He’s six when the madness starts. Hiding under the bed with his sister, he learns the world isn’t safe. Then, something happens that feels good… too good. Too soon. That’s the moment he vanishes. Into fantasy. Into silence. Into himself.
He steals a watch at seven and shame crashes in. Lying becomes a shield, pleasure an escape. The child begins to split. His parents are lost in their own wreckage, too broken to see what’s forming in him. Survival becomes identity: one part craving love, the other feeding on chaos. This is where Damon begins living as two people—and neither one feels whole.
Damon builds his life around control—early mornings, endless motion, discipline to quiet the noise inside. But when his best friend finds a hidden bag of cash, everything shifts. A limo, a night in the city, a fistful of stolen money—the rush of risk cracks something open. It feels harmless. Just youth. Just fun. But Damon’s truth is already warped. The escape is no longer survival. It’s a choice. One that rides—until it crashes.
He’s bombing hills in Marin when a stranger with a camera changes everything. One click, and Damon goes from skater kid to model. But to fit the part, he lies—about his parents, his past, even his name. The truth doesn’t feel like enough, so he performs something better. It works. Versace leads to Calvin Klein. Fantasy becomes currency. And the boy who once vanished is finally seen—through the mask he made.
Heroin quiets the storm—the shame, the noise, the weight of who he’s become. It feels like peace, until it owns him. Days blur in a smoke-filled apartment as the boy who once trained with purpose disappears. Music, women, memory—none of it holds. Even sex loses its shape, warped by the high. Damon isn’t just addicted to heroin. He’s addicted to escape.
In a nightclub in San Francisco, Damon sees her—and everything stops. One glance becomes a kiss, a flood, a knowing. Her name is Malika. By the next night, he’s climbing through her window into a world where love, sex, and beauty breathe in the same breath. Their connection is instant, intimate, undeniable. For the first time, Damon doesn’t want to escape. He wants to stay.
Driving through the hills, they find it—a pink stucco chateau above Sunset, wrapped in bougainvillea and old Hollywood magic. Damon makes an offer. It’s theirs. At the time, his closest friend is Jared—fresh off Requiem for a Dream—and dating Cameron, just off Charlie’s Angels. Every moment feels cinematic. Fame, beauty, and love collide in the hills above Los Angeles.
They build a dream—baby on the way, money flowing like warm honey. Damon disappears into business and late nights; Melissa into motherhood. When he stumbles home high, she says nothing—just watches, pregnant and silent, wrapped in his shirt. Then Olivia is born, and something opens in him: awe, devotion, a love beyond language. The family feels real. But cracks begin to form. And Damon keeps whispering a lie he wants to believe—it will hold.
At fifteen, he watches a film about a boy who discovers the truth—and something inside him cracks. Damon feels it in his chest: grief, longing, recognition. The life he’s chasing doesn’t fit. He wants to be free. Wild. Unbound by the material world. Something awakens. And it won’t go back to sleep.
The money’s gone. The house is slipping, the Porsche towed, the Black Card declined at a grocery store. The dream he built is collapsing in real time, but he can’t admit it—not to Melissa, not to himself. The crash is too loud now. With thirty days before the sheriff comes and no miracle left to chase, there’s only one move left: run. He doesn’t know where he’s going—only that he can’t stay.
In Bali, the rules don’t apply. Damon walks into a nightclub with nothing but charm—and walks out with a job: fill the room, make it wild, take a cut. It’s instant. Addictive. He becomes the reason the island’s hottest parties exist. But power draws heat. One wrong move sparks a clash with a local gangster who doesn’t ask for respect—he demands surrender. Summoned to a jungle village far from safety, the illusion shatters. He’s not the king of the night. He’s the boy again. Powerless.

He returns to L.A. broke, defeated, invisible—living in Melissa’s mother’s kitchen, the dream smashed. Damon walks the streets alone, listening to recovery tapes on loop. Diminished. Resented. Stripped of everything that once made him feel alive. He needs a way out—not to dream big, just to survive. So he chooses something ordinary. Real estate becomes the rope he grabs while drowning.
Late at night, with his family asleep, Damon starts dreaming again. Not of velvet ropes and champagne, but of a secret world—drawn from Eyes Wide Shut, born of desire, power, and masks. Something primal. Something sacred. He gathers images, builds a vision, starts to believe. He pitches it—and no one listens. So he stops asking. And starts hunting. The city holds the key. He just has to find the door.
