Читать книгу Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules - Emma Sayle - Страница 9

‘You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.’

Friedrich Nietzsche

I’ve met a few people in the sex business and a lot of them are dreadful, ruthless, cigar-chomping men driven solely to make money. Some are among the wealthiest people in the country. More often than not, they treat their money with more respect than they do their employees, most of whom are women. They lure young girls into the industry and exploit them until their appeal is gone, then chuck them out in favour of younger, fresher replacements. It’s about using women to service men’s desires and fantasies, and it can be an unpleasant business that I can’t help feeling is related to darker activities such as prostitution and sex trafficking.

I am not interested in that side of the sex industry and I’d be horrified to be like those seedy men getting rich on exploitation. My business might be about sex, but my aims were always to offer pleasure and entertainment, where safety and control were paramount. Besides, I was happy to start small and see what happened. When it comes to business, in my opinion slow and steady always wins the race.

At the beginning I kept my sex soirées small and intimate. I continued to use the venue in the middle of London, with between 50 and 100 people attending the parties. They all kept on coming back for more, and I got ever more enquiries from the one-page website I’d set up. It simply asked anyone interested in Killing Kittens to submit their email address for more information, and from there I went through the process of vetting my applicants. I didn’t make the mistake of over-expanding by allowing everyone who wanted to attend to come to a Killing Kittens’ party, and I made sure, as far as I could, that people fitted my criteria for membership. They had to accept that these parties were for the open-minded but not suitable for specific tastes or niche pleasures. Most of all, they had to get the fact that they were primarily designed for women. I had plenty of candidates to choose from. New Kittens flocked because of existing members and word spread fast – especially among women – that there was never a dull moment once darkness fell and the masks came off. My BlackBerry soon started beeping off the hook with calls and emails from people keen to join in. The monthly parties in Covent Garden were generating a real buzz. Every party turned a profit, even if it was just a small one. I still did freelance PR to supplement my income, but I was hopeful that it wouldn’t be long before I could begin to run Killing Kittens full time.

As word of the parties spread through networks of friends, Killing Kittens began to be noticed by the established world of sex parties and I was surprised to get emails from people offering their opulent homes for hire as a venue. They all set out their need for discretion in this area, but it was clear that if I was in the market for stately homes, lavish hotels and penthouse apartments, and was able to keep the owners’ names out of view, then there were plenty of wonderful places available. Naturally I assured everyone that I was a very discreet party organizer – no whisper of any participation would ever leave my lips – and soon I found I was being offered some truly magnificent venues. I knew a somewhat notorious businessman who, through some interesting circumstances, had become the owner of a magnificent mansion in central London. It was in great demand as a backdrop for photoshoots and films and as a party venue. When he heard about Killing Kittens, he offered me the mansion as often as I wanted it. I jumped at the chance. It was a beautiful venue, and I could have bigger, more interesting parties there. It went down a storm with my members, who adored the shabby opulence and the aura of decadence. More than 100 guests partied and played under crystal chandeliers and in front of vast marble fireplaces, with naked bodies writhing around in Georgian splendour. The fact the house had played host to some of the most famous faces in the world gave an added frisson to the activities. All 15 of the bedrooms were made good use of – not to mention the grand staircase. I hoped that before too long we would be able to make it the permanent home for Killing Kittens. As my parties grew more popular and membership of Killing Kittens increased, word spread to Fleet Street and the press started knocking on my door. National newspapers and glossy magazines including Cosmopolitan, Elle and Glamour became fascinated by this new sexual liberation. They couldn’t believe that educated and affluent young women were flocking to join a secret society that hosted anything-goes sex parties, and I was inundated with requests for interviews. I was happy to oblige. I had no problem with being the face of Killing Kittens, or with promoting it as much as I could, and the press seemed very interested in the story of the public-school girl who was unashamedly working in the sex business. People seemed to believe that this somehow made me a nymphomaniac, but that was all right. I didn’t mind; I just laughed it off and carried on.

My family and friends were right behind my chosen career as a bona fide sex tycoon. They knew there was no stopping me once I’d put my mind to something. Even Colonel was quietly impressed with the way my business was growing stronger by the day, even if I was stirring up controversy. My parents were getting used to the fact that I was attracting publicity and making headlines. Now, a year since I’d started, I had 1,000 members and a growing number of applicants keen to join my club. I was sure there would be 3,000 Killing Kittens members by the end of my second year. I was ready to expand.

To celebrate a year in the sex business, I decide to spend the evening with my parents, followed by drinks with Miss D and the gang later.

Colonel is in fine form tonight. He’s not wearing his ‘Poshest Swinger’s Dad’ baseball cap, but he’s no longer shooting me down with unsupportive words as he pours me a glass of his beloved Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I’m back in his good books. The atmosphere is convivial, and the wine and conversation flows as we tuck into Mothership’s perfectly roasted lamb in the kitchen. We’re nearly finished when my father calls for silence and lifts his wine glass.

