By Anna Langley / Photo by DANNY G on Unsplash

Unbound by mores of the masses, one night unmasks the boundaries that inhibit

Arriving home, I spy an exquisite gold envelope wedged between the door and knocker, addressed to “Madame B___,” and no postage, no return address. 

Every year, my invitation arrives two days prior to the party.

For 48 hours, I keep a frantic pace rivaling Olympic levels. From breaking the sumptuous wax seal, and primping and prepping rituals, to slipping my costume and mask into place before departing for my destination.

Saturday night is breathtaking, complete with a full moon. A burly guard waves my sleek town car through the imposing mansion gates – face obscured. Opting for a vinyl cat mask tonight, I’m paying an accidental homage to young Halle Berry’s feline vigilante alter ego. Choosing to forgo the tail and pointy ears, I’m cradling my whip in curled fingers ending in fiery-red, pointedly sharp fingernails.

The elaborate opening ceremony is dazzling – an array of frozen expressions molded in decoupage. Two arrow-like lines form, one female, one male, dividing the ballroom. Below the ornate antique chandelier our host and his mistress welcome all, then turn to embrace each other as the music begins.

Walking toward my eyes’ desire, I’m gliding, floating in a sea of caped intrigue.

In his arms, I truly become my attire: I move differently, speak explicitly, tease with abandon as if my body were made malleable by an alien character.

I’m comfortable. My heartbeat thunders. Adrenaline and desire make my skin flushed and damp. I’m gripped by sexual tension that weakens my knees – and not necessarily for my partner. The sensation teeters on titalation. Bodies trickle through the halls in all manner of undress, in groups or couples, sometimes single, a voyeur such as I – at this moment.

Laughter and earthy sounds of excitement mingle with the eclectic mix of music, creating a beat of its own.

The Sun God and I toy with each other.  The mansion’s numerous nooks and crannies stand as a metaphor of our exploration.

I never ask for even the barest hint of identity. However curious I am, I don’t want to kill my cat, so to speak.

This is a secret society ruled by the highest regard for anonymity. Breaching that etiquette not only means expulsion, but the ruination of fantasy for everyone involved.

By mutual and willing consent, there are no boundaries. This is why we converge. Neither husbands, wives, mothers, sons, doctors, nor congresspeople are we.  Here, we are simply alive, free, and desperate to leave behind the constraints of society and the trappings of everyday routine.

Tonight, I am Cinderella.

When the clock strikes, I regretfully exit with the other guests, leaving behind my fairy tale escapade. Only my panties, askew in one of the mansion’s dark, closed spaces, merrily serve both as witness and evidence of my shameless participation.

Looking back, watching the mansion fade in the distance, I am heaved back into reality. I’m not dreading donning my cloak of inhibition, or even returning to normalcy. Rather, I am loathe to confront the stark comprehension that wearing a mask, even a metaphorical one, is blurring the boundaries painstakingly constructed by a lifetime of conclusions based on good and bad, right and wrong.

Lovingly placing my mask into its rich velvet box and closing the lid, I tightly secure my most steamy memories. Finally laying in bed, it’s as though the existence of the woman who wore the mask was an elusive dream.

I smile into sleep, hearing my last thought chiding me softly, “Of course, silly, your fantasy is the art of masquerade.”