The following is an excerpt from "The Juliette Society" [$15.00, Grand Central Publishing], a novel written by former pornographic actress Sasha Grey. Grey has likened her debut book to "Fight Club," but with sex instead of fighting, as it delves into the tumultuous world of an underground sex group, and aims to promote sexual liberation:
We don’t talk about it in the morning. I oversleep and Jack’s already gone. I hate waking up and he’s not there. Some people are afraid to go to sleep alone. I’m afraid of waking up, never knowing whether the new day is going to greet me with an empty bed, and no one there to hold me.
‘Jack?’ I call.
No answer.
I know he’s not happy. I feel rotten, laden with the dread of a whole day of not knowing if his anger will have eased off by the time he comes home. And what will happen if it hasn’t.
Jack’s anger is like the raging ocean; it whips itself up, with no concern for the destruction it wreaks, no remorse for whatever gets caught in its path, and there’s no way to avoid it, no way to placate it. It’s not a violent anger, but a quiet rage; a misalignment of the passion that drives everything he does. And so the only thing to do is to wait it out, until the wind dies down, until it abates and subsides. Until calm prevails. But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
I do what I usually do to quell the anxiety, to quiet the voice in my head that won’t stop talking. I masturbate.
I close my eyes, slide my fingers between my thighs and think of Jack, still sleeping, as if none of this had happened.
As if he had never woken when I came to bed. As if he was completely oblivious to the time. Whether it was four or three or two or one.
I wake him with a kiss on the forehead, my sweet prince, and watch him slowly rouse from slumber. He looks up at me, still woozy, and says, ‘I waited up, but I was so exhausted.’
He doesn’t say, ‘Where were you?’ Cold and accusatory.
But, ‘When did you get back?’
And I lie. A full lie this time, but a white lie, so he’s none the wiser.
And he smiles, ‘I missed you.’
He starts to kiss me, softly, sweetly, tugging at my lips with his.
He cups my breast, brushes the nipple with his thumb.
I reach down and stroke myself where all the sweat gathers, where the smell of my sex is strongest. I stroke it and then lick my fingers and stroke it some more.
He gently bites my top lip, sucks it. Tugs at my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
I feel it harden.
I feel him harden.
I feel myself getting wet.
I wet my finger, run it up the lips of my pussy and imagine it’s his tongue, wetting the wings of my labia, feeling them flutter and spread, circling my clit and flicking it. Blood rushes to my head, to my clit. I feel dizzy.
I feel the head of his cock bouncing against my thigh as he crawls over me, positioning himself above me, poised to enter. And I turn on my side to accommodate him, bending the top leg at the knee, like a dancer doing the Can-Can, to give him a clear view of the runway as his craft comes into land.
He takes his cock in his hands, guides it towards my pussy, towards the hole, where the wetness gathers. He pushes into it, just enough to wet the tip. Pulls out and slides the head up the pussy, making me slick with my own juices.
He pushes into me again, just enough to bury the tip. And holds it there. Not in, not out. Just waiting. Teasing.
And my finger probes around the hole, scooping up my juice and spreading it up towards my clit, wetting it, brushing it, feeling it throb.
He pushes into me.
I push a finger into me. And moan.
His cock stretches my hole. And I feel my pussy close around the head.
Two fingers now.
And he slides his length in slowly. Teasing. He slides in all the way until he’s pressing against my pelvis. I can feel him hard, pressing against my wall. And he holds it there.
Teasing.
I’m up to the joint now, and moving towards the knuckle, sinking my fingers as deep as they will go. My fingers are slick with juice, thick and sticky, and white as snow.
He shifts his weight, rotates his hips slightly, like he’s piloting a ship, inching the wheel around so the rudder shifts. And I can feel his cock move inside me, brushing ever so slightly against the soft fleshy wall.
And suddenly I can feel that I’m about to come. I can feel a surge building up inside me and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. I want to be overwhelmed. I can feel him inside me and I want to come.
I’m going to come.
And as I come, I call out his name. Because I want him to hear, even though he’s not there.