Even back in high school, I had always been an adventurous lover. I had a long-term boyfriend, whom we will call Romeo. Romeo used to feed the fish at his grandparent’s house when they went out of town on vacation, so we had our venue.
I had just purchased a new pair of platform shoes, pleather pants (with stars on the butt) and sexy handcuffs, and I was dying to experiment with my fantasy. We sneaked away from my mother’s house to his grandparents’ house, and headed back to the bedroom. Romeo had cuffed me and was preparing to take down my pants when, mid-pants pulling in handcuffs, we heard someone enter the house. To a teenager (or probably anyone!) who is handcuffed and bare assed, the sound of a door creaking open when you weren’t expecting it is terrifying. Even worse was what happened next.
Romeo (master of the obvious) said, “I think someone is here.” Anxiously I responded, “What should we do?” He said nothing but got up, turned me around, stuffed me in the closet and shut the door behind me. So there I was, handcuffed, standing in my ridiculous outfit with my pants somewhere about my knees, and thinking how much more humiliated I would be if his mother actually opened the closet door. I probably prayed hard that it wouldn’t open to the face of his mother. I heard her come into the bedroom, where Romeo was pretending to be sleeping, and ask what he was doing. He replied, “Feeding the fish and taking a nap.” The only problem with his story was that it was about 8:00 at night—not an opportune time for napping—but of course, his mother did not point this out. Instead, she said, “Let’s go, you can follow me home.” Brilliant.
The next thing I knew, the lights went out and a series of doors shut. Then nothing. And I was standing there in the pitch dark, trying in desperation to get the handcuffs off, wondering whether or not I could come out of the closet. After giving it some serious thought, I decided I was too scared to exit the closet because they could still be in the garage talking in soft voices or something. So I stayed put.
Time marched on, and I started wondering if my own mother might be wondering where I was. I was also thinking about what a shame it was that I’d bought these handcuffs in the first place because now I wouldn’t want to use them ever again… that would only bring up the bad taste of the very memory I was building—the memory of being stuffed into a closet while handcuffed. I worked my way out of the Velcro cuffs and pulled up my britches, though it did little to restore my dignity as I waited in the dark closet.
A full 45 minutes later, Romeo returned and breathlessly flung open the closet door in exasperation. “C’mon!” he yelled, as if we were dodging bullets on a battlefield, and he took my hand and led me forcefully through the house, into the garage, out into the driveway and finally into the car. The only thing missing was triumphant music as we entered the vehicle. I asked him what had happened.
During the fastest ever car ride home, Romeo explained that he was supposed to have been following his mother but felt like he couldn’t leave me in the closet, so when she turned the corner, he split and came back. Ah, Romeo, you are truly a craftsman of ridiculous situation comedy. I would have been happy with a cell-phone call when you got home to tell me the coast was clear.
Adapted from A Moment with Each of My Lovers by Billie Criswell
