I knotted my mask’s silk ribbons behind my head and peered through its eye slits at the driveway to a small Tudor mansion. By Beverly Hills standards, it was hardly sprawling or opulent—five or six bedrooms at most. But giant hedges obscured its facade, and I assumed privacy was more of a requisite than size for a sex party.
I stepped to the porch, where three men in black tie stood bathed in crimson light from sconces, the low vibration of bass from electronic dance music streaming from the house behind them. None of the trio wore masks, and two of them were obviously security, sporting clipboards, earpieces, and over four hundred pounds of muscle between them.
The third man had shoulder-length black hair, blue eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and a jutting chin, a less stocky Tom Cruise.
“Welcome to Sanctum,” he announced with a broad smile. “I’m Damon.”
I smiled back with an outstretched hand. “David Winkler.”
“Of course!” He moved right past my hand and drew me into a soulful hug. “I was wondering if you’d ever come to a party!”
I laughed in lieu of excuses. “I’m excited for the experience.”
Damon appraised me with devilish confidence. “You won’t be disappointed. But we’ll need your phone.”
“Of course.” I turned my phone off and handed it to one of the bouncers, who dropped it into a manila envelope before scrawling “DW” on its front with a black Sharpie.
Damon patted me on the back. “Hey brother, I really want to catch up. Go on in, and I’ll find you later?”
“Sure,” I obliged as one of the bouncers opened the door.
“Welcome to Sanctum, sir.”
Before I had a chance to thank him, I was overwhelmed by the sight of two glorious female creatures sauntering toward me. Naked except for silver masks with the Sanctum logo (an upside-down teardrop with an eye in the center), towering black feathered headdresses, six-inch stilettos, and gold silk capes trailing behind them, it was if they were on some invisible, R-rated Victoria’s Secret runway.
“Hello!” I grinned as they silently surrounded me—each lacing an arm through one of mine—and walked me into the foyer. The dance music grew louder, and through dim, erotic red and yellow lighting, I could make out a living room filled with dozens of masked members. Every man was in a perfectly tailored tux, and nearly all of the women in lingerie. And not just your basic lace bra and G-string—they’d obviously gone all out and were draped in the most elaborate, accessorized lingerie money could buy. Half of the women seemed attached to their male dates, but just as many flocked in circles, half-naked prom queens waiting to be invited to dance.
My creatures stopped and released my arms, which I guessed meant I was on my own.
“Thank you!” I called out over the music. They bowed, turned together and headed back to the front door.
Now what do I do? I spotted a bar across the room. Even if I didn’t much like the taste of alcohol, busying myself with a drink would occupy a few minutes.
As I beelined to the bar through the living room, the Sanctum of it all started to present itself. A naked black woman wearing a lampshade over her head paraded by me with a handwritten sign taped to her chest, “Touch Me.” A masked redhead in the tightest red latex bodysuit leaned against a chair back, toying a dildo strapped to her crotch. To my right, a man in a bunny mask and a plaid smoking jacket sat on a lounge chair tying Shibari ropes around a nude, blindfolded woman on her knees before him. I heard her gasp with pleasure as he tightened a knot, then a pained cry from another direction; to my left was a naked woman with a black leather hood and red ball mouth gag, handcuffed to a suspension frame, spread eagle, being spanked with a horsehair whip by a woman in a chain-bedazzled dominatrix getup.
Too self-conscious to stop and gawk, I landed at the bar behind three young women in lingerie. I caught a quick smile from one of them—a shortish, wavy-haired blonde girl in a white silk mask, her porcelain skin barely covered by white lingerie, a garter belt, and stockings. I smiled back politely as she was handed her drink and stepped out of the way. The bartender looked to me. Desperate for a prop to hide my nerves, I ordered the first thing that came to mind. “Rum and coke.”
I watched him mix it and tried to adjust my mask to keep it from scratching the skin around my eyes. As I fumbled, I noticed a few men and women weren’t wearing masks at all. I guessed the rule was that you had to wear it to enter, but once inside there were few rules, if any. I immediately recognized one of the unmasked faces—a late-night talk show host, then another, the long-haired singer of a classic rock band. If they don’t care who recognizes them, why should I? I thought. If I’m going to be a Sanctum member, I want to be a proud one.
I tugged my mask off and dropped it into my jacket pocket. Nobody gave me a second look—until suddenly I heard a soft, high voice saying, “Excuse me, are you David?”
An excerpt from The Arrangement: A Love Story by David Winkler
published by Rare Bird, 2022
The Arrangement is available from Amazon and Bookshop.