pressure and she’s worked her way through it. Her parents are fantastic, as far as I’m concerned. Nothing about them says they would ever want either of their children to be anything they aren’t. And they’d be loved regardless.
It wasn’t easy for me to understand how she worried about such things coming from a family like she has. But the more we talked, the more I realized not all wounds are delivered with direct blows. And Cookie and I are not so different when you break it all down.
We’re both much stronger women than we were when we first met.
“I’m proud of you too, you know? You’re the best person I know, and I love you.”
“I know,” she says with a laugh. It’s how we always answer each other when we express our love; with a nod to Han Solo and the first movies we watched together. She still calls me her padawan, but I don’t mind. I do still have much to learn.
The following day, I arrive at Lupus et Agnus earlier than needed. Anxiousness has gotten the better of me. I’m excited to work, to learn a new business even if the butterflies in my stomach are screaming that this place is a den of sin.
I’ve learned not to judge others for their lifestyle choices, though. If it causes no harm to anyone, it’s not for me to look down upon. Lorelai and I spoke in detail about what I witnessed that evening at Pope’s house, a lot about different sexual preferences and kinks.
Talking about them and witnessing them are two completely different things, though.
Now here I am, about to enter the belly of the beast.
The club is housed in an old three-story building at the edge of the French Quarter. It’s rather nondescript from the outside, painted a rainy-day gray with black iron balcony railings. The only thing that stands out is the dark plum door with an ornate L on it.
Not knowing the protocol, I push the button to ring the doorbell and wait, once more checking over myself; smoothing wrinkles that don’t exist. This world I’m about to step into is about as far from the world I grew up in as I can imagine.
Well, except for it centering on sex.
Years of therapy have helped me see more of my upbringing for what it was. A sex trafficking ring under the guise of religion. It’s changed my relationship with my faith. I still believe in God. I don’t so much believe in religion any longer.
Jasmine answers the door before I have the chance to fall too far deep into that rabbit hole.
“You’re early, dear,” she greets. “Wanting to get the lay of the land?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“No, not obvious. But I like to think I know you well enough now to understand you,” she says, holding the door open for me. “Come in, I’ll introduce you to my partner in crime.”
The foyer is dimly lit, Edison bulb fixtures dance light across the charcoal walls of the small space. There is a door to the left, and straight ahead, another one is flanked by a hostess stand.
“This is where members check in before heading inside the club.” She points to the door in front of us. “We have them check in and out, for added security. The offices are this way.”
She types a code into a keypad, and I follow her through the door on the left where a staircase takes us up two floors. The walls here are all void of color, just as below. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected anything less of a sex club, but it’s going to be an adjustment for sure. At least the office area has a few front facing windows allowing natural light in.
“This is my office,” she says, pointing to the first office. “Yours is next, feel free to do with it what you’d like. The previous owner told me he liked the gothic atmosphere, wanted everyone to imagine a vampire was watching them from the shadows, or some nonsense.” She waves her hands at the walls as she rolls her eyes. At the last door, Jasmine knocks.
“Come in,” a faintly accented voice calls from the other side.
“Fabienne, this is Delilah. Delilah, meet Fabienne Basquiat.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Basquiat,” I say to the statuesque woman. She’s rather breathtaking with white hair, terra-cotta skin, and draped in a long dress that plunges down deep below her cleavage. Fabienne isn’t as young as Jasmine, I’d guess at her being in her mid-sixties. Yet she’s still exquisitely handsome.
“Fabienne, and Fabienne only, my dear,” she says with a wide smile. “Jasmine tells me you are something of a savant with money.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I laugh. “I’m good with figures and a fast learner, is all.”
“Well, Miss Fast Learner, how would you like to start?”
“With a tour, if you don’t mind. I need an understanding of what happens here, how it all works. Honestly, I’m rather naïve to the lifestyle.”
“We all were at one time,” Fabienne says. “You just happen to have the two best teachers around, though.”
“We’re teaching her the business, Fab, nothing else,” Jasmine says with a sternness that her eyes betray. She’s told me several times that whatever questions I may have about all things sexual, she’s happy to answer. Jasmine believes in empowering women in any way she can. That’s likely why she took me under her wing when Cookie and I filled her in on my past. Like me, she doesn’t want me beholden to anyone.
“Oh, of course. But if that ever changes,” Fabienne lets her words drop off. “We’re still closed for another two weeks while we finish up the changes we’re making to the place. The contractor will be back tomorrow. If you’d like your office painted, pick a color from the samples on my desk and I’ll have him take care of it. Oscar believed everyone could live happily in the dark all the time, ridiculous man that he was.”
“I’ll do that, thank you,” I reply as I follow the pair back down the stairs to the small lobby.
“Every member must check in. For security, we like to know who is here at any given time. But also, so that they can’t walk a guest in who hasn’t gone through the proper vetting,” Fabienne states.
“What’s the vetting process?”
“Lupus et Agnus is very exclusive with a high caliber list of clientele. Because of that, not just anyone can be brought in. We run a background check on any potential guest. If they pass that, they go through a thorough orientation. You’ll need to go through that as well.”
