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“Don’t get too descriptive, don’t think too much. Just write.” There weren’t rules for the fantasies, she explained, but the letters in S.E.C.R.E.T. represented their criteria, which they took great pains to adhere to. Matilda said each fantasy must feel:
S afe, in that the participant feels no danger.
E rotic, in that the fantasy is sexual in nature, not just imaginary.
C ompelling, in that the participant truly wants to complete the fantasy.
R omantic, in that the participant feels wanted and desired.
E cstatic, in that the participant experiences joy in the act.
T ransformative, in that something in the participant changes in a fundamental way.
I looked at the acronym again and absently wrote a word beneath each of the first few letters, something so apt that it made me laugh out loud: Sexual Emancipation of Cassie Robichaud. For the final E and T all I could think to write was Exciting Times. This really was happening. To me!
With Dixie circling my ankles and candles flickeri
ng on the table, I began by ticking off the box next to the sentence: I want to be serviced. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I ticked it anyhow. Could it be something about oral sex? I suggested it once to Scott and he crinkled his nose in a way that shut down the request forever. I had put away that longing in a high drawer, never to be seen again. Or so I thought. There were many other kinds of sex I’d never had too. I had a college friend who raved about doing it “the other way,” and it always left me curious. I could never have asked Scott to try something like that. And I wasn’t even sure if it was something I wanted.
I want to have secret sex, in public. Another check.
I want to be taken by surprise. This thrilled me a little, even though, again, I wasn’t sure what it meant. I had been assured I’d be safe, that I could stop anything whenever I wanted. I ticked the box.
I want to be with someone famous. What? How could they pull that off? This seemed impossible, interesting. Tick.
I want to be rescued. Rescued from what? I put a checkmark in the box.
I want to be picked to be the princess. Oh God, what woman didn’t want that? I was always considered the nice one, the smart one, maybe even the funny one. But I had never been the pretty one, the princess, never in my whole life. So yes to this. Sure. Even though it sounded childish. I wanted to feel that. Just once.
I want to be blindfolded. I imagined being in the dark might be liberating, so I checked the box.
I want to have sex in an exotic place with an exotic stranger. Technically weren’t they all strangers, these men I’d be with, who I’d never see again? With no talking, no speaking, just bodies brushing past each other, and then … maybe he’d grasp my wrist … Keep writing.
I want to role-play. Could I do that? Be someone else, not me? Would I have the guts? I could always back out if I had to.
So this became my list: nine fantasies that would be followed by a final decision. And, as instructed, I wrote them in the order in which I thought I could handle them.
I looked at them one last time. My head filled with all the wonder and worry and joy and fear that these fantasies would release. Imagine getting everything you ever wanted and more. Imagine being what other people want and desire—every inch of you—exactly as you are. This was happening. This was happening to me. I had thought my life was winding down, but it was about to change forever.
When I was done, I called Danica.
“Hello, Cassie,” she said.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked, glancing uneasily out my front window.
“Er, call display?”
“Right. So I know it’s late, but Matilda told me to call as soon as I was done. So I’m done—I have them … selected.”
“What?”
“You know … the list.”
There was silence.
“List?” she prodded.
“My … fantasies,” I whispered.