Sanctum is real now—just barely. Damon’s tux is cheap, the money’s lean, and collapse is always one misstep away. But he’s built something the elite crave, and that gives him power. Then Natacha returns—fierce, unapologetic, opening the door to a world of dominance, rope, and raw self-expression. Now she wants in. This isn’t just about sex or spectacle anymore. Sanctum is a vision. And for the first time in a long time, Damon thrives.
Sanctum is rising. The press is circling, the money is flowing, and Damon is winning. But behind the velvet curtain, something’s slipping. The dream is bending under pressure—more cash, less soul. A party in Beverly Hills blurs the lines, and an exposé hits hard: women auctioned off, mystery turned cliché, the sacred feels cheap. Sanctum was meant to break shame—but now Damon isn’t sure what he’s created. Disillusioned, he tells himself: adjust the coordinates, but don’t stop sailing.
Sanctum is growing fast—but with no investors and rising costs, every party is a gamble. Damon partners with a nightlife heavyweight to build a permanent venue. On the surface, it’s a breakthrough. But inside Vignette, the vision warps. A performer crosses a line. An A-list guest gets stung. This isn’t theater anymore—it’s a circus. Damon sees the danger: he’s not building Sanctum now. He’s feeding a machine. And unless he rips up the contract, the venue won’t just fail—it’ll take him down with it.
By day, Damon builds Sanctum from a corner booth at the Montage Hotel—green tea, laptop, charm. Upstairs, he finds hidden corners to hold auditions. One encounter in a marble-tiled bathroom ignites something new—not just desire, but domination, control, and the power of her surrender. The energy doesn’t scare him. It awakens him. When he asks Melissa to open their marriage, it feels fair. But while his night is choreographed fantasy, hers feels real. And it shatters him. He preaches freedom. Builds a temple to it. He wants everything—just not to share her.
Sanctum has become a world of its own—mysterious and alive. Damon lets the press in, and what they find is a secret opera of sex and desire. Bodies in motion. Masks on faces. Boundaries pushed. He’s no longer just hosting the party—he’s part of it. And when a beautiful stranger locks eyes with him across the room, he follows the moment to its end: in front of an audience. But this isn’t just about lust. It’s about attention. Worship. Sanctum isn’t a club anymore. It’s a labyrinth. And Damon is both the architect—and the seeker.
Sanctum needs a mansion. Damon finds it in Holmby Hills—a crumbling Tudor on the brink of demolition, perfect in its impermanence. The rent is low. The walls are his to paint black. The space begs to be reborn. He moves in and curates the myth: masked nights, opulent rituals, erotic theater. But the house becomes more than a venue. It’s a temple of reinvention—and a mausoleum for every rule, dogma, and doctrine left behind.
Damon stages a $75,000 Dominus initiation—part seduction, part performance, part ritual. His Devotees prepare amid scattered lingerie, choreographing every move. The ceremony is secret-society theater, a veil for men chasing something darker. Something sacred. Damon isn’t leading a cult, but he’s not just throwing parties either. This is a new priesthood. And on this night, with blood on parchment and whispered passwords, he makes the fantasy real.
By 2016, Damon was living the dream. The mansion had become a destination of desire—incense smoke, candlelight, naked bodies in pursuit of pleasure. Each event more decadent than the last. He was King of a world that never slept. Celebrities, billionaires, rockstars—all came to him for their fix. Extraordinary guests, ritual performances, public orgies under moonlight—the experience kept escalating. The press couldn’t stop writing. The world wanted in. And Damon knew exactly how to keep them coming back for more.
Damon curates the ultimate fantasy—a Gathering for one of the richest men in the world. Monarch butterflies. Glowing fauna. Antlered nymphs. A living myth built for seduction. But first, he tests the blueprint himself. Three women, one choreography of sensation—every movement designed to awaken. It’s not just sex. It’s Dionysian. But mid-orgy, an A-list guest crumbles to the floor, curled in a ball as the room melts around him. Even gods break under pressure.

Damon stands at the peak—Playboy date on his arm, Aston Martin in the driveway, SNCTM pulsing with fame and excess. But on New Year’s Day, he wakes between two women and feels nothing. His family is gone. The dream was a lie. He rides his Ducati through empty streets at high speed, chasing escape. Then, a spark: he’ll tell the truth. Not to perform, but to redeem. But when Hollywood comes calling, the vision warps. The show becomes something else. And Damon is left asking if truth can survive the spotlight.
