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“If shame is so toxic, why isn’t S.E.C.R.E.T. more public? That would be a way to fight the stigma,
the double standard. Why should ‘slut’ be an insult to women and not necessarily to men?”
“Let me ask you something. If we went public, would you admit to being an enthusiastic member of
a group of women that arranges sexual fantasies for other women? Would you like to share with the
world all the marvelous men you’ve met and all the marvelous things you’ve done with them, in
S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
She lifted her sunglasses to look right into my eyes. She had me. There was no way I could face
that potential scrutiny.
“We can’t change the world, Cassie, but we can liberate one woman at a time. Reduce her shame.
That’s all we can do. Now, tell me all about this young man you slept with.”
“Well, let’s see. I like him. I like being with him. But when I’m not with him, I don’t think about
him. Then I feel guilty because I should have more feelings for him, shouldn’t I?”
“Should. Shouldn’t. Who cares,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I think it’s perfectly healthy,
perfectly necessary, that a thirty-six-year-old woman like you has terrific sex with a younger man
from whom she wants little else. Let me ask you something: were you honest with him about what you
wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Was the sex consensual?”
“Of course.”
“Did you use protection?”
“We did.”
“Well then, good for you! What fun it must be to be back in your body, to simply experience a man.
So, no more talk of sluts, all right? No judgment. No limits. No shame. That applies to how you think
about yourself too.”
It felt like a good time to bring someone else up, someone who I did want to see again, for whom I
still had lingering feelings.
“How’s Jesse?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Is he next on Dauphine’s fantasy list?”
“I believe he is,” she said, looking out over the field. “He was your number three. We think he
should be Dauphine’s as well.”
Ouch. I tried not to look at her, but she was eyeing a cute, sweaty player with his hands on his
knees who was catching his breath. He looked about thirty, Latin, maybe South American or Italian.
Not too tall, stocky, fit, with a head of messy black hair and teeth so white they flashed brilliant from
ten yards away.
“See that one?” she asked.
“He’s kind of hard to miss,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“We’re in the process of recruiting him. Angela was supposed to be my wing girl today. That task
has now fallen to you.”
“Now?”
“Get the ball!” Matilda screamed. “Honey, I know what you’re thinking regarding Jesse. You can’t
have Will, and you don’t want this young fella, so you’re looking for a little something in the middle.
That’s okay. But I’m not sure pulling Jesse off the roster is a great idea. Besides, I have a special trip
I’d like you to go on. You know we have to auction off Red Rage?”
“The painting in the Coach House?”
“That’s right. We’ve decided to auction it off in Buenos Aires, in Carolina’s home country. We
think we can get the best price there, since there are only two paintings left. We need you to