Oh god. I’m actually doing this. Fuck me, I’m really doing this. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Leaning against a wall at Flinders Street Station, phone in hand and trying to act casual while I wait with agitated nervousness for the message that says she can’t make it. My fingers are twitching, flicking the phone between locked and not, trying to keep myself busy. Don’t want to play a game, can’t calm myself enough for that. It’s taking all my reserve to keep my heart going at a nice, measured pace rather than doing its best to win the Indianapolis 500 sans body. She’ll probably stand me up, right? I mean, there’s no way this is really happening. Things like this do not happen to guys like me. I’m not straight laced, sure, but I’m not a man who regularly finds himself out on the town on a Friday night. I’ve had my adventures, but those have all been spontaneous, ‘right-place-at-the-right-time’ affairs. I’ve never had something that belonged in the pages of Penthouse magazine. I’ve never arranged to meet a Goddess before. Why was I here? Do I want to convince myself that this is a joke? Am I tired of hiding behind that charitable wall of doubt? Do I need to force this to a head, one way or another? Why am I so fucking nervous? It all started a week ago. A friend of mine had volunteered to help a mutual friend at a Fetish event they had organised. Not the snazziest soiree on the calendar, but a damned sight more interesting than anything I had lined up to do that evening. He was helping his friend, so I was helping him. My little dash of good karma and a pleasantly flimsy excuse for getting up to dress down in my fetish finest. It was, perhaps predictably, an average night. Not my first fetish night, hopefully not my last, but nothing I would have ever written home about. The venue was suitable, recently renovated. The people were by and far well dressed and tolerable. The entertainment was subdued but enjoyable. I didn’t hold my breath over the possibility of getting any attention. I’ve never been eye-candy, but it’s never bothered me. I go to enjoy the atmosphere. Relaxed. Non-judgemental. Fearless. No-one afraid to let their freak flag fly. The sort of setting where walking around in arse-less underwear and leather armour would not look out of place. My sort of crowd. That’s where I met her. She was the partner of one of the officials at the event and consequently was on her own for most of the night while her paramour was off patrolling the grounds, ensuring the evening was proceeding without a hitch. She was all soft curves and smooth edges. She looked like she had been carved out of marble and polished for generations and passed down as a work of art. She should have been posing for some new age artist somewhere bohemian in Geneva, fetchingly draped in crimson silk, accentuating the swell of her womanhood. She should have been the centrepiece. We should have been enjoying wine while she posed on a platform, allowing us the pleasure of basking in her grace. She was, instead, swathed in gentle black number, not calling attention to herself. Her hair fell in rivers over her face, hiding eyes as bright as a new moon. Her lips had the fullness of ripe sin and watching her watch the room sent my mind into riotous abandon. She was, in a word, sultry. I wanted her the moment I laid eyes on her. I spent the first half of the night taking turns controlling this desperate craving for her that I had developed and working up the nerve to open up a dialogue with her and hoping like Hell that I wouldn’t come off like a creeper. Not that I usual seem like a pervert, but at what amounts to a fetish themed swingers night, any guy walking up to a woman on her own immediately has some pretty daunting hurdles to overcome – and I was never a track and field sort of guy. After hours of contemplation and consternation I finally opened with what I thought at the time was a decent opening gambit. “HEY! SHE LOOKS KINDA BORED, DOESN’T SHE”, I shouted to my friend standing immediately next to me. Obnoxiously loud and impossible to fail in grabbing her attention. That’s right ladies, hold on to your panties because I am just that fucking smooth. After I had finished applying my palm to my face in stunned disbelief at my own inanity, I tried a less demented approach. “Where are you?” Fucking. Smooth. It took me a moment to realise that what I had said didn’t even make sense. It took me a moment more to realise that she agreed with my deduction and had queried my statement with a sceptical “What?” Can’t stop now. She’s actually talking to me. The evening has taken a sudden and distinct turn for the better. “You seemed to be lost in thought. Not really here, you know? I was just wondering where you were.” Great save. And that’s how it started. Every avalanche starts with a few pebbles. Being the chivalrous sort, and not a little in need of cheerful entertainment myself, I had spent the night making small talk with her and keeping her company. We talked about hobbies, movies, books, our lives, loves and fears. The clock was striking 1am before I realised that I’d have to make tracks lest my carriage turn into a pumpkin and I became a mouse. She said to find her on Facebook and that we’d stay in touch. I’m not an optimistic sort by nature, but she was kind and enjoyable to chat with – and more than a little easy on the eye. I wasn’t so egotistical as to think I stood a shot with her, but a new friend? I was sure I could swing that. So the next day I took my chances to find her on Facebook and see what friendship could be sparked up. That’s when the depravity began. She was sweet. Sultry. Seductive. We were chatting for less than a day before she casually suggested that my lips could be put to better use placed between her thighs and nuzzling gently at what they found there. I became lost in her words. She flirted. She joked. She engaged me and gave herself over to my whims. I hesitate to call her submissive. She didn’t strike those chords in my mind. She was…obedient. Eager. Compliant. She wanted nothing so much as to please her partner, and she had her eyes set on me. I was enamoured, rest assured. I’d never known a woman so excitable. But still, my guard was up. No. That’s not an accurate description of my feelings, I wasn’t mistrustful of her. The generous handful of photos she had taken at my request were proof of her sincerity. She was eager to obey. She wanted to be told what to do. And I heartily indulged. The only block was my own internal self-loathing. I did not – do not – deserve a woman like this. But I didn’t think twice about asking her to go out on a date with me on Sunday when she told me she was free. If there is one truth in my life, it’s that my deepest failures have always been my regrets over things that I did not do. There are things that haunt me – truly haunt me – simply for the pain of not giving things a go. For being too afraid to take a chance. For being too terrified at the prospect of losing that I never try to win. I wanted to win this girl. I told her I was nervous. I told her I was excited. I didn’t tell her I expected this to be a prank. A joke. A tease to show me what I’d never have. I couldn’t tell her any of that. I didn’t want to jinx myself. I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t sure she’d even rock up. It’s not her fault I felt that way, I know. I’ve been stood up more than once. More than once I’ve held what I thought was an amazing thing in my hands and watched it flitter and burn away on the tragic reveal that I was the butt of some cosmic ridicule. It’s left me with something of a pessimistic demeanour. But I’ve never given up on hope. Which is why I can see her now. Those boots are the first thing I spot. Bright red. The colour of sin, stop signs and perfectly ripe strawberries. Like magnets for the eyes, drawing them down before I rip them back up, tracing my gaze across the perfection of her body. Black tights that look like sin and clung like a lover. Red jacket that served to emphasis the generous swell of her breasts. God, how could I not see her? Hair done up in pigtails, pretending to be an innocent girl. Oh fuck, she’s seen me. That fucking smile. She was really here. That’s really her. She’s walking towards me. Oh Jesus, that fucking smile. Like she knows all the wicked things she’s made me dream of. Making me think of. Men have died for a smile like that. I can smell her now. Close enough to touch. She smells like summer wind in a strawberry field. Her lips are wet and inviting and I want to make them mine. She opens her mouth to speak, still walking towards me unafraid, moving with the confidence of a woman born of my dreams. Her eyes are locked to mine. She hasn’t stopped walking. She’s not keeping a nervous distance. She’s not afraid of me. Can’t she tell my heart is pounding? Can’t she hear it? Christ, she’s close enough. “Are you still nervous?” she asks. “Yes.” And then I kissed her, and my world just melted away.