Damon thinks he’s found a second chance—an old Beverly Hills hunting lodge on five acres, and a plan to win Melissa back, to rebuild the family he destroyed. He tries again. But the damage is done. The delusion is palpable. Did he really believe he could make it all disappear? She spends one night… and walks away for good. As SNCTM grows and the spotlight burns brighter, Damon begins to question everything he once sold: freedom, selfishness, desire. But he’s not ready to remove the mask.
It begins with a like. Then every photo on his feed. Scarlett appears like a vision—perfect, young, insatiable. Damon knows better, but he can’t look away. The sex is animalistic, addictive, another dimension of pleasure. He’s twice her age, fresh off a twenty-year relationship, living in a beach house in Venice. But in her, he finds his twin flame—desire wrapped in kink, worship wrapped in youth. He dives straight into the fire.
Damon makes a promise to his daughters: SNCTM will be gone. And he keeps it. Selling the club isn’t just a deal—it’s a release. SNCTM made him a god. And it consumed him. When a member steps up to buy the dream, Damon warns him: this isn’t a company, it’s a cross. But the man still wants it—wants to become him, or the myth of him. Damon trades the gold ring for suitcases of cash and flies home on a private jet. That night, he sleeps on a mattress stuffed with stacks of hundred-dollar bills… and dreams of what’s to come.
After selling SNCTM, Damon sets out to build something deeper—more connective, more true. He becomes Father Damon, robed in love and vision, crafting plans for a sanctuary of spiritualized eroticism in Malibu. But COVID hits, and the dream dies before it begins. A single, infamous party—crowded, wild, star-studded—draws the police and shuts it all down. He pivots. Tries to fund his friends’ dreams. But nothing takes. What began as reinvention dissolves into drift.
Elena enters like a sorceress in an emerald gown—elegant, rich, hungry for what she lost. Over caviar and Krug, she makes her offer: build it again. The club. The world. Together. Damon feels the rhythm return—the rush of the fantasy. Elysian House rises fast. Porn starlets flood the mansion. Nights blur in champagne, drugs, and sex. He’s worshipped again—by stars, by strangers, by the illusion he thought he left behind. It’s an echo from the past. And he’s back at the center of it.
Damon flies to Costa Rica and drinks Ayahuasca four nights in a row, searching for something he can’t name. Oneness, discovery, awe—it all floods through him. On the final night, the shaman speaks: if there’s something you need to release, offer it to Grandfather Fire. Damon doesn’t release Scarlett. He releases the belief that he’s unlovable, irredeemable—the shame he’s carried since childhood. As the flames rise and the rain pours, the fire explodes on cue. And Damon knows something miraculous has taken place. Something far greater than him.
A click ignites a media firestorm and drags Damon into the heart of America’s political theater. What begins as a post about Hunter Biden attending SNCTM spirals into grand jury subpoenas, DOJ pressure, and headlines he never saw coming. The deeper he goes, the clearer it becomes: he was never the puppet master—he was a pawn. The media, the government, the entire machine runs on a different kind of fuel. His illusion of control burns the velvet curtain to ash, revealing a dangerous truth. For the first time, his eyes are opened.
Elysian unravels. The money, the power, the vision—all collapse under the weight of delusion. Damon spirals through betrayal, backlash, and self-inflicted exile. He lashes out, loses Elena, burns bridges, and stumbles through the wreckage high and unmoored. In Miami, he chases one last fantasy—but at the center of the circus, he sees the truth: this isn’t freedom. It’s insanity. It’s over. He flies home broke, spun out, undone. And as the sun rises over an empty estate, Damon makes a decision: get sober. Walk away. For good.
Damon stands at the edge of a new reality—no longer running, no longer split. There is no mansion, no mask. Just a loft, a bed, a program, and a truth hard-earned. He’s clean. Sober. Rebuilding. A show might get made, a coin might fly—but none of that defines him now. He belongs—to a group, to the steps, to himself. For the first time, Damon feels whole. The boy who vanished is no longer hiding. The man he became is finally free. And from that stillness, a new story begins.
He writes from a flat in Barcelona—broken but free. Doors open, then close. Friends help, then drift. He’s connected now—to his daughters, to God, to himself. Scarlett is gone. Acceptance is rising. He no longer hides from the truth or splits himself in two. He’s played every role, from pauper to King. And now, stripped of illusion, he begins again—not to become someone else, but simply to be. Heart opened. Humbled and grounded. Present and alive. With a memoir that tells the truth of his life. And with his eyes wide open.

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