I'm her bitch

It’s that time of the year, again. The kids have their costumes ready. The parents are decorating their front porches. The candy has been bought. And, dentists are expecting a lot of tooth decay in the upcoming weeks. It’s almost Hallowe’en and everyone is excited.

Except me.

I never really cared for Hallowe’en when I was a child, and I still don’t, now that I’m an adult. But, for some reason, a lot of my classmates want to wear costumes for the occasion for school. They’re even asking me to join in on the ‘fun’ but I’m just not into dressing up.

If anyone ever sees me, they know my look resembles the latest Michael Kors collection - clean, comfortable, and cashmere. And, even if I did dress up, it would be more along the lines of Dolce then Dracula.

But, just to shut them up, I go along for the ride, and pair up with A because two are better than one. We want to see the reactions on everyone's faces. To up the secrecy, a pact is made: All of the costumes are kept secret until the 31st.

**

Hallowe’en arrives and everyone shows up, one at a time. No one is dressed in their costumes, yet. We all get ready before first period. By the time we walk into class, there are some laughs and some quizzical facial expressions. The teacher walks in and sees that ½ of the class has costumes, the others don’t. He asks us who we are and what we’re supposed to be.

One by one, we give our answers.

There’s a French maid, the Uma Thurman character from Pulp Fiction (syringe, and all), a Jewish Pimp, and a couple of others.

When he approaches my partner and I, he looks down at her, and from the look on his face, has no idea what she is. She’s dressed in a halter top, short-shorts, fishnet stockings, high heels, and carrying a whip – all in black.

“I’m a dominatrix,” she says, a smirk on her face.

“Ok, then…” his voice trails off. “Uh, Steven, what are you supposed to be?”

For those who are accustomed to seeing the class smarty pants in sweater vests and turtlenecks, now see me dressed in a tight, black t-shirt and pants, with handcuffs, and a choke collar around my neck.

“I’m her bitch,” I say as I nod my head towards A.

The students laughter verge on hysterics. The teacher looks at me, nods his head, and goes back to the front of the class.

He should've known never to ask if he doesn't want to know the answer.

Note: This happened a couple of years ago (post-grad school), but I still think it's a funny story. And, it was the only time I was someone's bitch.