‘A toast to Emma,’ he declares proudly, and looks over at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘Here’s to your ability to never fail to amaze me.’

I’m touched. Growing up, I hungered for Colonel’s love and approval. Time has softened that craving, but I digest his every word all over again, even though I got it through unlikely means. My mother and I raise our glasses as well. ‘Thanks, Pa.’ I take a sip of the rich red wine. It’s lovely that my dad is proud, but if he knew about the special Killing Kittens Valentine’s party tomorrow night, he might think a little differently. I try not to giggle at the thought and instead say, ‘Thanks for dinner, Ma, it’s delicious.’

Mothership shoots me a mischievous look, then lifts her glass again. ‘And now for my toast to Emma.’

I look at her, surprised. The dust has settled since the tabloid exposé on me, and my mother seems a lot more at ease with my chosen career, but even so, I didn’t expect her to toast its success. I think secretly she still hopes that I’ll give it all up and do something a bit more respectable.

Mothership looks back at me with a smile. ‘My toast to you, Emma, is about something else entirely. I’m so proud of your new project.’

‘What’s this?’ Colonel asks, looking wary. I expect he thinks I’m starting some scandalous new venture that will bring yet more unwanted attention to the family.

‘Emma’s going to raise some money for charity.’ She looks at me. ‘Tell him, Emma.’

‘It started in a silly way,’ I explain to my father. ‘A drunken bet in a pub with some boys. They’re planning to row across the English Channel in a dragon boat to raise money for charity. So I told them that I’d get a gang of girls together and race them to France. They’re calling themselves the Brotherhood, so we’re going to be the Sisterhood. And we’re going to raise just as much money as they do, if not more.’

Colonel frowns. ‘That’s going to be tough, Emma …’

‘You know me, Pa. No challenge too great. Besides, I’ve already emailed friends I think will be up for it, and you’d be amazed how keen they are.

‘We’re going to start training as soon as possible,’ I add. ‘Some of my girls are rowers, but they’re used to going backwards. It’s a whole new skill to paddle a dragon boat and face the way you’re going.’

My father looks impressed.

‘Have you decided on the charity you’re going to support?’ asks Mothership.

I nod. ‘Yes. The Ben Hollioake Fund – it supports hospice care for children. And Babes in Arms, the Norfolk Park charity. We want to raise £50,000.’

‘The Channel is extremely busy with shipping,’ my father adds. ‘Crossing it is not exactly straightforward.’

I nod. ‘It’s going to be very tricky – we’ll be dodging ferries and whatever all the way over. I’m going to do my research on that, don’t worry. We’ll have lots of support as well.’

‘Well done, Ems. You’ll pull it off, I know it,’ my mother says.

‘Thanks, Ma!’ I lift my glass again, delighted that the hurt and embarrassment I caused my mother a few months ago seems to have evaporated.

Just then the phone rings and my father goes to answer it. As soon as I hear the shrill tones coming down the line, even at this distance, I know exactly who it is. My mother and I exchange looks: it’s someone in my father’s family I’ll call Annoying Distant Relative, known for her delight in sticking her nose into other people’s lives and stirring it all up as much as she can. I think she’s toxic through and through and I would happily avoid her for the rest of time. As it is, I can hear every word she’s saying down the phone to my father.

‘How are you coping with all this sex-party scandal?’ she bellows, not caring if I’m in earshot or not. She’s always been unfazed by people hearing her negative opinions of them, and she’s certainly in venomous form tonight. ‘People are still talking about it, and I saw Emma in the paper again only last week. The shame of what she’s been up to! You must be devastated.’

‘Devastated?’ Colonel replies calmly. ‘Actually, I’m rather happy at the moment. Emma’s here, as it happens, and we’ve just had a very nice dinner together.’

This isn’t quite the answer she’d hoped for by the sounds of it. She goes on: ‘You’re being very brave, but you must be absolutely appalled at her behaviour. Oh, I pity you, I really do. You spent all that money on her, giving her the best education and start in life … and look how she’s repaid you. The sex industry. So sordid! I’m disgusted and shocked and I expect you are too. Silly girl! The whole country has read every vile detail.’ My Annoying Distant Relative has evidently taken this very personally from the anger in her voice. She thunders down the phone, getting quite carried away. ‘This whole thing is seedy and plain wrong. You must make her see sense. This could end in disaster; it could destroy the family. It reminds me of the Profumo Affair.’

‘Now, now.’ I can hear frustration simmering in Colonel’s voice. ‘Stop being so ridiculous. It’s hardly comparable to that.’

