"Anastasia," he drools. "Your helicopter is ready."
Those words make me horny. I bite my bottom lip, an action I repeat for dramatic effect. I know it drives my host crazy and gives him a party in his pants.
I climb into the seat beside his hirsute-chested loveliness and blush over and over again as he expertly fits my seatbelt and hear muffs.
"We'll get to my lair soon, but first we have to make a short stop," he explains darkly, running his fingers through his tussled hair. I had to suppress a squeal.
Within minutes we were setting down on a rural highway, the scene of a horrific accident. A paramedic opens the cabin door and nearly surprises me out of my jeans. Several others spring out the door.
"What's going on?" I quiz the man who will soon be my first lover.
"Oh, I own ORNGE helicopters -- that's how I made my billions cheating the government -- and we need to make this pitstop to pick up a couple of patients."
He regards the scene expertly. What can't the man do?
Then he brightens.
"We'll be out of here in a jiff," he says. "Pretty much looks like this is a roadkill situation."
I watch in horror as the paramedics bring aboard an elderly traffic victim. They try to perform CPR on the old man but are having difficulty.
"We sort of scrimped on the design," my man, my lover, explains. "Lotsa room for paramedics to sit, just not enough room for them to do their work. It's the sacrifice we make to please our investors."
Soon the man turns blue and the paramedics sit back and enjoy a much needed Coca Cola.
"I called it," my lover says.
Christian expertly airlifts us, the paramedics and the corpse of some person's granddad. In minutes we land on top of a huge building.
"Wait here until we're done," Christian instructs the paramedics. "There's some ice in the back; pack the old stiffy on it and go get yourselves some McDonald's.
His eyes dance in the moonlight.
"We could be a while."
Christian leads me to his Batcave and kisses me deeply.
Crap! I think. This might be the big one.
He forcefeeds me pate and cheese, then leads me to a crimson room filled with oddities not seen since the 1970s; consoles and tape machines are littered everywhere. There's an Atari machine, Ms. Pacman; there's even a Betamax which we may use later.
Perhaps Christian wants to make a sex tape and sell it to TMZ.
Sign this, he says. It's a non-disclosure agreement. Then comes the kicker.
"I want you to do everything I tell you to do from now on," he says. "You will be forced to wear a hoodie and jeans, not exercise EVER and drink 12 Red Bulls a day. Do you think you can handle it?"
He turns on the big screen television in the corner, and connects to the Internet. Suddenly, we hear the voice of a kid named Skeeter and I realize what I've got myself into.
"It's a World of Warcraft marathon," Christian says, his eyes a darkening grey that frightens me.
"We only brake to pee."
I realize what I've gotten myself into. I just hooked up with a twisted motherfucker whose sadism knows no bounds.
Twelve days, Eleven Nights of World of Warcraft.
I feel the bile rising in my throat.