The dinner party invitations had gone out and I was at the supermarket shopping for what I hoped would be a memorable evening, yet all I could see in the fluorescent interior were lies. On the shelves and over the "supermarket radio," were advertisements telling me to buy this, feel that, take this, and hope for that.

And I knew what faced me at the checkout, "Do you have a shopping club card? Have you entered for our vacation drawing to Hawaii? Would you like to use your ATM card to earn bonus points for a free year supply of veggie bologna?" Life these days seems to be about living in a commercial-and if you live in Los Angeles, it's even bigger. It's about living in your own movie.

Well, my movie had reached its climax. This dinner was going to be either the beginning of something really big or the final chapter in a book that needed to desperately end. I was about to try to become a human being in front of the Mocha Daze crew-to prove to my father's friends that I was a normal human being capable of love, trust, and honesty. How it would be taken, was yet to be seen.

Peter however, was another story. The hit man had called me, claiming "the wrong number." But alas, Peter was alive. And I was pissed! Whether he lied out of his need for drug money or for the simple fact he couldn't do it, I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure of a lot of things anymore.

My world was beginning to crack, and I didn't like it. All of those promises of how he would kill Peter, but this time he didn't do it. And I couldn't find him. He told me "sorry, wrong number." But Peter was ALIVE. Something was going on and it made me nervous! Were the cops in on a set up? Was the hitman part of some sting to finally put me away for Barbra's murder? I had to be careful. I had to plan it accordingly.

I had watched him like a hawk stalking a lone field mouse, ready to strike the seemingly only "witness" between Barbra's murder and my freedom.

I had to "take care of him" appropriately, which meant either certain silence or a deafening warning.

I opted for the later.

I knew he walked his dog Alfie on a favorite route, which included passing through a vacant lot. I waited for my little rodent, my claws ready to strike, but he was slow in coming.

The groceries in my car were getting warm, and I knew I would have to soon give up on my fright, or be certain that I would have to throw out the boneless chicken breasts that were warming next to the romaine.

And then I heard it.

"C'mon, Alfie," said Peter's tender voice from around the ivy covered wall, approaching the large green grass and shrubbery covered field. Supposedly the land owner was in a legal battle with the city over turning this last remaining lot into low income housing-or a 16 unit luxury condominium complex. The city of the angels was truly becoming a place of division-where those who have and those who haven't are forced through city politics to share the common goal of a happy urban life. "Can't we all just get along?" I mumbled to myself, remembering Rodney King as Peter moved closer through the empty field.

He looked good. His chest and biceps were quite large-- obviously had been going to the gym in another quest for gaybot stud status.

He looked cocky, sure of himself with his little lap dog-as if nothing in this world could hurt him. But he was wrong.

Suddenly, I stepped forward and he froze, Alfie barking.

"Hey Alfie baby," I said. "How are you?"

The dog smelled me and growled, whining back to his master. Dogs never liked me. Cats however, seemed to find me delectable and in this instant, I realized it was Peter who was the cat-and I the Great Dane.

"What do you want Steve?" asked Peter, suddenly a tad nervous.

"Shouldn't make threats about Barbra. Accusations aren't nice. I won't put up with it." He looked at me and then his eyes darted to the ground, trying to pass.

I gently took my palm and placed it across the back of his neck. He flinched, as expected, but then he paused. And in that instant I knew the fly's wings were caught in my sticky strings of my invisible web.

"I miss you." I stated, calmly breathing across his neck.

Through his muscle tee, I could see his nipples were getting erect. I still knew how to work this man.

Suddenly, he pulled away. "Don't," he exclaimed, and continued walking.

I followed. "Peter, I loved Barbra. I would have done nothing to hurt her. She was my wife, you know that. And in a strange way, I'm hurt by this."

"You should be," he mumbled.

"You're angry. She's gone. I understand, but that has nothing to do with me. Don't hate me because of this tragedy. Placing blame is dangerous and always ends in regret."

He continued walking away and suddenly all I could think about was the chicken breasts in the trunk. I would definitely have to throw them out by now.

"Can I come over later?" I asked.

I eventually got him to say yes. And soon I would go over, seduce him, and in an act of submissive role playing, I would control him. Leather restraints are easy to manipulate. Ironically, not through fear, but through sex, I would wrap him around my finger.

But the restraints would have to be tight, the mouth gag silent, and the phone disconnected. I would have to seduce him through his fears, and rejoice in the fact that I could-and would-control him.

For as long as I wanted.