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She seemed to drift away for a moment before shaking off what looked like sad thoughts.
“Well, S.E.C.R.E.T. has run its course, I’m afraid. It’s been a lovely run, but after our next candidate, we’re closing up shop, whether we want to or not,” she said, changing the subject again and motioning for the bill. “If you decide this is something you want to do, call me. I’ll bring you in to meet the Committee.”
“The Committee?”
“Yes. Other women like you, who’ve been changed for the better for doing this. Some are prominent members of New Orleans society—doctors, lawyers, performers and the like. Names you’d recognize. Others are waitresses, hairstylists, teachers. The men we recruit to fulfill fantasies are chefs, construction workers, entrepreneurs, business leaders. Still others are among the most famous men in the world.”
That’s when it hit me!
“Pierre Castille! That’s how you know him. He’s one of these … recruits, isn’t he?”
Matilda Greene would have been an exceptional poker player. Her expression didn’t change one iota. She didn’t flinch, and when next she spoke, she weighed her words carefully.
“Even if he were, Solange, I would never answer that question. We are nothing if not discreet, something I hope you will find very reassuring if you do consider us. And I hope I can be assured of your discretion as well.”
I looked down at the backs of my hands, feeling a little bad for my accusatorial outburst. Turning forty had started showing up in the oddest places: the way my skin puckered around my knuckles, that skin flap on my elbow, a stiff lower back in the morning, a gray hair or two in intimate places. I could still turn a head, but Matilda was right, I no longer bothered. I didn’t care about sex. Maybe a date here and there, sometimes enough dates with one man to get naked, lights off. But more and more, the idea of giving up one of the very few relaxing nights I had to myself to go on yet another go-nowhere date, the idea of not sleeping in my own bed, of not having my own toiletries, of having my routine disrupted, well, it just wasn’t enough of a lure to make me want to bother.
“I’ll give it some thought,” I told her, nervously pocketing the card she gave me. I was surprisingly reluctant to say good night; she was the kind of company you didn’t want to leave.
That night, the house was empty. Gus was at his dad’s for the weekend, something that suddenly gut-punched me. Where I once looked forward to my solitude, my couch, my book, my glass of wine, my cozy pajamas, I suddenly dreaded all of it. When I was younger, I used to love going out. I used to love the ritual of it—dressing up, putting on makeup, hitting the hot clubs and never being the kind of girl who waited in lineups. For chrissakes, I paid part of my tuition with singing gigs, closing down jazz clubs where Julius DJed, slow-dancing with him until the sun came up.
Not anymore.
Despite his own career struggles, Julius’s sex life seemed to flourish after the divorce. The man had had at least two serious girlfriends in the last eight years. And if those women hadn’t been so kind to Gus, I’d have banned him from introducing any new ones into his life.
Still, vulnerability was not my thing; I had a phobia about asking for help. So it took everything in me to pick up that phone two agonizing days later and call Matilda. Mostly I said yes because it would make one hell of a story. Not one I’d be able to tell, but then again, not all stories are meant for prime time.
I was a ball of nerves approaching the Mansion on Third to meet this Committee. But Matilda was right: the women, they did all look like me. I don’t mean because several of them were also African American, though it was a relief to see the Committee wasn’t all white. But rather, these women were of an age; not pretty young things, not girls but women, women who looked me square-on, who glowed with a kind of sexy allure I had long abandoned for professional polish. They wore their femaleness fearlessly, comfortably, proudly.
After my nerves calmed, introductions were made and they assured me that all of this would be anonymous. Obviously, I had questions. If I change my mind at any time, can I stop? Yes, absolutely. I have a child. Would you work around my parenting schedule? That’s the plan. I’m not looking for a relationship. Good, we don’t promise one, though they’ve been known to happen.
In the end I was more intrigued than scared, which, because I’m a journalist, is always a good sign.
So I said yes, blushing at the resulting applause.
“With that ‘yes’ comes a symbol of our bond with you and with one another,” Matilda said, placing a purple box in front of me. Inside was a bare gold chain, the same color and texture as the ones the other women were wearing, except theirs were covered with tinkling charms.
“This is mine?” I asked, holding the heavy eighteen-karat gold chain up to the light.
“It’s yours,” Matilda said.
After hugs and congratulations, they sent me home with a folder I was cautioned not to open until Gus was asleep.
That night, I paid the sitter, double-checked to make sure my son’s light was off, made some tea and turned up some classical music. I checked on Gus one more time before I sat at my marble-topped kitchen table, the one I had eaten my meals on as a child, and opened that folder with shaky hands. Inside was a long list of fantasies and scenarios, some shocking, some common, a sexual wish list of sorts, with several blank lines to improvise ideas. Matilda had told me to be specific and to be honest, that no fantasy scenario was too dull or too off-the-wall to be considered.
I sharpened a pencil and proceeded to give this task more thought than the guest list at my own wedding. My first scenario wasn’t hard to come up with:
Just once, I’d love to come home from a long day at work, and all the nagging chores and jobs would have been tackled by a very attractive man, someone sexy, who has also drawn a bath for me, and for whom I do not have to cook and clean or even talk to if I don’t want to. We would just—this was where I hesitated—we would just … have sex?
I included the question mark at the end. The sex was not a foregone conclusion, at least not on my part.
And now, three weeks later, this scenario was unfolding exactly as I had written it. Here he was. My first fantasy man.
The sound of running water grew louder as I neared the staircase. My hand seized the balustrade and I noticed my bare S.E.C.R.E.T. chain peeking out from under the sleeve of my blouse. Quietly I climbed, careful to keep my feet on the carpeted part of the stairs. Then the sound of water stopped, and so did I.
“Dominic?”
“I’m in the master bath!” he yelled. “I found the towels.”
