Extract: The Juliette Society by Sasha Grey



Sasha Grey

Before we go any further, let’s get this out of the way first.

I want you to do three things for me.

Do not be offended by anything you read beyond this point.

Leave your inhibitions at the door.

Three, and most importantly.
Everything you see and hear from now on must remain between us.

OK. Now let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.

If I told you that a secret club exists and its members are drawn only from the most powerful people in society: the bankers, the super-rich, media moguls, CEOs, lawyers, law enforcement, arms dealers, decorated military personnel, politicians, government officials and even distinguished clergy from the Catholic Church – would you believe me?

I’m not talking about something like the Illuminati.

No. On the face of it, this club is a lot more innocent.

On the face of it.

But not underneath.

This club, it meets up irregularly, at a secret location. Sometimes remote and sometimes hidden in plain sight. But never the same place twice. Usually not even in the same time zone.

And at these meetings, these people . . . let’s not beat around the bush, let’s call them what they are, the Masters of the Universe. So these people, the Executives, they use these private gatherings as much-needed down time from the important and stressful business of fucking the world up even more than it is already.

And what do they do on their off days, when they want to relax?

It should be obvious.

They fuck.

They call it the Juliette Society.

And if I told you that I’d managed to penetrate, pardon my French, the inner circle of this club, would you believe me?

It’s not as if I belong there. I’m a full-time third year college student. I major in film. I’m no one special.

And, at this point, I’m not going to come across like such a smart-ass anymore. Because, in truth, the closest I had ever come to the seat of power was in my head.

I have this recurring sexual fantasy. No, it’s not about fucking an old billionaire in his private jet over Saint-Tropez at thirty-five thousand feet. I can’t think of anything that would gross me out more. My fantasy, it’s much more down to earth – more mundane and intimate that that.

A few times a week I’ll go to pick up my boyfriend after work and sometimes, when he’s there late and ends up being the last one there to lock up, I fantasise about fooling around a bit with him in his boss’s office – but we’ve never actually done it. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she?

His boss is a senator. Or rather, a successful lawyer and would-be senator. And Jack, my boyfriend, is a staffer in his campaign office. As well as being an economics major. So I fantasise about playing my part as the dutiful girlfriend.

But I’m getting off the point. The point is, I had no business whatsoever being there, at the Juliette Society, among those people. And I didn’t exactly answer an ad or go to a job interview to gain entry to it.

Let’s just say I had a talent, a persuasion, a hunger.

And I was spotted.

We could argue back and forth forever about nature or nurture, but this talent, it’s not something I was born with. At least not that I’m aware of. No, this is something I realised. But it has been with me for a long time, hard-coded, buried like a switch in a sleeper agent, and only recently turned on.

And saying all that, how do I even begin to explain what happened that night? The first night I encountered the Juliette Society.