Steven keeps emailing to ask when we're going to have our "session."

Session. Evidently that's what folks into S&M call "having sex."

The more I think about it, the more the word creeps me out. I mean, I don't like those Pepe LePew guys who are always asking when we're going to "make love," but there's got to be some middle ground. "Session" is so cold. Psychiatrists have sessions. Courts are in session. When we're talking about getting naked, I don't want to picture Dr. Phil or Judge Judy hanging around. "Session" doesn't give the impression that we're sharing something intimate. In fact, I get the idea that halfway through I'll be chained to a rock with a ball-gag in my mouth, and he'll be like, "It's 12:15 and I've got some email to return. Why don't we resume around 2?"

I've been curious about S&M since I tended bar in my teens. To drum up business one night the owner played the movie Born to Raise Hell. It was certainly eye-opening to a timid kid who wouldn't have mailed a letter without a nine-digit zip code. All I remember is one scene where a hunky guy in a leather harness is tied to a tree and somebody punches him in the stomach until he pukes.

I appreciated the wry insouciance and the countercultural flair, but to this day I haven't seen anything less likely to turn me on, and I watch "The View" every day.

Still, every once in a while I reconsider whether or not I want to get involved. S&M folks couldn't be more open and outgoing, to the point where you wonder if they're "recruiting" like the right-wingers say all us homosexuals are. At least once a year the local organization holds an open house with mummifications and crucifixions and everything, showing off their skills to the curious public like the sheep-shearing girls at Appleton's Amish Village, except in studded harnesses and leather caps instead of dirndls and bonnets. I find them interesting and always politely clap between acts, but at no point do I think, Oh God, I wish that was me immobilized beneath that Saran Wrap.

I like the masculinity. I like the camaraderie. I like the clothes. But I've tried and tried and I just never get that SCHWING! when somebody pokes me with a cattle prod.

Still, I've been toying with the idea for so long that I'd probably give it a shot, except I'm pretty sure Steven is the wrong guy. First, I don't have the confidence in him that I'd want in my master. I've been over to his place for dinner a couple times, and he just picked up food off of serving platters with his hands. Didn't use forks or spatulas or anything. And I'm thinking, you know, when your master clamps your nipples together and then flogs you with a cat o'nine tails, you probably can't say stuff like, "Dude, you sterilized all this shit beforehand, right?"

What it comes down to, though, is I just don't trust Steven, and that's the straw that broke the camel's back. He's the kind of guy who, when you run into him, is all "Hey, we gotta have a session! We gotta have a session!" and then you don't hear from him for eight years. He isn't trustworthy. He doesn't inspire confidence. And confidence is what I need to break down the last bit of my reserve. Because, you know, I've had guys who wouldn't stop kissing me before, and that would be a lot more annoying if they were holding pliers.