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"I don't meet many people willing to forgo making judgments about me," she said.

The current of connection between us was strong. It was not something I ignored with my patients. I intrinsically understood some better than others.

"What do you think would make you feel good?"

"Having my book published."

Cleo had just finished writing a memoir, a tell-all about what she had learned about men and sex, based on the clients she had worked with over the last five years. She'd submitted an outline and the first five chapters to a publisher and just two weeks ago had received a substantial six-figure deal.

Now she was dealing with the reality of what she had signed on to do. Reveal secrets, albeit anonymously, about men, albeit disguised and not named, who had paid her and trusted her to never do exactly what she was doing.

My phone rang and Cleo glanced at it with a slight frown, but not nearly with the consternation that some patients do. I don't usually answer the telephone during sessions, but I do look at the caller ID in case it is Dulcie, or her school.

It was neither, so I let the machine pick up, apologizing to Cleo.

"That's all right. But you asked me another question and I never answered it. What was it? I don't like unanswered questions."

Her voice was soft with a faint hint of a Southern accent. Too soft to be talking about such hard facts and harsh realities.

She sighed and crossed her legs at her ankles. It was a dainty movement. A woman sitting on a veranda sipping iced tea and wearing a soft summer dress would cross her ankles like that.

"A patient after my own heart. I asked you what was wrong with being a good girl."

"Can you think of anything that would be more boring?"

"Can you?" I asked.

"Okay. You don't answer questions, I do. I forgot. So, no, I can't think of anything that would be more boring than being a good girl. They have no power, no clout. They are so easy to dismiss. Wives. Girlfriends. Sweethearts." She grimaced. "I know their husbands. I look into their lovers' eyes." She shook her head and her golden hair swung around like a sheath of silk. "You know, everyone talks about men having all the power, but it's easy to take it away. Especially if you have the one thing that they want so badly."

"What is the difference between you and those women? What do you know that they don't?" I wanted to hear her answer as much to learn about her as to understand more about the men she serviced.

"I know what they want and my entire energy is focused on giving it to them. And to make sure they don't have any reason to fear me. I'm not about approval or disapproval. Men are scared, Dr. Snow. Some worse than others. Some men, who have trouble getting an erection, or who have trouble with premature ejaculation, are just scared of what is between a woman's legs. Did you know that? Of course you do.You know even more than I do about all this. One man told me that he imagined it as a big gaping hole with rows of tiny sharp teeth inside and he was worried that if he stayed inside of me for too long, I'd bite him off. Have you ever heard that from a patient?"

Not for the first time, I was reminded of how much Cleo and I actually had in common. In figuring out what her clients wanted, in satisfying them, she had to listen to their fears and phobias, which was exactly what I did with patients.

I leaned forward just a little, to make the connection between us stronger. "Did it bother you when that man told you that?"

"Bother me? No, but it made me sad. And it made it much easier to do what I could for him. I never took him inside of me. But I saw him for months. Talking, soft touching, listening to him. I'd go to his hotel room every time he came to the city on business. He'd order whatever I wanted from room service and then we'd get into bed with the food. He liked me to feed him. And then he liked to feed me. And he liked me to massage him. Just lightly, you know, with oil. He was strong, worked out a lot, and I liked looking at him. All stretched out on the bed. He never closed his eyes, though. And we never shut off the light. I'd use the oil to loosen him up, and then I'd..."

She cut herself off and looked over at me.

"I guess there's no reason for me to go into all that?"

"If you want to tell me about it, I want to hear about it," I offered.

She'd pulled me in and lulled me with the cadences and nuances of her speech. If Cleo Thane wanted to become a sex therapist, she'd be very good at it. The only problem was as much as I earned--$225 an hour--she made more than three times that.

"It hurts. This confusion. These conflicts..." Her lips trembled for a minute; she looked away.

"What scares you the most? What is the most confusing?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe it's the book...." She hesitated. And then in a quieter voice said, "No. Not exactly the book. But it's related to the book. It's really the man I'm seeing."

"Seeing? As in seeing a client?" I was surprised. In all the time she had been in therapy with me she had never mentioned that she was seriously dating anyone, and I'd been waiting for a revelation like this.

Six months may sound like a long time for a patient to hold back important aspects of their personal life, but opening up was not always a simple act. Cleo had been obfuscating since she started with me. It was my job to be patient and do the best I could and trust that she would tell me her secrets when she was ready.

She shook her head. "No. He's not a client. He's my fiance. A lawyer. At a very prestigious white-glove law firm. I hired him a year ago to help me set up an off-shore account for my company." She let out a delightful peal of laughter. "How ironic is that? I hired him. After a while he asked me out. This love s hit is worse than the guy who pulled the knife on me in bed when I first got into the business. Him I knew what to do with, I just reached out and grabbed him by the balls. I squeezed so hard, his little baby fingers opened and the knife just dropped out. But this love stuff? I don't know where to grab."

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