A Religious Experience

So one day not too long ago, I was at my workspace, getting ready for a client to show up. It was mid-afternoon on a sunny day. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror at ten til the hour, powdering my nose, putting on lipstick, fluffing up my hair, when the doorbell rang.

Damn. I hate it when people are early, because, of course, I’m not quite ready, and since I don’t have a butler, I have to stop and go open the door. At least in this house I’m on the same floor – actually, just a few steps from the front door. In my two previous dungeons, my dressing area was a fair distance away from the door, and a flight of stairs was involved. Did you know it’s very treacherous to run down stairs in six-inch platforms? Yeah.

But it was a new client and they are often a bit early, just out of eagerness. (And not knowing that I hate it.) So I sighed, put down my comb, and went and opened the door in my usual manner. That is, I opened it while standing behind it, so that I was invisible from the street. My door is situated at the end of a hallway-like entry area, so it’s hard to see into my house from the street unless you’re precisely lined up with the door. But even so, I strive to be discreet.

Then I peeked around the door. There’s a male silhouette, backlit by the bright sunlight streaming into the entry corridor. He was standing way over to one side, so I had to come out from behind the door to see him.

“Hi!” I said. “You’re a little early…”

There’s a shift of movement, and I realized that were are actually two men standing outside my door looking at me. Two? What the hell is this?

And then as my eyes adjusted from the relative dimness of the house to the glare of the sun, I got a good look at them. Two young white men, rather slim, wearing dark slacks and long-sleeved white shirts and neckties. And gold name badges.

Holy shit, it’s a pair of Mormons!

I was standing there wearing: a very short (like, it barely covers my butt), very tight, black spaghetti-strap PVC dress that gives me tons of cleavage, a waist cincher, thigh-high shiny black high-heeled boots, my hair teased up like mad, and vampire-red lipstick. And there were these two Mormon boys, who look just barely old enough to shave, clutching their notebooks in perspiring palms, looking back at me. I must have looked like either their wet dream or their worst nightmare, depending in how devout they were.

We stared at each other in mutual confusion for an instant. And then I came to my senses and said, “Oh! Oh, no, no - go away please!” and closed the door swiftly.

It was half hilarious and half mortifying. I imagined them walking away from my house, shaking their heads and jotting down a note next to my address: Hell-bound floozy lives here. Clearly beyond any hope of salvation.

Then I wondered what would have happened if I’d said, “Oh, you want to talk to me about your God? Okay.” And taken them downstairs into the dungeon, sat them down on the spanking bench and the bondage chair and said, “All right, boys, give me your best shot.” What would they have done? Would they have been able to maintain and give me the Jesus pitch? Is there some clause in the Bell-Ringing Bible-Thumpers Handbook that says if a woman dressed in black plastic wrap invites you into a room with a rack of whips, you should leave, and God won’t hold it against you? Or do you stay and keep (ahem) turning the other cheek, not because you want to, but in the hope of saving her soul?

Now that I think about it, it would make a fun little role-play, wouldn’t it?