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Then I told Matilda about Scott, sweet Scott and sorrowful Scott, the Scott who slow-danced with me to country music in our kitchen and the Scott who hit me twice and never stopped begging forgiveness I couldn’t give. I told her how our marriage deteriorated as his drinking escalated. I told her how his death hadn’t liberated me but rather had relegated me to a quiet middle ground, a safe corral of my own making. I had no idea how badly I needed to talk to another woman, how isolated I’d become, until I started opening up to Matilda.
Then, I said it. It just kind of spilled out: the fact that it had been years since I’d had sex.
“How many years?”
“Five. Almost six, I guess.”
“It’s not uncommon. Grief, anger, resentment play awful tricks on the body.”
“How do you know? Are you a sex therapist?”
“Sort of,” she said. “What we do here, Cassie, is we help women get back in touch with their sexual side. And in so doing, they get back in touch with the most powerful part of themselves. One Step at a time. Does that interest you?”
“I guess. Sure,” I said, as squeamish as the time I had to tell my dad I had started my period. With no woman in the house growing up, except for my dad’s listless girlfriend, I’d never actually spoken about sex out loud with anyone.
“Will I have to do anything … weird?”
Matilda laughed.
“No. Nothing weird, Cassie, unless that’s your thing.”
I laughed then, too, the uncomfortable laugh of someone past the point of no return.
“But what do I do? How does this work?”
“You don’t really have to do anything but say yes to the Committee,” she said, glancing at her watch, “which, my goodness, is assembling as we speak.”
“The Committee?” Oh my God, what had I done? It was like I’d fallen down a deep hole.
Matilda must have sensed my panic. She poured me a glass of water from the jug on her desk.
“Here, Cassie, take a drink, and please try to relax. This is a good thing. A marvelous thing, trust me. The Committee is simply a group of women, kind women, many of them just like you, women who want to help. They recruit participants and design the fantasies. The Committee makes your fantasies happen.”
“My fantasies? What if I don’t have any?”
“Oh, you do. You just don’t know it yet. And don’t worry. You will never have to do anything you don’t want to do, nor will you ever be with anyone you don’t want to be with. S.E.C.R.E.T.’s motto is: No judgments. No limits. No shame.”
The water glass shook in my hand. I took a big gulp and choked.
“S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
“Yes, that’s what our group is called. Each letter stands for something. But our whole reason for being is liberation through complete submission to your sexual fantasies.”
I stared into the middle distance, trying to shake the image of Pauline with two men …
“Is this what Pauline did?” I blurted out.
“Yes. Pauline completed all ten steps of S.E.C.R.E.T., and now is living in the world, fully, sexually alive.”
“Ten?”
“Well, technically there are nine fantasies. The tenth Step is a decision. You can either stay in S.E.C.R.E.T. for one year, recruiting other women like you, training fantasy participants, or helping other members facilitate fantasies. Or you can decide to bring your sexual knowledge into your own world, perhaps into a loving relationship.”
Over Matilda’s right shoulder through the courtyard window, I could see more women of various ages, colors and sizes filing by twos and threes through the gate. I could hear them entering the lobby, laughing and chatting.
“Is that the Committee?”
“Yes. Shall we join them?”
