A few minutes later, Cassie poked her head into the room.
“How are you doing? Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, handing her my marked-up booklet.
I followed her across the main foyer, through two high white doors. We were now in a boardroom filled with women, and the chatter stopped instantly the moment we entered. Meeting new people wasn’t my forte, and these were people to whom I would have to be vulnerable. This is simply not a good idea.
But before I could turn on my heels, Cassie pulled out a chair for me. As I sank into it, I slowly glanced around the all-white boardroom, a perfect backdrop for the ten women of various ages, colors and sizes who were all decked out in their vivid outfits, looking like the United Nations Commission on Perfect Accessories and Hair. I was dying to take in all their faces and at the same time half afraid to make direct eye contact.
“Ladies,” Cassie said. “Thank you for meeting with us today. I’d like to introduce you to Dauphine. She is our next S.E.C.R.E.T. candidate, I hope. If she’ll have us.”
This sent a cheery applause through the room. There was a pause, and everyone was looking at me. That’s when I realized I was supposed to speak. And say what? Oh no, I haven’t prepared properly for this! I’ve wrecked everything. Trust and control.
“Hi. Thank you. I’m still … well, I have a lot of questions. And I’m not completely … It’s just all so … new.”
Despite my inarticulate introduction, the women all seemed reassuring, kind, and I began to relax into my chair. Cassie pointed and named each member of the Committee: Bernice, Kit, Michelle, Brenda, Angela, Pauline, Maria, Marta, Amani and Matilda.
“Don’t worry, the only name you really have to remember is mine,” Cassie said. “I, of course, will be your Guide, while they, the Committee”—she indicated the whole room—“will guide me.”
“You’ll both need the help,” Angela said, winking at me. She was also ribbing Cassie.
Maybe because some of their faces were vaguely familiar—they ate, worked and shopped on Magazine Street, after all. Maybe because I recognized the painting of Carolina Mendoza on the far wall and decided to make her my private guardian angel. Or maybe because I knew they were women who, like me, had lost some of their confidence and were helping each other get it back. Regardless of why, it suddenly seemed normal to sign up for what they were offering: a sexual rebirth.
Danica placed a folder in front of me. It was burgundy, soft to the touch, embossed with the words My S.E.C.R.E.T.
“This is your fantasy folder. There is one page per fantasy. You can fill this out at home,” Cassie said. “When you’re done, Danica will courier it back to us.”
On the right side were several sheets of cream-colored parchment. On the left, S.E.C.R.E.T.’s mandate was spelled out.
“Each fantasy must be:
Safe, in that the participant feels no danger.
Erotic, in that the fantasy is sexual in nature, not just imaginary.
Compelling, in that the participant truly wants to complete the fantasy.
Romantic, in that the participant feels wanted and desired.
Ecstatic, in that the participant experiences joy in the act.
Transformative, in that something in the participant changes in a fundamental way.”
Inside the folder, in each flap, was a fantasy list. I scanned it, my face heating up: secret sex in public … sex with an authority figure … a professor … a police officer … tied up (Gulp! Trust and control!) … served, spanked … serviced … waited on … sex with a famous person … water … nature … rescued … elevator … airplane (Jesus, flying could be involved?) … blindfold … food … taken by surprise … threesome … foursome … watched … being watched …
It was enthralling, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
“Remember,” Matilda said, “you choose your fantasies, set the limits and maintain total control. Anytime you want to, you can stop.”
I looked around the room at the Committee. This time my eyes paused for a moment at each warm, expectant face. All these women made me feel like the biggest adventure of my life was about to begin. And yet, I saw myself fussing and worrying over every single scenario, slowly neutering my adventures, whittling them down to carefully choreographed interludes. I’d do this but not that. Or I’d be willing to try this but only if that were in place. I saw myself double- and triple-guessing myself over each decision. Then I remembered something my dad said, the day he finally pried me off the side of our backyard pool. Since I was a toddler, I’d been content enough to clutch the walls, to let my legs barely kick at the water. But he said: If you don’t wanna drown, sugar, you gotta learn how to go all the way under.
So I had no choice but to do what I did next.
I tossed the fantasy folder to the middle of the table.
“Thank you all. But I’m not going to fill out this fantasy list. Not because I don’t want to do this. Quite the opposite. I not only want to do this, I need to do this. But I have been making lists and labels and setting limits all my life, living within strict boundaries and according to certain rules. You’ve told me today that your job is to keep me safe. You’ve told me that I can stop the fantasies at any time. Those seem like reasonable limits. The rest, I leave in your hands, with my only instruction being this: Surprise me.”
I had the attention of the whole table. Mouths were agape. Cassie was covering hers with a hand, her lovely bracelet dangling from her wrist, one I’d soon be wearing.
”So you accept?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, feeling defiant, triumphant. “I accept.”
