Jaden House
The first chapter of my new kinky novel
Somebody told me there were at least six levels although they could only confirm two. Six glorious fucked up kinky levels of weird shit that I had only dreamed of — six separate spaces where the impossible might happen.
Standing outside the door, my hand shaking as I contemplated knocking, it was hard to imagine. Even the bar sounded too good to be true, let alone anything else. After ten years of playing games, going to every decent sex party I could find, and generally pretending to be in the know, I was ready for a change.
To be specific, I was ready for something real.
The somebody who gave me the address was an ex-boyfriend named Raul. He was the guy I used to fuck girls with, and while we had a fantastic time most nights, we drifted apart for the same reason as always. Nevertheless, he called me one night after a few drinks and told me he had found it. It wasn’t for him–he assured me of that–but after all we had been through, he thought maybe it would be the thing to finally shut me up. Or bring me peace — one of the two.
The door in question wasn’t especially impressive. It was wood–I had been sure it would be–but while it looked old and somewhat refined, it wasn’t one which would typically stop Instagrammers on the street. It was merely a wood door with a brass knocker on it. The number above read six, and for a moment, I wondered if that was where the rumor came from.
Mustering my courage, I knocked precisely three times as Raul had instructed me. Half of me wanted to run away, and the other half was so confident in my disbelief that I was hardly nervous at all.
Once you’ve stood in the middle of the Vault watching six women pee on a naked old man or you’ve sat in a hotel penthouse watching a supermodel take two giant cocks at the same time you become a little bored. Throw in some medical scenes, a couple of single hook suspensions, and more beatings than you can count, and it can be a bit of a yawn.
So when the door opened, and a genderless beauty waved me in, I was ready to be disappointed.
“Thomas Meadow, otherwise known as Mr. New York.”
It wasn’t a question, so all I could do was nod and wonder how the heck they knew my names — both my scene name and my real one. Raul must have fucking called them; there was no other explanation. But while it was a bit eerie, it wasn’t so out the realm of normal that I was worried. Or impressed. Hell, most parties I went to had a guest list, and I had enough of an internet presence I wasn’t overly shocked when someone recognized me.
“I’d take your coat, but I see you don’t have one. We have a seat for you by the end of the bar.”
As my eyes adjusted to the scene in front of me, I felt my heart skip a beat. It wasn’t full of half-naked people with collars and chains on (thank God) but it was beautiful. The furniture was Mid-Century Modern and looked like a study I had scene preserved at the Brooklyn Museum. Beautiful curved wood in lacquered blonde was accented by silver and chrome. Leather mingled with luxurious fabrics seamlessly, and the details were exquisite.
The bar lined one full wall of the small room, while the other side was sparsely populated by low round chairs and tables, each one large and comfortable. Behind the bar was a window looking out into an immaculately kept garden. The patterns continued through the windows, the lead crisscrossing the panes in beautiful swirls reflecting light. While one woman sat alone at the bar, it was otherwise empty. And as my host indicated, there was a vacant chair at the far end which had been pulled out and angled comfortably in my direction.
I sat down, trying to keep calm, as I took in the scene. There was nothing kinky about it. Nothing that yelled, this is a sex club and nothing that told me I had found anything other than a beautiful speakeasy. At least nothing from a casual glance.
The two people behind the bar were as ambiguously gendered as the person who let me in, and they were also decked out in suit pants, pressed white shirts, and suspenders. Their sleeves were rolled up and held tightly by subtle leather garters. With their hair cropped short, their clothes identical, and their mannerism similar, I might have assumed they were twins if I was feeling pervy.
“How’s a Manhattan sound?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, offering the warmest smile I could manage. I’m a calm and cool person, I thought loudly. Completely collected thank you. I’m not about to freak out because I think I discovered nirvana. And I’m not intimidated by the people behind the bar — not one bit. I’m Mr. New Fucking York, and I have done and seen it all.
“We have a delicious rye from a customer down south. Single barrel. Made just for us.”
“Well, that sounds decadent.”
“It’s high on my list of favorites,” they said.
I watched as they casually stirred the drink before pouring it into a chilled glass right up to the rim. With a smile, they twisted a bit of orange peel, seared it with a lighter, and rested it on top of the drink exactly the way I like it. I have nothing against a fancy cherry, but the citrus of the orange mixed with the smoke adds something to a Manhattan I can’t describe.
“So, what brings you to Jaden House?”
