the dominatrix

she talks about
books, books, books,
writers, fiction
and poetry, she
goes and on through
out the night
about the craft
of writing, about
films and stories
the art of literature.
she is aglow with
hemmingway and plath,
steinbeck and t.s eliot.
she loves it all.
her face is flush
with interest as
we go back and forth
with this discussion.
she tells me she has
lots of books. we
finish our drinks
and dinner,
and then i walk
her to her car,
which is filled up
with paperbacks
and hardbacks, books
are everywhere,
stacked in the back
window, on the
back seats, she
opens the trunk
of her car and
there are boxes of
books. new and old.
she asks
me if i want any
and i begin to sort
through them, but
then i see a large
leather bag, it's
black and stuffed
with something, a
silver zipper is on
the side like a long
shiny scar. what's
in the bag i ask her,
and she says you don't
want to know, but
i insist, and so
she opens it up. pulling
the zipper down with
a hard deliberate tug,
it's full of whips
and chains, cuffs
and masks, things i've
never seen before.
there is a long
spatula instrument.
toys of every size
shape and color.
i look at her, and she
looks me. there
is silence for a minute
and then she
asks me, interested?
and i laugh and say, no
i'm sorry but no, but
i will take a book
if that's okay.