L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

S
ummer covered the city like a thick wool blanket. And since the Café’s airconditioning
was always challenged, the only relief from the heat was a brief visit to
the walk-in refrigerator. Tracina, Dell and I covered for each other as we did it, careful
not to let Will see us waste the cold air.
“Just move slower,” Will advised one day. “That’s what they did in the olden days.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem for Dell,” Tracina snarked, while unloading a bin of dirty
dishes next to me.
I wanted to blame the heat for her mood, but there was no real correlation. A track by
my new favorite hip-hop artist came on the radio and I turned up the volume, sending
Tracina into a tizzy.
“Why’s a white girl listening to this beautiful black man’s music?” she asked, turning
the volume down.
“I’m a fan.”
“A fan? You?”
“Actually, I’m quite familiar with his work,” I said, barely concealing a smile. Tracina
shook her head and walked away. I cheerfully turned up the volume and continued
bleaching the cutting boards. Though I could never imagine myself in a sea of fans at his
feet, the thrill of that fantasy had lingered. I’d get a memory ash of my skin against
his, his face tightened in ecstasy, and a shiver of arousal would snake up my spine. It
was one thing to use a fantasy to trigger that feeling, and an entirely dierent thing
when that fantasy was realized, stored and then recalled. This was what made
S.E.C.R.E.T. so marvelous. These fantasies were creating sense memories that I could
store for life and have at the ready whenever I needed a boost. I was not a voyeur. I was
a participant.
But despite these thrilling scenarios, I had begun to fantasize about a certain kind of
sex that had so far eluded me. I wanted … well, I wanted a man inside me. There.
Admitting to myself that I wanted something was getting easier.
The hard part was admitting it out loud to Matilda, who later that day sat across from
me at Tracey’s on Magazine Street. It had become our regular place, and not just
because it was down the street from the Mansion. Its raucous sports bar atmosphere
made it easier to talk without anyone overhearing.
I told myself today was the day I would ask her why none of the men had wanted to
do it with me. My brain, of course, had interpreted it as rejection, leftover fears from my
days with Scott. He had a knack for making me feel unwanted. And because I was
beginning to understand the weird reciprocity at work with the fantasies, I started to
worry that perhaps I was not fullling the men I was with—that I was, in a word,
undesirable.
“Nonsense, Cassie! You are very desirable!” Matilda said a little too loudly during a
sudden gap in the music. In a whisper, she added, “Are you saying you’re unhappy with