S.E.C.R.E.T. Revealed (Secret 3)

“Not really. I mean, my dad died and my mother had a stroke. So I moved back to my childhood home to take care of her. We took it as an opportunity to separate. But after she died, I never really left that house. Like I said, we co-parent well. He’s the best dad. And Gus has never seen us fight. Because we don’t. Anymore. But, yeah, it wasn’t acrimonious. It was just … really sad …”

I suddenly felt choked up. I hated to think about what our divorce had done to our sweet, sweet boy, whom my whole body missed when he was at his dad’s. On the one hand, our separating before he turned three was good. He didn’t remember us together, all tense and crabby. On the other hand, he had never really seen his mother in a loving, affectionate adult relationship either. But maybe I was reading too many of those post-divorce parenting books.

At that moment, desperate to change the subject, I noticed Matilda’s bracelet and reached out to touch it. The gold was warm, heavy; the charms had little inscriptions on them that I couldn’t make out without my reading glasses.

“This is a beautiful piece of jewelry. An heirloom?”

“You could say that.” She smiled.

“Where did you get it?”

She tugged her arm back.

“I’m sorry to hear you hated that article, Solange,” she said, completely ignoring my question. She could teach a master class on evasion. “But in a way, that focus is what got me to call you.”

So there was a purpose to this lunch.

“Fact is, I came here to talk to you about that article and about your sex life. Or lack of it. And how I might be able to … help.”

Her utter directness made my face heat up. Oh dear. Now I understood. I wiped my mouth with my napkin and placed my hand on hers, clearing my throat.

“I should tell you, Matilda, I am deeply flattered, but, the thing is … I’m straight. Though if I were a lesbian—”

“No-no-no. Oh my god. That’s not what I meant!” she said, smiling. “Forgive me, I’m not usually this blunt, but my approach changes for each woman and I have a feeling being direct with you is the best way forward. I’m talking about having sex with men. And not relationships per se. Just … relations.”

“Oh.”

She scooted forward in her chair, suddenly taking on the demeanor of someone offering up a great deal, the kind you cannot turn down.

“These relations I speak of are purely sexual,” she added. “Fun, free, safe, anonymous encounters. Ones you’re entirely in control of. Ones you define. They don’t define you. Sexual scenarios you come up with, executed exactly the way you want them to be executed. How does that sound to you?”

“You mean … you’re talking about sexual fantasies. About making them … real?” I glanced around the loud, boisterous bar filled mostly with loud, boisterous men completely wrapped up in the game or their own conversations. This was the perfect place to have this kind of conversation.

“Yes. Now, you’re a journalist, Solange. So what I’m about to tell you next has to remain off the record. Permanently. It’s highly confidential. So confidential that if I were asked to go on the record, I would have to deny this conversation ever happened.”

I looked around the restaurant. My interest was beyond piqued; my whole body was on Holy shit alert, making me feel dizzy with anticipation. But I did my best to retain a cool facade.

“Okay. Agreed.?

?

That’s when she laid it all out: what her philanthropic group, S.E.C.R.E.T., really stood for, its history and her role as one of its founders and chief guides. S.E.C.R.E.T. didn’t stand for the Society for the Encouragement of Civic Responsibility and Equal Treatment after all. It was an acronym that stood for Safe, Erotic, Compelling, Romantic, Ecstatic and Transformative: conditions for sexual fantasies her group arranged and executed for women. Women they selected. Women like me. Women in need of some help in that arena.

I was incredulous.

And shocked.

And completely riveted.

“Let me get this straight. You helm an organization that grants women sexual fantasies? Why are you telling me all this? As you said, I’m a journalist.”

“I know. But I trust you. And … well, we would like you to be our next candidate. And quite possibly our last, for a while anyway.”

“Candidate? Why me?”

“Well, in recent years we’ve selected women who were sexually numb, and others who were deeply broken. This time, for our last candidate, we want someone who just stopped making sex a priority. Someone with more life experience. Also, why not you? You’re beautiful, accomplished, and busy. As you mentioned in that article, dating is not something you ‘waste a lot of time on.’ You no longer bother, as you stated. What I’m proposing is that you let us do something for you that you’d never do for yourself. It’s what we’re best at.”

I was speechless for a few moments, then asked, “What do you mean ‘last candidate’?”