I spent some time this afternoon working on the closed-captioning and peacock tattoo idea and it went nowhere. All it did was make me want to get another tattoo. I also realized with some alarm that the Smile, Hon sex issue deadline is a mere week away, so if I want to submit something, I really better get moving.
And just like that, it hit. Inspired by a deadline, craigslist, and the stuff sitting in the glass dish on my bureau: what happens when a woman answers an ad solely as a journalistic exercise (or so she thinks)? Not the most original idea, but it will do. Here is an excerpt.
Amelia was surprised when the package that arrived from him was not a large shoebox, but a small, padded envelope about the size of a checkbook. Stockings, she wondered? No, Mark had been clear that he was not a nylons kind of guy.
It took all of her resolve not to open the envelope right there at the post office, or in the car where some one passing by might see. When she got home, she went straight to the bedroom, and carefully peeled back the envelope’s adhesive seal. There was a note.
Can’t wait to see how you like it! Send pics…
-Mark
His handwriting was tight, even, and masculine, exactly what she would expect from an engineer. She wondered what his hands looked like; they were not visible in the pictures he sent.
Half of the inspiration for this newly unfolding ditty. To be clear, these did not come to me as a result of a craigslist. No, these came to me as a result of eBay. Is it summer yet?
Inside the envelope was a small, zippered plastic bag that held what looked like chain mail. She turned the bag over, and a tangled clump of silver chain and shining black stones dropped into her hand. After a few moments working the chains with her fingernails, a slave anklet unfurled itself between her fingers. A chill swept across the back of her neck and her chest felt light as she worked the little silver ring around her second toe. Attached to the ring, a web of silver mesh and black stones draped the top of her foot, and connected to the delicate silver chain that fastened around her ankle. She drew in her breath, uncertain what was sexier; seeing her foot draped in sliver and black, or the fact that Mark had sent it to her and was, at this moment, probably eagerly checking his email, waiting for pictures. She wiggled her toes, and felt the silver mesh slip to the left and right over the top of her foot. I am certifiable, she thought, as she reached for her camera.
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