They slid the drink towards me on a simple leather coaster before leaning back against the wooden bar. Their smile was friendly without being inviting.
“My ex-boyfriend recommended it. He told me it was my sort of place, which now that I’m sitting here, I suppose I can’t argue with. At least this part.”
If they raised an eyebrow or hid a bit of a knowing smirk, I’m not sure. But when I took a sip of the drink, I realized that I was more right than I knew. The rye tasted like the field they had grown the grain in and whatever vermouth they used was the exact right amount of sweet. Add in the orange, and it was by far the best Manhattan I’d ever had. If there was no secret sex pit hidden somewhere on premises, I might not even mind.
“So, tell me something, Mr. New York. Do you like to beat up little girls?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, give them a bit of a spanking? Do you like to tie them up, beat their asses black and blue and then fuck them as they call you Daddy?”
It occurred to me in a flash of either insight or stupidity that this might be a test. But if it was, I wasn’t sure how to answer. Might they be wondering if I was some Tumblr Dom who crept on minors while claiming to be a real top? Could they be trying to weed out the misogynists who always sneak their way into the kink scene via the guise of consensual abuse?
On the other hand, if any of the rumors were true, I might be in a different situation altogether. While language is complicated, and context is everything, I do enjoy the things they so casually listed. Might honesty be a better course of action?
“On occasion,” I said, feeling somewhat smug about my well thought out response.
“Assuming it’s what they want,” I added defensively.
Shit, was I already failing?
“So more of a sensitive new age guy than a twue dom?”
They said the last words in a long slur, the way we all say it. At least when we’re making fun of a very particular type of person. The first option in their suggestion however, wasn’t ideal for me either. Shit, if I had to choose between the two, I’m not sure which direction I’d go in.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, pausing to take another sip of my drink. “While I do have an emotional range wider than that of a toaster, I wouldn’t say I’m overly sensitive. I might have a bit of a morality fetish, but I try not to let it get in the way of having fun.”
“I’ll be you a thousand dollars he doesn’t get past The Lounge.”
The twin of the bartender had a deeper voice and was casually smoking on the far side of the bar, a zippo flicking open and shut in their hand. The woman seated in front of them gave me a shrug as is to say it wasn’t up to her, and my bartender began to look me up and down like a prized hog.
“Give me a second,” they shot back.
“Well, you can’t ask more questions now. It’s not fair. Either say yes or no. Don’t be a bitch; I can already tell you think you know different.”
“Fine, I’ll take it,” they said, leaning in and staring at me so intently I wasn’t sure if I should come or pee my pants. Stepping up on the rail, their face was so close to mine that I could taste their breath, and I found courage somewhere inside me that felt like a combination of pride and desire. The desire, in this case, was not to embarrass the beautiful person staring at me by fucking up so badly I lost their bet.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
“I’m Jaq,” they said, stepping back and reaching a hand out.
“Thom, but I guess you know that.”
“Not Mr. New York?”
Shit, was this another test?
“It doesn’t seem all that important to be honest. Besides, I thought we were getting to know each other.”
When in doubt, try flirting your way out of it.
“He thinks he’s smooth,” said the other bartender. “Probably self-aware too. You know what they’re like.”
“Don’t mind my sibling. They always think they know everything there is to know about a minnow the second they walk in the door.”
“Minnow?” I asked, raising a brow.
“You are new,” the other patron said, turning her chair to face me. She was wearing a black dress which screamed New Yorker except for the fact that she was barefoot and one strap hung so far off her shoulder it only covered her because the fabric clung to a hardened nipple.
“There’s no use denying that,” I said, raising my glass to her in a toast. She was drinking what looked like a martini or possibly a Gibson.
“See what I mean? Self Aware.”
“Well?” The other patron said, turning the seat towards me, “Are you gonna join me or what?”
I took my time getting up, but before I could grab my glass, Jaq snatched it and walked it down the bar and placed it on a coaster in front of the adjacent chair. Feeling a hint of a buzz, I slowly made my way down, wondering for the tenth time how I was supposed to behave.
Most parties or clubs I went to had a list of rules posted at the door or at least online. You had to sign something saying you understood them and if you fucked up someone was going to give you a stern talking to and possibly ask you to leave. Clarity was important as consent can’t exist without it.
This was anything but clear.
“Don’t hurt him, Jez,” the second bartender said, lighting another cigarette off the first. “This is only The Bar, after all.”
