I sent him one back. Thank you! You make me feel strong.
His reply was fast. If you really want to thank me …
You’re insatiable, I wrote back. Talk soon.
I unfolded the pages in my notebook and wrote one more sentence: He always knows the perfect thing to say to make me feel better.
I walked to the headquarters for WNN, housed in the larger NNN complex and, I’ll admit, it felt a bit like I was in an alternate universe when I stepped inside and looked around. Never had I thought to be interviewing for anything having to do with such a large corporation. Even though Nathaniel and I had been married for over six years, there were times I still felt awed when surrounded by wealth and power.
I gave my name and showed my ID to the security guard and stood to the side while I waited for Meagan to come escort me up. I didn’t have long to wait.
“Abby,” a tall woman with platinum blond hair said, minutes later. “So happy you’re here. I’m Meagan.”
I shook the hand she offered me and then she led me to a bank of elevators. She chatted as we went up, asking about my family, and we discovered we both had a love of golden retrievers.
She led me to her office. It was a modern-looking space, done in sleek wood and shiny chrome. Not my preference, but it seemed to match her.
“Have a seat,” she said with a wave to a chair that looked more like a piece of art than a place to sit.
She sat in a chair beside me instead of taking her place behind her desk, and a huge smile covered her face. Her hair was super straight and it swung back and forth as she talked. “I am so thrilled you’re here. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“This is going to be wonderful. I just know it!” She held up a hand. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you what I’m thinking. We’d initially like for you to write a series of blog posts for our Web site that’ll match our latest television episode. We’re thinking the post should go up the day before the episode airs. But I think you should do something different for the first post. Really grab everyone’s attention.”
I had gathered as much from her earlier communications. She talked a bit about content and timeline expectations. It all sounded reasonable.
“I have a question about privacy,” I said. “Will you be able to keep my name from the public?”
“Of course, I totally understand the privacy concern. You can keep on being known as the Submissive Wife.”
That was my biggest concern. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t matter that I was a submissive and that I wore my husband’s collar. Unfortunately, the world wasn’t perfect and people didn’t always treat my sexual preferences with respect.
And I didn’t even want to think about the kids hearing something.
“Thank you,” I said.
She picked up some papers from her desk. “I wrote down a few of the themes of our upcoming episodes: taking charge of your sexuality, sexually mismatched partners, and sex toys. You can take a look and see if you have any questions.”
“How many posts a week were you thinking?” I took the papers and looked through them. Nothing surprising. Written on each week’s theme were suggested questions: Where do you find reputable information? How do you find like-minded people? That sort of thing.
“I know the questions look a bit on the boring and tame side.” Mischief danced in her eyes. I was willing to bet she could be trouble if the situation presented itself. “Those were questions the production team thought up. I’m giving you permission to do something else. Besides, I want the first post to pack a real punch. Knock the world on its feet.”
I looked over the list of topics, and they did look to be on the boring side. “What’s your production team going to say if I don’t take their suggestions about what to write?”
“Trust me. If the post gets enough hits, they won’t care what it’s about.”
“I like you,” I said with a tiny laugh.
“Seriously.” She took the top paper from my hand and started to read. “List of Web sites you recommend for those looking for more information. Really? Or this one, BDSM defined. Not too bad, you could probably work with that and do something.” She flipped to the second page. “Spicing up your sex life. Like that hasn’t been done to death. The horse is dead—leave it alone.”
She went to the third page and shook her head, not even bothering to read. “What I’m saying, Abby, is make this section of the Web site yours. Don’t feel like you’re limited by these suggestions. We approached you because people love your site and they love it because it’s you. Not a corporation telling you what to do.”