continue
S.E.C.R.E.T. in New Orleans.”
Matilda explained how she met Carolina more than thirty-five years earlier, back when
she was an arts administrator for the city. Carolina was an artist, originally from
Argentina. She fled in the ’70s, just before the military crackdown made it impossible
for artists and feminists to create and speak freely. They met at an art auction.
She was just beginning to show her work, large vivid canvases and murals that weren’t
typical of the paintings women were doing at the time.
“Are these her paintings? And the ones in the lobby?” I asked.
“Yes. Which is why security is so tight here. Each is worth millions. We have a few
more in storage in the Mansion.”
Matilda explained how she and Carolina began to spend time together, something that
surprised Matilda because she hadn’t made a new friend in a long time.
“It wasn’t a sexual relationship, but we talked an awful lot about sex. After a while
she trusted me enough to share her world with me, a secret world where women gathered
to talk about their deepest desires, their most hidden fantasies. Remember, it wasn’t
common back then to talk about sex. Let alone how much you liked it.”
At first Carolina’s group was informal, Matilda said, a gathering of artist friends,
and local offbeat characters, which have always been aplenty in New Orleans. Most
were single, some were widows, a few were long married, some of them happily so, she
said. Most were successful and over thirty. But there was something missing from their
marriages, their lives.
Matilda became her exclusive art broker and Carolina’s paintings began selling for
sky-high prices. Eventually she sold several to the American wife of a Middle-Eastern
oil sheik for tens of millions of dollars. She bought the Mansion next door, then
put the rest of her fortune into a trust that funded their burgeoning sexual collective.
“Ultimately we realized we wanted to
experience
our sexual fantasies—all of them. And these scenarios cost money. Finding men, and
sometimes women, the
right
men and women, to fulfill these fantasies, required recruiting. And … training. That’s
how S.E.C.R.E.T. began.
“After we all helped one another experience
our
sexual fantasies, we began recruiting one person every year upon whom we would bestow
this gift—the gift of complete sexual emancipation. As current chair of the Committee,
it was my duty to choose this year’s recruit. According to our mandate, she must,
in turn, choose us.”
“That’s your cue, Cassie,” said Brenda.
“Me? Why?”
“For several reasons. We have been watching you for a while now. Pauline made the
suggestion after seeing you at the restaurant. She didn’t leave her notebook on purpose,
but we couldn’t have planned it better. We had already discussed you a couple of times.
It all worked out rather well.”
This stunned me for a moment, that I’d been watched, checked out … for what? Signs
of abject loneliness? I felt a flash of anger.
“What are you saying exactly? That you saw I was some pathetic, lonely waitress?”
I looked accusingly around the room.
Amani reached out and held my arm, while some of the women murmured reassurances:
“No” and “It’s not like that” and “Oh, honey, that’s not what we meant.”
“Cassie, it’s not an insult. We operate from a spirit of love and support. When someone
shuts down their sexual self prematurely, it’s often not noticeable to them. But other
people pick up on it. It’s like you’re operating with one less sense. Only you don’t
know it. Sometimes people in that kind of retreat need an intervention of sorts. That’s
all. That’s what I meant. We found you. We picked you for this. And now we’re offering
you a chance at a new beginning. An awakening. If you want it. Do you want to join
us and begin your journey?”
I was stuck on how they had
S.E.C.R.E.T. in New Orleans.”
Matilda explained how she met Carolina more than thirty-five years earlier, back when
she was an arts administrator for the city. Carolina was an artist, originally from
Argentina. She fled in the ’70s, just before the military crackdown made it impossible
for artists and feminists to create and speak freely. They met at an art auction.
She was just beginning to show her work, large vivid canvases and murals that weren’t
typical of the paintings women were doing at the time.
“Are these her paintings? And the ones in the lobby?” I asked.
“Yes. Which is why security is so tight here. Each is worth millions. We have a few
more in storage in the Mansion.”
Matilda explained how she and Carolina began to spend time together, something that
surprised Matilda because she hadn’t made a new friend in a long time.
“It wasn’t a sexual relationship, but we talked an awful lot about sex. After a while
she trusted me enough to share her world with me, a secret world where women gathered
to talk about their deepest desires, their most hidden fantasies. Remember, it wasn’t
common back then to talk about sex. Let alone how much you liked it.”
At first Carolina’s group was informal, Matilda said, a gathering of artist friends,
and local offbeat characters, which have always been aplenty in New Orleans. Most
were single, some were widows, a few were long married, some of them happily so, she
said. Most were successful and over thirty. But there was something missing from their
marriages, their lives.
Matilda became her exclusive art broker and Carolina’s paintings began selling for
sky-high prices. Eventually she sold several to the American wife of a Middle-Eastern
oil sheik for tens of millions of dollars. She bought the Mansion next door, then
put the rest of her fortune into a trust that funded their burgeoning sexual collective.
“Ultimately we realized we wanted to
experience
our sexual fantasies—all of them. And these scenarios cost money. Finding men, and
sometimes women, the
right
men and women, to fulfill these fantasies, required recruiting. And … training. That’s
how S.E.C.R.E.T. began.
“After we all helped one another experience
our
sexual fantasies, we began recruiting one person every year upon whom we would bestow
this gift—the gift of complete sexual emancipation. As current chair of the Committee,
it was my duty to choose this year’s recruit. According to our mandate, she must,
in turn, choose us.”
“That’s your cue, Cassie,” said Brenda.
“Me? Why?”
“For several reasons. We have been watching you for a while now. Pauline made the
suggestion after seeing you at the restaurant. She didn’t leave her notebook on purpose,
but we couldn’t have planned it better. We had already discussed you a couple of times.
It all worked out rather well.”
This stunned me for a moment, that I’d been watched, checked out … for what? Signs
of abject loneliness? I felt a flash of anger.
“What are you saying exactly? That you saw I was some pathetic, lonely waitress?”
I looked accusingly around the room.
Amani reached out and held my arm, while some of the women murmured reassurances:
“No” and “It’s not like that” and “Oh, honey, that’s not what we meant.”
“Cassie, it’s not an insult. We operate from a spirit of love and support. When someone
shuts down their sexual self prematurely, it’s often not noticeable to them. But other
people pick up on it. It’s like you’re operating with one less sense. Only you don’t
know it. Sometimes people in that kind of retreat need an intervention of sorts. That’s
all. That’s what I meant. We found you. We picked you for this. And now we’re offering
you a chance at a new beginning. An awakening. If you want it. Do you want to join
us and begin your journey?”
I was stuck on how they had
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