Secret Desires

By Anne Marie Scanlon

When I lived in London I had an apartment over that of two nurses who worked in a hospital across the street. They were awful neighbors - really dreadful. They'd come in at 2am and turn the stereo up to full volume. There were a few incidents as a result. Anyway, fast forward a few years and I'm living in New York and very pally with a guy called John. One night, after I'd known John for about two years he starts telling me about his older sister, a nurse in London... This kind of thing is always happening to me. Hell, it happens to everyone. No matter who you meet eventually you will work out some weird connection.

The ad about sharing the secret with the woman in red was the one that really intrigued me. We all have some secret vice that we don't want to let on about.

Everyone has a hidden desire they would die rather than reveal; some files on their computer they wouldn't like seen; some compulsion that drives them in ways they'd rather not share. And, everyone thinks that they're the only one who likes/wants/does this particular thing. Take Samantha who I met last Christmas at a party in Dublin. For twenty years Samantha, who despite the name is a man, a married man with children, would have dinner with her family, help the children with their homework and then retire to the attic, lock the door and put on a face full of makeup and a fancy outfit. Samantha all dressed up with nowhere to go would spend the rest of the evening watching the TV before carefully removing all of the makeup and getting into bed beside his wife who had no idea what he did in the attic every evening. (It would probably have come as a relief to her had she known.)

Eventually Samantha's marriage broke up and soon after she discovered that she wasn't the only man in the world who liked dressing up in women's clothing. Far from it. At the party where we met there were about forty other gentlemen gussied up in laydee's clothing. I'm no different from Samantha. Well obviously I wear women's clothing but that isn't my secret vice, being a woman and all. But I do have a secret vice, something which until quite recently I was convinced I was the only person in the world who was up to this particular activity.

Then last Easter my mother came to visit. It's hard to indulge in a secret vice behind locked doors when there's someone else behind the locked doors with you.

Samantha was lucky to have an attic; they're not something the average New York apartment comes equipped with. Imagine my confusion when one day I returned unexpectedly to find my mother up to the same thing. She was suitably embarrassed when I barged in and found her at it. "Oh, er, I was just flicking around the channels," she said shamefaced and fooling no one. "No you weren't," I accused, "you were watching this weren't you." "Yes," she replied hanging her reddened face in shame, "it's true I was watching it. I don't know why but I can't help myself." It was time to fess up and admit that I'd been up to the same thing on the sly.

A few days later I was out with my friend Caitriona. "You'll never guess what Mum has been up to," I said. When I told her she looked a bit shifty and attempted to change the subject then finally broke down and said, "Look, I do that myself, there's nothing wrong with it, really, there's nothing wrong with it at all." I decided to come clean with her after all I'd admitted to worse in the past. The relief we both felt as we discussed our mutual addiction in hushed voices was incredible.

A month ago Caitriona's boyfriend moved in with her. "What am I going to do about you know?" she asked. "You'll have to tell him," I said. "Are you mental?" she demanded, "I can't admit to that, he'll think I'm sick, he'll break it off with me." So she kept her mouth shut. Soon after her fella moved in he made a confession. He had a habit he told her, some people might think it a bit weird or even a bit sick but as far as he was concerned it was harmless enough. He'd been up to the same thing as the rest of us. That's why I'm coming clean today.

If there's four of us who've been at this then there must be more. It's time for us to come out of our respective closets and own up publicly to our secret vice, that we're all fascinated by New York One reporter Roger Clark. Yep, obsessed would be closer to the mark. When Roger is on the TV all other activity ceases. None of us can explain what the fascination is. It's not that we fancy him (which must come as a relief to Caitriona as far as her fella goes), Roger is no sex symbol even of the unlikely sort (like NY ONE anchor Pat Kiernan) and he is a truly terrible reporter. Awful. Caitriona's fella watches every morning with the same mantra "How did he get this job? How? Is he someone's nephew?"

Watching Roger interview someone is a bit like watching a car crash but, and I think this is where the attraction lies, not in a bad way. Roger despite his lack of looks and finesse is, or certainly comes across, as a really nice guy. He is unfailingly genial, good humored and upbeat but not in a phony insincere way. Even though his on-air gaffs are hilarious and often cringe-making you can't help rooting for Roger and wanting him to succeed. Recently Roger was on the anchor desk. My mother, visiting again, was thrilled. "Oh look he got a promotion," she said. "It's temporary," I replied. We watched as Roger went through the daily papers and admitted that The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants was one of his favorite movies. Only Roger could get away with such an admission. See, he's the type of guy who has no problem sharing his secret vice with the world.