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"It might look like that, but everything is connected in some way. However, figuring that out isn't your job right now. You should just feel free to tell me what's on your mind. Whether it seems connected or not."

She didn't say anything.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"How he'd feel if he knew that I had just told you all that. He's sort of private."

"Cleo, is there a reason you won't use his name?"

"Occupational hazard. I never use men's real names. To protect their privacy. I just give everyone nicknames."

"But you said he's not a client."

"No. No, he's not."

"If you were to give him a nickname, what would it be?" She laughed.

"I've given him a few nicknames."

"Okay. What one comes to mind first?"

"Caesar."

I must have arched my eyebrows, because she laughed. "Do you think it's silly?"

"No, but I'm curious. Why Caesar?"

"The real Caesar was so commanding and powerful. Did you see the movie? His passion for Cleopatra was so all-encompassing. It just reminds me of how he is."

"Is he understanding about your sexual conflicts with him?"

She nodded. "No. Yes. Well, intellectually yes. He understands that I am having some sort of resistance to doing what he wants me to do to him--what I want to do to him--and confusing it with what I do with my clients...." She broke off, close to breaking down again.

I've been a therapist for ten years, a sex therapist at the Butterfield Institute for five of them, and have had more than fifty long-term patients. One thing I've learned is that, if we are sensitive to our patients, if we listen to what they say as well as to what they don't say, they reveal all the clues we are going to need in order to help them in the first five to eight weeks of therapy. It can take an infinite amount of time to move the pieces around until they lock into place and present us with a whole picture, but we get the clues early on. I was getting them now.

Cleo's head was bowed. Her eyes lowered. Her body remained quite still. I didn't know if she was crying again or not, but clearly she was distressed. I looked away for just a second, toward the windows and the balcony outside my office--the narrow terrace that is just wide enough for me to stand on and sip a cup of coffee as I watch the pedestrians and traffic on the street below. Beyond that are two lovely magnolia and dogwood trees that filter the strong summer light as it spills into my office, sending shadows of dancing leaves on the wall and across the Chinese art deco rug.

Cleo started speaking while my head was turned.

"Caesar seems more worried about the book than about our sex life. He doesn't understand why my sense of accomplishment at having written the book isn't enough. He thinks I should burn it now that I've gotten it `out of my system’--as he says. He is afraid that one of the men I am writing about might try to get back at me. Oh, it's just so ridiculous." Her eyes filled up again. "I'm afraid he is going to give me an ultimatum over this. Over a book!"

The minute hand on the small silver clock on the table by my
chair swooshed forward. It was ten-forty-five. The session was technically over. But I didn't mind giving her a few more minutes. She was twisting the emerald ring on her ring finger, twirling it around so that every few seconds the stone caught the light, sending reflections on the wall, then disappearing just as quickly.

"Has he read the book?" I asked her.

"No. No one has. Not yet."

"Because there's something in it that you don't want Caesar to know about?" I guessed.

She nodded. "I haven't lied to him about what I do. I just haven't gone into the kind of detail the book does. Caesar thinks that for the last couple of years I have been behind a desk sending out the girls. And I have been doing that. But I've also been doing some calls."

"You told him you stopped?"

"He thinks I stopped about a year ago. I didn't. I still have a half-dozen regular clients who I've been taking care of for a long time. I know these guys. We have...h ell...we have a relationship."

"Cleo, I'm not sure that I understand. Does Caesar know that you are still going to bed with other men?"

"Well, see that's the thing. Technically I'm not. I don't have what you'd call regular sex with most of them."

"Regular sex?" I laughed. "I don't make judgments, but there is no such thing as regular or irregular sex, as far as I'm concerned."

"See, that's why I like you. We're on the same side of all this. The logical side. The side that doesn't make sex into some religious experience that saves souls or plummets you into h ell."

The clock chimed and the bell-like sound drew her attention. "I guess my time is up?"

I nodded.

"Just one more sec?"

I nodded again

She reached down and pulled out the Tiffany shopping bag she had brought with her. I'd noticed it when she walked in but hadn't thought much about it.

From inside, she extracted a bulky manila envelope, which she held in her hand for a few seconds and caressed as if it was a velvet pillow, or a man's thigh.

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