SECRET Revealed (4 page)

“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.”

I slapped my hand over my heart to calm it some.

“You can come in, Solange. I’m decent.”

Oh dear lord
. I made it to the top of the stairs and turned down the hall to my bedroom, feeling my stomach clench.
I’ve never had sex with a complete stranger. What am I doing? Am I crazy?
The ensuite bath had both a shower and a tub, and Dominic was just stepping out of the shower, a towel secured around his sculpted waist. The dusky light from the glazed window blurred the room, or maybe it was the steam, or the fact that I was vibrating. But this bronze Adonis was dripping water all over my tiles and I’d never minded anything less. I realized my breath was shallow and I tried to force it lower into my system to prevent fainting at the sight of him, his taut skin, his thick arms, his bare feet planted solidly on the floor. I pulled oxygen deeper into my lungs, the way I had learned how to in Lamaze classes … 
Lamaze! I have a kid! I shouldn’t be … STOP thinking
.

Dominic was smiling the smile of a man who understood his effect on a woman.
You’re going to get yourself naked in front of this man, Solange. And you’re going to be okay with it
. The tub next to him was full, bubbles floating on the surface, a row of lit tea candles along the back ledge. It was very pretty.

“I took a quick shower and ran a bath at the same time. I probably used all the hot water in the house. My apologies.” That smile again.

“That’s all right,” I said, massaging the back of my neck.

“I think the water temperature is okay. Wanna check?”

His eyes stayed on me as I crossed the room. I leaned over and dangled my fingers in the sudsy water.

“It’s nice,” I said.

“Why don’t you get in? And … I’ll get you something to drink,” he said, perhaps sensing my shyness about undressing in front of him. “Any requests?”

Oh thank god
.

“Yes. That would be nice. Some water, maybe? Glasses are in the dining room hutch. Or wine. Maybe wine? There’s an open bottle in the fridge door.”

I watched him disappear.
Doitdoitdoit
. I quickly slipped out of my skirt and blouse, piling them (neatly) on the vanity. I slipped out of my bra and underwear and slipped them under the pile of clothes. I tested the water with my toe,
Ouch
, a bit hot, but fine, no time for inching in.

I sunk to my collarbones, my body neatly concealed beneath the bubbles, my knees now brown mountains with soapy snowcaps sliding off them. I loved my tub—a beautiful white oval model, one I’d picked out when I realized Gus and I were going to remain in my childhood home and I renovated the master bedroom and ensuite. It had seemed so decadent at the time to install a whirlpool tub, but I did use it. It was often my only means of relaxing.

A few minutes later, Dominic came back up the stairs and into the bathroom, a sweating glass in one hand, his towel still clenched in the other. I leaned forward to wrap my arms around my knees, concealing my breasts, and averted my eyes from his seemingly airbrushed abs. He
was so … this was too …

“Here you go,” he said, handing me the glass.

I accepted it.

“Are you comfortable?”

I nodded, took a sip and carefully placed the glass on the tiled corner of the tub. He kneeled next to me on the floor.

“Because if you’re not comfortable …”

“No. I’m fine,” I said, choking a little on the wine. I knew the smile on my face was a weak one. “Really. This is just … I’ll get used to it.”

I’ll get used to it? Wow. So sexy, Solange
.

He returned the smile and I felt almost like crying. I don’t know why. I wasn’t afraid; I wasn’t sad. Quite the opposite. I was … grateful.
Moved
even. His torso was inches from the rim of the tub. I could have stretched out a hand and touched it; I so wanted to. He wasn’t just beautiful, he was kind.

He took a folded white washcloth from the rim of the tub. Dipping it into the sudsy water and squeezing out the excess, he placed it on my shoulders and eased them down. I let him make long, slow circles with his cloth-covered hand, my head easing forward, relaxing.
A hand on me, this human touch. I
have
been lonely. How have I not noticed?

The scratchy fabric, the warm water, his hand so near my skin, all served to calm me. I closed my eyes.

“How does that feel?”

“Good,” I murmured. Moments later I felt the cloth pull away to be replaced by his soft lips on my shoulder blade.

“How does that feel?”

“Good too,” I said.

He placed another kiss on my back, wiping with the washcloth as he traced a path from one shoulder blade to another.
Oh god
. I was melting into the water. How long had it been since I’d been handled so tenderly?

“It’s getting a little chilly out here,” Dominic whispered, pressing his mouth behind my left ear. “May I join you?”

It’s happening! Breathe
. I scooted forward in the tub to make room for him behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him drop his towel, and I glimpsed a thatch of short dark hair, a semi-aroused penis, a
nice
one. He stepped into the water, his knees bracketing my hips as he lowered himself in. He gently pulled my torso back against his warm chest. I could feel his erection against my lower back, getting harder as his hands moved from my shoulder caps down my front. My own hands still covered my wet breasts, and he curled his fingers around my wrists.

“Let me,” he said, coaxing my hands apart.

“Let you what?” I asked, stifling a nervous giggle.
You are forty-one. You mustn’t giggle
.

“It’s time to surrender, Solange. Just … let me.”

After a brief hesitation, my arms went slack, and he … well, he
unwrapped
me, opening one then the other arm, placing them around the outside of his strong thighs. It was fascinating, an experience that I was both enjoying and observing. He trailed his hands up my smooth arms to my shoulders and then down again, this time cupping both breasts, now slick and wet and bobbing out of the soapy
water. I watched him circle my nipples with his thumbs, sending a sharp bolt of arousal straight behind my belly button. I inhaled quickly, pressing back into his torso, his erection now fierce against my spine, my head tucked under his slightly stubbly chin. I was careful to keep my hair dry. I was game for a lot of things, but getting my hair wet was a no-no. My hands curled around his as they kneaded my breasts, his thighs firm against the outside of mine. I swear it was like being held between two tree trunks.