Mothership is staring intently at me, as if to gauge whether I’m hurt by what I’m hearing. She refills our glasses with wine, then gets to her feet and says coolly to Colonel, ‘Give me the damn phone.’

My father hands it over, looking apprehensively at my mother’s stony expression.

‘Good evening,’ she says softly down the phone. ‘How nice of you to call. We appreciate your concern, but everything’s fine.’

‘I strongly disagree, I’m afraid,’ Annoying Distant Relative barks back.

My mother says slowly and clearly, ‘Emma has thought it all out and is working very hard to make her business a success. She has a dream and she intends to accomplish it. If we don’t accept what she does, we could risk losing her and I’d never be prepared to allow that.’

There’s silence. I wonder if my Annoying Distant Relative has lost her voice. Then there’s a massive grunt and she starts again.

‘Sex parties! It isn’t a real job, a normal job. This isn’t what normal people do. You should be doing everything to make her see sense. Lock her up if you need to,’ she roars. ‘I’m perfectly happy to help you. I’ll stand guard if that’s what you need. We’ve got to make her see sense.’

‘Normal? I can’t see Emma being content living in Normalville, working a nine-to-five office job for the rest of her life. There’s nothing wrong with it, but Emma would find it incredibly suffocating. Who are we to judge if she says an emphatic no to keeping her life safe, simple and predictable?’

‘But it’s wrong; you shouldn’t tolerate it. You should whip some sense into her if you have to.’

Mothership finally loses her patience. It’s obvious that nothing she says will make any difference. ‘The simple fact is that it’s none of your damn business. I don’t care what you think about my daughter, or me, because I’ve never been able to stand you or your nasty opinions. I have waited over 30 years to say this, but honestly, why don’t you just … FUCK OFF!’ She hangs up and re-joins us at the table. Colonel and I are smiling.

‘More lamb, anyone?’ she asks, as if nothing has happened.

‘I’m done, Ma,’ I say, laughing. ‘But thanks.’

My mother smiles back. She knows I mean thank you for more than just the dinner. ‘Oh, she’s an awful old bag! Don’t let her get under your skin. Now off you go and join your friends. They’re probably all waiting for you.’

I turn up to Kouar Bar, a club in West London. It’s one of my favourite playgrounds when I’m in the mood for a late night. Inside, there’s an aura of decadence created by the red walls, dark leather sofas and seats and the low-level lighting that conjures up an intimate atmosphere. I spot Plaything and Miss D at once, sitting at our usual table in the corner and deep in flirtatious conversation. They’ve not exactly been an item since the first Killing Kittens party, when they got down to business in the Jacuzzi, but they’re on very friendly terms, especially as they both love to attend as many KK parties as they can, sometimes amusing themselves together and sometimes not. Both of them are too much in love with playing the field to confine themselves to each other, even though there’s no doubt they find one another attractive.

As I approach, I notice that Plaything has a supportive collar round his neck.

‘Evening,’ I say, sitting down and picking up the glass of champagne that’s awaiting my arrival. I gulp it down in one go.

‘Whoa, slow down, Emma. The night is yet young. You need to pace yourself,’ says Plaything, watching me.

I signal to the waitress to bring us a bottle. I’m still in the process of obliterating the Annoying Distant Relative from my mind – although my mother’s sparky defence of me has cheered me up. I’m sure now that she’s on my side and all is forgiven. I give Plaything a sideways look. ‘And you know all about pacing yourself, I suppose? What’s with the neck brace? Have you been up to your usual tricks?’

Plaything grins. ‘Well …’ He takes a sip of champagne, then reaches up to rub his neck, grimacing at the soreness beneath his fingers. ‘I blame it entirely on you, Emma.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You’re the one who bought me a box of glow-in-the-dark condoms.’ He smiles cheekily, then takes a packet from his pocket and drops it on the table.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Gosh, Plaything. Heard of subtlety?’

‘Want to see my glow stick, ladies?’ he jokes.

‘You’re not in a fit state to look down long enough to get it out,’ I retort. ‘Now put them away, for goodness’ sake. How did you stuff up your neck? I’m guessing some kind of awkward sexual manoeuvre?’

‘You could say that.’ Plaything’s expression takes on a blissed-out quality at the memory. ‘I pulled one hell of a fiery American girl last night. I was her English knight in shining armour, apparently. She was quite keen on bouncing on top of me while she grabbed my neck and buried my face in her tits. It was great, of course, but when she came she gave me a particularly violent tug and …’ He winced at the memory. ‘I am as you see me now. It was bloody amazing, though.’

I laugh. ‘That brace is going to be a bit of a hindrance tomorrow night, isn’t it?’

‘It’ll be off by then,’ he says confidently.