“Jez?” I asked, taking her hand and kissing it. Was that a little aggressive? Passive aggressive? Creepy? Shit, I had to stop second-guessing myself, or I’d never figure out what the hell was going on.
“Jezebel. It’s a bit overdone, but it’s too familiar to change at this point. Besides, I like it. It fits my personality. Now Jaq, get him another drink and one for me too. If this boy is going to pass The Bar, he’s going to do it properly.”
A moment later, there were two fresh drinks in front of us, and someone was handing me a cigarette. I tried to refuse–who smokes these days?–but Jez insisted, and for some reason, I didn’t feel compelled to fight her over it. Especially since I was halfway through my second Manhattan without so much as a bar pretzel in my stomach for padding.
Jez drank like it was going out of style, and on a few occasions, her dress did, in fact, lose its hold on her body, and so like a gentleman, I found myself sliding the strap back to rest on her shoulder lest her breasts make a run for it. The bartenders mostly left us alone as they washed glasses and whispered at the far end.
By the time I was on my third drink, another customer had come in, this time a large butch woman in a suit that looked like it cost more than my apartment. Her laugh was loud, and it was clear that everyone knew who she was. She didn’t give me a second glance as I watched while Jaq placed a bottle of wine on the bar in front of her without a glass.
“You’re pacing yourself,” Jez said, slapping me gently on the face to get her attention. Before I could break into a discussion about consent and my personal space, I realized that not only was she drunk, but her hand was on my thigh. Moving up.
“Look, I understand that you’re trying to make a good impression, I do. But you have to understand that that’s not the point. Good impressions are nice and all that for normal people, but are you a normal person, darling? Is that your biggest goal in life? To be a nice sweet boy who can get into trouble on the weekend as long as he’s back in the office by nine a.m Monday morning?”
“I don’t follow,” I said, looking to Jaq for help. Instead of coming to my rescue however, they offered a hint of a thumbs up positioned so their sibling couldn’t see the gesture. What the fuck was going on and how the hell do I do the right thing?
“Well, it’s not my job to tell you what to do, but if you can’t let go a bit, how is anyone to believe that you know how to enjoy yourself? There’s nothing worse than a man who holds it in so tightly he practically shits himself every time someone tells him to relax. Jesus, you look like I fucked your sister.”
Without another thought, I finished my third Manhattan, and before I could think better of it, I asked for another.
“Did you? Fuck my sister, that is?”
“Redhead? Five six? Left tit is bigger than the right one and a pussy so smooth I slipped off the bed?”
“Can confirm the first three, but not the last,” I said, attempting to bring some humor into a quickly deteriorating situation. If this woman had slept with Margret, then I was already out of my depth.
“I’m just fucking with you. Figured she’d look a little like you and the left tit is always bigger. The pussy part I just made up because if I did fuck your sister, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“And I heard this was a classy joint,” I said, realizing I was less than stable myself.
“Who the fuck told you that? Rhett, give me another Gibson! Thom here is going to be puking on my dick in no time.”
I paused long and hard in a drunken moment of decision making. I was on the verge of one thing or another, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I retained just enough reason to feel like I had to work through it mentally, but I was drunk enough that I lacked the capacity to figure it out. As I looked around, my fourth drink mostly gone, I realized that the woman at the end of the bar was leaning back like she owned the place. A foot was on the bar as she drank directly from the bottle of wine, and Jaq didn’t appear bothered by it one bit.
As my eyes wandered, I noticed the paintings in more detail, each one a scene of drunken debauchery. And right then, as I felt this woman I didn’t know slide her hand up my thigh as her left breast climbed out once again, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I had made it this far, and if they wanted me to be some master of self-restraint, then I was gonna get screwed eventually. And besides, maybe it wasn’t worth behaving for.
I leaned in and felt Jezebel’s lip graze my ear as I finished my cold drink. One hand slid up her hip, barely touching her ass.
“Well then,” I said, my breath on her skin. “Let’s get hammered?”
Both of us sat up, this time neither of us bothering with her clothes as we finished our drinks and yelled out for more. A second later, she tore off the filters of two cigarettes and shoved one in my mouth. Jaq poured three shots of whiskey out in a line while their sibling glared at us from across the bar and shook their head.
Fuck it, I thought as I raised the glass. You only live once.
A few moments later, I found myself stumbling into the bathroom, dragged behind Jez like a freshman at a frat party.
“Now baby boy, why don’t we see if we can get you into The Lounge? Get down on those knees and show auntie Jez what a filthy little bitch you are.”