“Of course,” I agree.
“The first thing you should know is that Lupus et Agnus is a community, a family. We don’t exist for the sole purpose of letting people come in and work out their kinks. We hold regular events aimed to educate on different aspects of the lifestyle, from aftercare to proper caning techniques, we even have a shibari expert who comes by a few times a year.”
“Shibari. That’s the Japanese ropes, yes?”
“Yes. People outside of the lifestyle seem to think clubs like ours are nothing more than BDSM dungeons. We are a little bit that, but we’re also so much more,” Fabienne says.
Jasmine opens the second door, holding it for me to enter. An infinitesimal shutter runs through me, but I swallow it down and enter the sex club. The first room is a bar which Fabienne calls the salon, I imagine members gathering here. Relaxing and waiting for the right person, or persons, to appear. It’s still rather dark with deep blue subtly printed wallpaper, rather than the black of every other space I’ve been. Jasmine explains that they’ll be making little improvement here, as members prefer the warm and inviting space while they shed the bright, loud outer world.
Fabienne schools me on the bar and its strict three-drink limit. Again, a security measure to ensure there is no question regarding consent. The bartenders have full power to cut off any member before that third drink, if they see fit, and guards are always present to back up any of the staff. The rules, and measures in place, ease my nerves some.
From the bar, we take another door leading to a long, wide hallway lined with windows on both sides, plush armchairs set here and there.
“Oscar called the first floor the Voyeur’s Garden,” Fabienne says. “Ten rooms, all equipped with windows facing the hallway. You can always see in, but it’s up to the inhabitants of each room if they want to see out. Allows a little mystery.”
Jasmine opens the first door and shows me the switch on the window that allows us to see out to the hallway. The room itself is sparse, nothing but a large bed sits in the center of the room. Dressed in white sheets that match the stark, bare walls. White… innocent, holy, virginal. All too familiar for me. My pulse speeds with memories of the ‘special tutoring’ I was given as a child.
You are not back at that place, Delilah.
“This is the White Room, for obvious reasons,” Jasmine tells me before heading to the next room. I’m thankful we move on quickly.
Fabienne opens the door to the next room, black walls show themselves in here. Like the White Room, the walls are bare, except for large steel rings placed in various locations around the room. On the walls, ceilings, and in a few spots on the floor. Fabienne flips a switch, and the room is drenched in darkness for a moment before a million twinkling stars brighten on the walls and ceiling, bringing the space to life under black light. It wouldn’t be impossible to spectate, but it would be more private than the first room.
“The rings?” I ask, sheepishly.
“Are for securing someone where you want them to be. We have collars, cuffs, tethers, and leashes available. Though many subs come in wearing a master’s collar already.”
“Okay.” I nod and swallow. Cookie has broken down some of the basics for me, I didn’t walk through these doors completely blind today. That’s not making it that much easier though.
From there, we move to the Swing Room, which has nothing more than a sex swing hanging from the ceiling. Fabienne and Jasmine take the time to demonstrate how it works, but they keep it lighthearted and fun. We’re all laughing by the time we enter the next room down, and while this is still so far outside my wheelhouse, I feel safe here with these women.
“We used to call this the Red Room, but then that book came out so we’ve changed it,” Jasmine says. I don’t know what book she’s referring to, and I don’t ask. “It’s the Moulin Rouge now.”
If I had known a place like this could exist, I would have fantasized it as my dream room from a young age. It has a large crimson canopy bed with plush velvet bedding and wispy drapes. The walls are floral and another swing in the corner; this one simple and made of polished wood, like you’d find hanging in a tree. The rest of the space is cluttered with gilded mirrors and upholstered furnishings in arrays of reds and pinks.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s our favorite,” Fabienne agrees.
The last room on this side of the hall is bigger than the others and full of equipment. Some things look like they should be in a doctor’s office, others look like gymnast equipment. Again, the two women show me how some of them are used.
“What’s this room named?”
“Gluttony,” Jasmine says with a grin, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Oscar kept the rooms the same for over a decade, we’ve been changing many of them up and will keep doing that. Rotating themes should keep it more entertaining for all involved. Though this room will stay much the same.”
“The rooms are attended; everything is cleaned in between use. Our dungeon master is the best in the world, if I say so myself. And we always have several dungeon monitors for this floor alone. Nothing goes without notice, so everyone plays safely.” Fabienne opens a door at the end of the hall that has cabinets, washers, and dryers. “You okay to go up a floor? We don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I’m good,” I promise while doing a self-check to make sure it’s true. It’s a practice Dr. Price taught me. A moment of pause to check for signs of anxiety so that I don’t rush into anything that may be triggering. “How many members are there?”
“Five hundred, with a waitlist of roughly twelve hundred.”
“Seriously?” I ask, astonished by the high count.
Fabienne hums. “Nearly half of our members are not local to New Orleans. Same with most of the waitlist. We’re a… destination.”
“It’s why we want to expand,” Jasmine confirms. If they had something similar to this in a handful of large cities, it could be extremely lucrative.