Miss D is running her eyes over Plaything’s fine form. He’s a modern-day Cary Grant: young, tall, dark and handsome. Our friendship blossomed when we were children and now Plaything lives in London and works as a body-pump instructor. His piercing blue eyes and lean, toned body have hypnotized hordes of women into bed. Luckily for me, I’ve always been immune to his charms and he’s never tried to seduce me either. I think it’s the secret of our long and happy friendship. Miss D, on the other hand, seems to be in the grip of her primal instincts – as usual. She’s twirling her hair around her finger, wetting her glossy bee-stung lips and fluttering her eyelashes at Plaything. She slowly begins to stroke her champagne glass up and down with her index finger.

I frown at her. ‘Stop flirting, D. Where’s your self-control? Besides, can’t you see he’s injured?’

She laughs, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. ‘Sorry, I can’t help myself. You know that sex is the very core of my existence, Ems.’

Plaything says, ‘And she’s only human, Emma.’ He winks at Miss D.

‘The sex party is tomorrow and you can do what you want then,’ I say sternly. ‘Let’s keep it clean tonight, shall we?’

Just then, Trolley Dolly comes striding up to our table. She drops her bag on a chair and slips off her coat, revealing one of her immaculate business suits underneath. By the look of her no-nonsense expression, she’s had a long, hard day. ‘Hi, Emma. Sorry I’m late,’ she says. ‘Have you started?’

‘The champagne’s just arriving,’ I say as she kisses my cheek. The waitress is bringing the bottle I ordered in an ice bucket. Trolley Dolly greets the others as the glasses are filled and we are left to enjoy it.

‘Right, first things first.’ Trolley Dolly sits down, lifts her glass of bubbling golden liquid. ‘Here’s to Emma and the first anniversary of Killing Kittens.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling. I tap her glass with mine and take a sip. ‘I can’t believe my little business is already a year old. I started with one party and 40 members. Now I have a party every month and I have over 1,000 members. I’m going to be making enough profit on the membership and the parties to work at it full-time soon.’

Trolley Dolly goes on: ‘And this is just the beginning, right? I think Emma could be on her way to world domination. After all, look how quickly two cats can become 80 million.’

‘Can they?’ asks Miss D. She always goes a little quiet when Trolley Dolly is about; she’s in awe of the other woman’s top-flight legal career plus a hunger for sex to rival her own.

‘Oh yes. If you let two cats breed at will, and allow their offspring to breed at will, these two cats will become 80 million within a decade.’

‘No way. Seriously?’ Miss D looks stunned. ‘That’s a lot of cats!’

‘Thank goodness for neutering,’ I say drily, casting a look at Plaything.

‘That’s assuming two litters per year and 2.8 surviving kittens per litter,’ Trolley Dolly adds matter-of-factly.

‘Wow!’ Miss D is all wide-eyed at the thought.

Trolley Dolly sips her champagne and turns to me. ‘So, what’s the plan for the upcoming year?’ she asks.

‘Killing Kittens is going to get bigger,’ I reply. ‘More members, more parties, added glamour and craziness. And I’m thinking of expanding into new areas too.’

‘Oh?’ Trolley Dolly looks interested. ‘You mean like the French Letter Days?’

A few months ago I began to offer adult experiences on my website, which has grown from the initial one-page email catcher I started with. I was inspired by the Red Letter Days that meant people could buy things like a day’s racing at Silverstone or a trip in a hot-air balloon, either as a gift or a personal indulgence. I decided I could give my Kittens the opportunity for marvellous experiences, like filming their own porn movie, or fulfilling fantasies of bondage or sex in a plane, or whatever. It’s expensive and not always easy to arrange, but I love challenges and my French Letter Days add a bit of spice to life.

‘Yeah – I definitely want to do more of those,’ I say. ‘And I want to expand the site. Perhaps offer merchandise.’

‘Sounds great. Another step on the path to ruling the world!’ Trolley Dolly smiles at me. ‘Well, if you’re taking requests, then I’ve got one for you. It’s short notice, I know, but if you can manage it for tomorrow night, I’m in the mood for something exciting. I was thinking of a threesome, preferably with a married couple. And if the wife could be blonde and curvaceous, so much the better. Do you think you can do it?’

Miss D’s eyes start glittering with excitement at the thought. She knows that even if she doesn’t fit the bill for taking part, she’ll probably be able to see at least some of the fun.

I think about it, running the latest membership lists through my mind. I know we’ve had some lusty couples join the club lately and I’m getting to know some of them a little better. ‘Actually, I can. I have the perfect couple. They’re new to KK and just back from holiday. Let’s just say that despite being married for 10 years and having three young children, they’re very well rehearsed in the Kama Sutra.’

Trolley Dolly laughs. ‘Brilliant! Thanks, Emma. Just wait till you see the Victoria’s Secret number I’ll be wearing.’ She turns to Plaything. ‘Order another bottle, will you, darling? Let’s get this celebration going.’