Dear Elizabeth,

Happy holidays, love – oh darling former roomie of mine. San Francisco misses you. The scene misses its voyeur. Remember my birthday, when I forced Fetch to wear a Sailor Moon costume and handcuffed him to my side? Taunting him as I kissed every willing girl at the party. Remember the makeshift torment rack he built from a bed frame? Saccharine but sincere. And the flogging? Just bruises, innocuous bruises, honey. You had such a weak stomach then. You missed the best, most nefarious moments of the party after you locked yourself in the bathroom, crying. Thanksgiving this year was more tame, but in consistent style – deviant. I played the ultimate role-play game – hostess. I’m a visionary. Martha Stewart couldn’t be so inventive, or sexy.

I tell Fetch to take the turkey out of the oven. A second time – I exhale – calmly, “Take the turkey out of the oven.” He has fallen off his chair. He’s laying there with half of his face pressed against icy kitchen floor tile, swallowing consonants and vowels, gargling worthless sentences. “It’s cold in here,” I say, “Would you like to sit by the radiator?” I lift him back into his chair and tether his ankles to it tightly. I drag his chair across the room in the direction of the radiator. He squeals in tune with it as it releases steam.

We’re two feet from the radiator, there are perfect tears of sweat on his brow – his ghoulish features are melting.

“Mmmmm!” is the desperate sound he makes. I move the chair an inch closer. One more inch. “Mmmm!”

I remove the gag ball: “Mom!” he pants.

I tell him we need a new safe word, and we really don’t have time for this anyway. The oven timer has been beeping for five minutes. “Go get the turkey,” I say. “You have to untie me,” he says pitifully, indicating the leather straps on his wrists. I acquiesce – I need two more hands in the kitchen. He crawls to the oven. I light a cigarette. “You shouldn’t smoke by a gas stove,” he says. How obnoxious. He reaches for the oven mitts and I promptly deprive him of the luxury. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” I take his hands off the oven rack and smack them like a child’s. He dips his dirty little fingers in the whipped cream topping on the pumpkin pie I made from scratch. I burned three before. I kiss Fetch anyway – a trinket of my clouded affection. “Just go set the table.” I’ve been watching home cooking shows. I’ve prepared stuffing, cranberry sauce, biscuits, mashed potatoes, Tofurky and a variety of raw vegetables for my vegan friends. The delicious aroma is driving Fetch mad. I would tether him to the chair again if he wasn’t dutifully setting the “table.”

There is no actual table – instead a circle of candles with placemats I cut from ebony lace. There are goblets with the zodiac signs of each of my guests etched with a sharpie. It took me an hour to do. Doms are required to dress as risqué pilgrims, subs as unclad Indians. I set the mood with Vivaldi. My guests arrive, one by one – each handing a tattered blanket to me. “Here – smallpox!” That joke was funny last year. We sit in tantric meditation as Sandra the Guru blesses our meal. We tell our submissives that they have to sit at the children’s table. They all stand and ask for directions. I laugh. “There is no children’s table, and you are invited to sit with us.” They look at each other, stark naked in their dog collars, stunned. I look at Fetch, kiss his hand, and say, “It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m thankful for you. Thank you for being my bitch.” I can’t hold a straight face for long. Laughter bursts. I stand up, “A toast to me – queen of the scene!” Fetch squats and digs into the mashed potatoes with his hand. I do cherish him. He might even get a mistletoe kiss for Christmas, if he earns it.

Ciao, babe! Hugs and kisses! Happy Holidays, etc.

Natasha