Come As You Are(10)

It’s perfect. It’s sexy and smart, and I’ve always wanted to wear a mask like this.

Confession—I love masquerade parties.

Addendum—I haven’t been to many masquerade parties.

In my mind, I’ve attended countless soirees and balls. I’ve dressed in elegant gowns, worn satin gloves up to my elbows, and descended grand staircases wearing a butterfly mask or a black satin one with silver and red feathers rising high on the side.

I run my finger along the gold outline of my mask, remembering my fascination with these stories when I was younger. As a girl, I was obsessed with historical romances. I found the tattered old books on my mother’s shelves, and I didn’t know she’d stolen them from the library. Innocent then, I gobbled up her contraband tales, devouring forbidden stories of the most rakish rakes, of the most roguish rogues, of the most devilish dukes who attended such masquerade fetes in hope of seducing the women they’d always had their eyes on.

Naturally, the hero could only seduce her if they were both in disguise, for she was a commoner and he was a titled man who could only be with a lady.

Or something like that.

I give a coy curtsy in the mirror then a shy little smile, pretending I’m the star of the story. All that mattered to me in those tales was that both hero and heroine were in disguise—half masks, eye masks, even full-face masks that could be pushed up at the critical kissing scene. I’d watch their seduction play out on the page. Mistaken identity, playacting, lords in disguise—all of it was so delicious.

Some scenes were chaste, and some were not. A waltz with an unknown lass, a stolen kiss in the hallway, a secret moment—every room was a potential location for a tryst at a masquerade ball, especially the library. If they went to the library, you knew it was going to be oh-so-good.

I flutter my hand over my chest, as the heroine would do.

No matter how far they went, they’d always leave on their masks. Names hardly mattered when you could zero in on his lush, knowing lips.

The mouths of the men in masquerade were made for sin. For making a woman weak in the knees—drunk on a kiss.

I fell for the hero’s charms too. As the heroine swooned, I’d swoon. As the charming duke with raven hair kissed her throat then licked a path to her heaving bosom, my skin flushed hot too. I’d flip dog-eared page after dog-eared page, consumed by the tale, picturing the plunging necklines on the women and the tight breeches on the men that, naturally, barely concealed their manhood.

How I longed to be at such parties.

I turn away from the mirror, heading to my jewelry box on the bureau. I don’t attend many such parties in real life though. Most of the masquerades I’ve gone to over the years have been the standard Halloween variety. The masks the men wore were of gorillas, zombies, or President Nixons.

Suffice it to say, none of those made me swoon.

I suppose the closest I came to a true masquerade party was in college when the drama boy I dated senior year invited me to one, and costumes and masks were plentiful and traded freely. So were kisses between the girls and boys, the girls and girls, and the boys and boys.

When I found him kissing one of the other drama boys, I ditched my Venetian mask and headed straight for the wine coolers.

I suppose I’ve never had great luck with men, or masquerade parties.

But perhaps that will change tonight.

I slide a third gold hoop into my right ear. Three tiny earrings on the right, one on the left. I weave a tight braid down my hair on the right side, since my mask rises high on the left.

Makeup comes next, and as I learned from those tales, one should never skimp on makeup. I slide a glittery gold shadow over my eyelids, then finish off the mascara.

When I’m done, I spread my arms wide, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door. Yes, my wedding dress has given its life to the cause. Nothing is left of it but shreds.

Fitting.

I leave and head uptown on the subway.

On the train, barely anyone gives me a second look. God, I love this city. I could be dressed like this for work, for fun, or for giggles, and no one would question it or even bat an eye.

I exit and emerge above ground in one of the most picturesque parts of Manhattan: the Upper East Side, or, as I like to call it, What Movies Want Us to Believe. This is what the rest of the country must think Manhattan is like, based on the sheer number of rom-coms shot here—blocks lined with four-story brownstones and canopied with trees. Wealthy women walking small dogs and beautiful couples kissing on the glittering stoops of those homes, since movie kisses always take place by a lovely glittering stoop.

I don’t know any stoops that glitter. But in the movies, they do.

I turn the corner, looking for the boutique hotel, 10 East Club. It’s a landmarked building, with the feel of old New York, when the city toasted itself in the Gilded Age.

When I reach it I lift my gaze, drinking in the gorgeous red brick, the white window panes, and the window boxes, teeming with flowers. The doorman in his cranberry-red uniform holds open the brass door for me. This is New York at its finest. Rich, moneyed, old New York.

But inside, it’s going to be flooded with all the new money the internet has brought to the country’s financial capital.

Ready or not, here I come.

I drop the mask, gold and white, so it covers the top half of my face down to my nose.

Time to network.