7
CASSIE
AS MUCH AS I was thrilled by Dauphine’s bravery and excited to guide her, I was also admittedly a little jealous. After all, I had caught a glimpse of her fantasy board, and some of the marvelous men she was about to experience. That’s why I whipped out my phone right then and there on Third Street, before reaching Magazine. Enough of this silly reticence, these dumb fears. Dauphine had said, “Surprise me,” in response to the Committee asking her what kind of sexual fantasies she hoped to enjoy. If I was going to be someone’s Guide, I had better start getting brave myself.
I punched in Mark Drury’s number with a new vigor.
“Hello?” he said in a voice that sounded like it had been stored in an oak barrel in a damp basement.
“I woke you up, didn’t I.” Oh shit.
“Yes, you did.”
“But it’s four in the afternoon.”
“Is that you, Mom? I thought you passed away eleven years ago. This is such a nice surprise,” he said, yawning.
“No, it’s not your—It’s the girl you met on the patio a few days ago. Cassie. Though, I am sorry about your mother.”
“I’m just messing with you. I know who you are, and for the record, my mother’s alive.”
Okay, I’m dealing with a jokester. I can do this.
“Wait till I tell her what you did.”
“That’s very presumptuous, assuming you’ll meet my mom before you’ve even gone out on one date with me. Where are you?”
“In the Garden District, leaving … a friend’s house,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the Mansion, now in the distance.
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“So … wanna hook up?”
“Right now?” he asked, choking a little on his words. “Yeah. Right now.”
“Yeah!” he said, fully awake now.
He suggested Schiro’s in a half hour. That meant no time to change, I thought, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans. And no time to change my mind. I was going to “hook up” with a guy I had just met.
A wave of nausea overcame me. Could I do this? That was what my year of S.E.C.R.E.T. was for, wasn’t it? To act as a set of sexual training wheels? It was high time they came off. I knew what my needs were. Time to get them met.
Of course Mark Drury was lat
e. Of course he knew the cute waitress, the hot girl eating alone, the androgynous sous chef who he stopped to high-five, and the curvy bartender from whom he ordered a pitcher of beer before taking a seat opposite me at the last empty table. Schiro’s was popular with locals, the musicians and restaurant folks who ate at odd hours. It was almost 5 p.m., lunchtime for this crowd. The place was a study in plaid and piercings, and with a B & B upstairs it also had its share of international visitors. It was like a waiting room for heaven’s misfits. I suddenly felt old.
“Hi,” he said, grinning, pouring himself a glass of draft, then one for me.
I almost hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d shaved, showing off his great face to full effect.
“Hi.”
“I assume you like beer.”
“Live for it.”
He looked sleepy, his hair flattened and his green T-shirt—which set off his light blue eyes—was inside out. I had had butterflies in my stomach before he arrived, but curiously they began to calm down as soon as he sat. He’s just a guy. With needs. Like you. He snatched a menu from the table stand and studied it, stealing a glance at me every few seconds.
“Let’s get some burgers. They’re great here.”
“I haven’t been here in ages,” I said. “My ex and I used to come here for brunch when we first moved to New Orleans.”
Why did I mention Scott?
“Your ex, huh?” He snapped the menu shut. “Would that be ex-husband or ex-boyfriend?”
“Husband. But he passed away a while ago.”
“You’re not messing with me now, right? Because I really was only kidding about my mom.”
“No, I’m not kidding,” I said.
He pried no further about that.
“How have you thusly fared in our Crescent City?”
“You mean, dating-wise?” I followed that question with a big gulp of beer.
“Yeah.”
“Um. Hit and miss. You?” I asked, wiping my mouth.
“It’s hard to meet someone who likes musicians’ hours, you know?”
“And what about this? Is this a date?”
“You can call it whatever you want as long as you’re naked by the end of it.”
So bold! I tried not to register my shock. He was even bolder than my fantasy men, who all had helped me ease into things. But this was real life, as Matilda said. It was a lot riskier and messier and trickier than fantasy. In S.E.C.R.E.T., I couldn’t be rejected, I couldn’t screw up. In life those negative results were possibles, maybe even probables. But I still had S.E.C.R.E.T.’s support, and Matilda’s guidance while navigating this new terrain.
Now here was someone.
He was cute, funny and bratty. And what I had in mind was exactly what he had in mind. You can do this, Cassie.
I refilled my beer glass.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” he said.
I choked on my beer.
“You’re almost ten years younger than me! That’s disgusting.”
“To you maybe.”
The waitress came by. He ordered burgers for both of us.
“What if I was a vegetarian?”
“I didn’t expect you to be perfect.”
I used that moment to change the subject. I needed to catch my breath.
“So you’re a musician …”
He shrugged, playing coy at first. Then he started chatting about his band, the Careless Ones. There were four of them in the group; they’d all grown up together in Metarie. And though they started as a Dixieland punk band, whatever that was, they were veering more into blues and country.
