Mr. Wolf invited me over to his place tonight to celebrate our imminent doom in style.  

     “Want to have dinner in my neighborhood first, Little Red Ridinghood?” he asked.

      I peeked out my window.  “Are places still open in your neighborhood?  It’s getting awfully quiet around here.  And don’t you have to be at work early tomorrow?”

     “My office was evacuated!  I have the day off!  See you at ten.  And wear the same heels you wore last time!  I like them.”  

     Well, only if you twist my arm…!

     Getting paid to be dominated by a sexy hedonist in his luxury apartment.  There are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening. And the Surgeon’s out of town, so I’m safe.  

     Calling my Sponsor to reinforce my sobriety.  Then it’s time for big hair and fake eyelashes.  WHEEEEEEEEEEE!  

        I met him in a crowded bar down the street from his apartment.   

         I was expecting a man in a suit, perhaps with a steroidal necktie knot and a real gold college alumni ring.  

      What I got (and he found me before I saw him, even though he’d never seen a picture of my face) was a guy with a buzzcut and a heavy gray-black motocross jacket.  It looked functional, too–this wasn’t some luxury imitation shit from Neiman Marcus.  

      “Hi.  Are you Margo?” he asked, as I stood searching the crowd.

      I said yes.

      “Nice to meet you!  How are you?  That pretty red coat–I like it.  Little Red Riding Hood!”  I was wearing my nice scarlet woolen pea coat. 

      Miss Margo’s blog Christens thee: The Wolf. 

      We went to be seated at a table in the back of the establishment, where we could talk.  

                   *                   *                       *                     * 

        We carried on for almost an hour.  He was warm, less restrained than myself.  An outgoing personality.  Seductive, but I didn’t detect predatory intent.  The topic turned to motorcycles.  

       “I’ll show you mine.  We’ll pass it on the way to my place.  Do you ride?” 

        “I learned how to, but no.  They’re a lot of fun, but I’m way too risk-adverse.”

        ” ‘Risk-adverse,’ eh?  You’re not so risk-adverse.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “If you were risk-adverse, you wouldn’t be here.  Shall we go?”

                *                             *                      *                   * 
   
          The Wolf had a damn impressive apartment.  It had real art in it (the joke around Margo Manor is that it is “full of worthless reproductions of priceless works of art,” hardy har har) and floor-to-ceiling windows.  I parted the blinds to check out the view while he regaled me with tales of his bizarre rich-person lifestyle (“When I was scuba diving, an octopus swam up and tried to take my camera!  Want to see the photos?”).

        Then it was time.  

        I ran an internal diagnostic of myself.  Everything was fine.  Nothing about this man alarmed me.  He seemed stable and transparent.  

       “How would you like to begin?”  I asked.

       “Take off your dress and serve me a drink.”

                      *                         *                          *                 * 
       
        J.T.’s Stockroom must send this man thank-you cards–actually, make that thank-you gift baskets–because he had cases and cases full of arcane, quality equipment.  Like electrical stuff with all these awesome attachments (I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I love playing with electricity.  It’s wild.  Nothing like it.).  He kept going to his bedroom closet (or wherever he was going when he left the room) and bringing out more fun tools. It was like Christmas morning, even though none of it was mine and I didn’t get to keep it.  

       He was definitely a Top, but he didn’t hurt me badly at all.  I was manhandled and thrown around then and there, but the next morning there were no signs of injury besides a swollen knot on the back of my scalp where he yanked my hair hard (at least, I think that’s where the swelling came from) and a small bruise on my back.  And a bruise on the knob of the protruding bone on my wrist–not sure how I got that–I think I might have knocked it against his coffee table.  

       This one is a different experience for me.  His demeanor, his personality, is different.  I can’t quantify it yet.  He’s emotional, or at least more emotional than me, which isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. He’s creative, fluid.
         He was a hedonist.  I did not perceive that he was a sadistic wackadoodle.  And I say that as an unapologetic sadomasochistic wackadoodle.  He took control from the moment I said we could start, and the aura of authority was drool-inducing, but there was no oppression. 

     I’ll end this blog post now–I’m tired.  I didn’t know what to write.  This is such a strange topic and I don’t trust my feelings.    

    Update: 2:45 AM

     I’m home safe and sound.

      I will see this man again.

                   *                       *                   *                        *  

    Tonight I have an appointment with a fellow who wanted to hire a masochist.  I’ve never met him before.  I’m not sure exactly what he’s into, but he claims to be experienced and he agreed to my conditions, so I’m going to try it.  

      I’m always nervous about going to visit them on their home turf, which is why I seldom do it.  It’s a little funny that if I met this guy in a bar back when I was drinking and liked him, I’d go to his apartment without a second thought (not too bright, I know.  Remember Kiwi Bull Terrier?).

      We’re meeting at a restaurant close to his place first so we can assess mutual compatibility.  I’ll size him up.  If he seems shady or gives me bad vibes, I’ll call it off.  

       I typed his address into Google in order to get directions.  Holy shit!  Expensive building.  Really expensive.  

       I reread his email.  It’ll take me a while to get back uptown from Wall Street, it said.

       Patrick Bateman!  Patrick Bateman!  My mind screamed.

       Here’s to hoping he’s not Patrick Bateman.

       Fortune favors the bold.  Literally.