The next day I didn't chicken out, but instead told him what time he needed to pick me up to go to the train station. I told him to bring anything he might be interested in playing with, and hinted that I would be doing the same.
Friday night, the first Friday in March (the night before my birthday, actually), was going to be the night. If I had ever thought of going the corporate route, I probably would have lost millions of dollars over my lifetime by my utter failure to get any reading done that week. Lord forgive me, I was thinking of it as a wedding night; I had intimated as much to Charles on the phone, saying I think (I had stiffened my resolve with several glasses of wine before making this call), "One last question, Mr. Smith: are you prepared to deflower a virgin anus?"; "Oh. . . um. . . sweet Jesus, Emily, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" was his reply, which did indeed sound weak, as if he were having a cardiac episode, at which I broke down into giggles, unfortunately. At any rate, I was not going to lose the chance to indulge my thing for white lace thongs. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.