“But half of us want to go in one direction,” he continued. “The other half in the opposite. And I’m the lead singer. Some days I feel like I’m in the middle of a custody battle for the soul of the band …”
He held his draft glass by the rim instead of its waist. His hair was damp and he smelled like apples. And his hands. Did I mention his hands? His fingers were lean, his forearms sinewy from holding guitars or microphones or signing autographs. Then he continued talking—about himself, his music, his band, his dreams, his aspirations, his influences, his inspirations. And I was spellbound. Not by his story, but by his total self-involvement. Rather than making me feel agitated, his youthful self-obsession suddenly, completely relaxed me. Maybe he was looking for my approval, but I wasn’t looking for his. I just wanted two things from him. His mouth on my mouth. His hands on my body. I just wanted with him what I’d had with my fantasy men: sex, no strings attached.
Our burgers arrived and he popped a fry in his remarkable mouth. I took a bite of my burger. Then another one. I thought the silence was a cue for him to ask about me, but he started talking again.
“I mean I didn’t, like, study music. For me it’s all about the effect on the audience. That’s the only way you measure music, by—”
“Stop talking.”
“—the way it feels when it rushes over the—”
“Stop talking.”
“—crowd.”
This time he heard me.
It was my turn to talk.
“It’s sweet how passionate you are about music, Mark. But if you want me to come upstairs with you, you’ve got to promise you’re going to use that beautiful mouth of yours for something other than talking.”
I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. He dipped a fry in ketchup and took a bite. Then he signaled for the bill.
Up I went, landing on the laminate counter between a tiny fridge and a tinier stove, his lean torso wedged between my thighs. Off came my T-shirt. Then he grabbed my sneakers by the heels, pulling them off too, one then the other, tossing them over his shoulders. My jeans came off next, leaving me in a black lace bra and thong. It wasn’t planned. These were lucky picks.
“Fuck you’re hot,” he whispered, liberating one of my nipples, which instantly hardened in his cool mouth.
“I told you, no talking.” I leaned back into the metal upper cabinets. This was how I’d do it, how I’d get over Will, how I’d shove images of him and Tracina out of my head. I’d make new memories, with new men to think about when I needed relief or release. Starting with this one.
Over his shoulder I took in the dim, masculine room, a British flag for curtains, a small fat-backed TV perched on a hope chest across from a high double bed with drawers beneath. It was tidy, but it had a second-hand, temporary feel. No one would be here long, least of all a girl.
While he took my other nipple in his mouth, going slowly back and forth, slicking it down, I worked my fingers through his hair, and gathered up his T-shirt in my fists. Off it came, his smooth skin surprisingly free of tattoos. Both of his hands now clutched my thighs, spreading them a little wider. His palms felt hot against my gusset, which grew damp from the way his knuckle teased along my groove.
“Ohh, you’re wet,” he crooned, biting my bottom lip as a finger eased aside the elastic. Inflamed, he kissed me back into the cupboards, his finger now frantic, freeing more of my moisture.
My hands were now ripping the buttons of his jeans, pulling one, two, three of them open, digging down the front of his pants.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” I muttered, folding my hand firmly around his erection, pulsing in my hand.
“For me?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, but it felt so good. He felt so good. I stroked him, making him harder still.
“Holy fuck,” he moaned, lifting me off the counter, easily carrying me into the living area and dropping me backwards onto the bed with a bounce. His erection was apparent over his splayed jeans. My hands had measured correctly; he was definitely blessed, like the cliché of a rock star, and by the look on his pleased face he knew it. As he yanked his jeans all the way down, I lay there in my bra and underwear, feeling so sexy, so dirty, so right. I watched him stumble out of his boxer shorts.
“Oh my,” he said, standing next to me on his bed, talking like a British TV detective. “What have we here? I
think we have evidence of a very horny girl in my bed. Let’s see what’s under this bra and these panties, shall we?”
He slid a hand under my back to undo my bra, removing it and discarding it over his shoulder. It landed on a guitar in the corner, looking like a still life that might be called Sex with a Musician. Then I arched as his hand slid down the front of my panties, my hips bucking slightly to keep his fingers out of reach, to make him work to find me, enjoying the tease. Impatient, he grabbed the waistband and pulled them all the way down, leaving them roped around an ankle.
“That’s better.”
He moved to the foot of the bed and lifted one of my bare feet to his mouth. That mouth—his singing mouth, his humming and moaning mouth. His lips tickled my smaller toes, before completely enveloping my big toe, sending sweet agony snaking up my legs. Then he reached into a nearby end table and opened the top drawer, taking out a condom and rolling it on.
“Spread your legs, Cassie,” he said.
“Say please,” I teased, stretching my arms over my head and closing my knees. I froze the scene in my head. Click. A year ago, this would have been unthinkable. Something that only happened to other women. Yet here I was, a pleasure seeker, a pleasure giver, a pleasure taker.
He slipped his hands between my thighs, slowly opening them, and I lay there splayed and glistening, turned on by the determined look on his face. Either three months without sex had tightened me or his size was exceptional, because despite my soaking wetness, his first thrust split me with the most perfect kind of pain imaginable. My thighs clutched around his lean hips. My hand grabbed his tense forearm. Oh jeez. I gasped as he thrust again, this time harder.
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