What I’m Doing In The Last Five Minutes Before You Arrive – Or, An Illustration Of Why You Should Not Be Early.*

• Put on chosen dress. Realize that the bra I’m wearing is not the right one for this neckline. Take off dress and dig through overflowing lingerie bureau for correct black bra – examining at least four other incorrect ones before doing so, and dumping approximately half of the Nordstrom intimates department onto floor in process.

• Turn heat up to eighty and note to myself that if the gas company gave out frequent-flyer miles, I’d have enough accumulated for a ticket to the moon. In first-class.

• Make last check of playroom. Leather cuffs? Check. Spandex hood? Check. Spencer paddle? Check. Big black rubber electrical butt plug? Dig through drawers in vain. Remember that it’s in the storage room, in the cabinet given over to the “you buy it, I’ll store it for you” toys. Go to storage room, which is twenty degrees colder than the rest of the house because heating vents are shut to save money. Shiver and look through bags of single-player-only equipment until I find the one marked with proper nickname. Place toy where it should be. Go stand over the heating vent in the playroom until goose bumps subside.

• Cue iPod playlist to “Spanking Music”.

• Examine my legs and wonder if thigh-high stockings - mined from the depths of aforementioned overflowing lingerie bureau - are actually the same shade of black. Wonder if he’ll even notice.

• Put on lipstick. Notice that it makes me appear as though I’ve been dead for three days. Realize it’s actually eye shadow and curse cosmetics manufacturers for being so clever in their packaging. Wipe off and replace with bona fide lipstick.

• Become aware that I have to pee. Pause and consider whether I should just wait and pee on him. Wrestle with my sense of proper dramatic timing versus urinary expediency.

Ding-dong!

• Answer door…

*With a tip of the hat to certain ladies, who inspire me with their private wit.