I had big plans for my thirtieth birthday party. Inspired by Life-styles of the Rich and Famous, I planned to spoof the career expectations of the entire thirty-something generation by having a Filthy Rich and Wretchedly Famous Blowout, where, diamond tiara on my head, I would preside over my royal Coming of Age.

But my plans were changed for me. I never got close to a diamond tiara. In fact, I wore very little at all.

Two days before my birthday, my lover, Honey Lee, asked me if we could have the day all to ourselves. She had a little surprise. Surprises aren’t Honey’s forte, but I thought that after six years together I’d allow her attempt at unpredictability.

“Okay, I’d love to spend the day with you. Just tell me what to wear,” I said. That turned out to be the key that pried open her secret.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she answered. “All you have to do is wake up in the morning and be ready for anything.”

March 25. I woke up, put on my furry purple bathrobe, and set the kettle on to boil. I wasn’t jumping to any conclusions. Honey Lee didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. “You’re having some guests over at ten o’clock,” she said.

I sipped my tea and imagined the possibilities. Two weeks ago, I had been putting away Honey’s bags and discovered a new paperback copy of The Story of O. Honey Lee credited Pauline Réage’s classic S/M novel with every hot sexual fantasy ever to enter her head, but she was all sexy dreams and no action. Honey had never tied me up, slapped me, or spanked me. She said the real thing made her sick to her stomach. Was she about to turn it all around for my fourth decade?

I heard heavy steps approaching the front door. And who of our women friends was so big that she bumped her head on the ceiling?

It was no lesbian. It was a six-foot-tall man, with a head as bald as Yul Brynner’s and an enormous wooden table in his arms.

“This is your masseur, Patrick,” Honey Lee announced. “He’ll be with you for the next two hours. I’ll be back when he’s finished.”

I was speechless that she was leaving me alone with a giant. Patrick set up his massage table and covered it with a flannel sheet. I slipped out of my robe and thought, Well, here we go. If Honey Lee was preparing me for something, I’d need every minute of a two-hour massage.