A Peek Inside: Roleplay (long)

Role-playing is pretty much a guaranteed good time. Scenarios run from the simple to the whimsically elaborate.

Simple would be: You're Wonder Woman. I'm Superman. GO!

Below is a much more elaborate seed for a role-play. The author - an accomplished, creative gentleman I admire immensely - has enthusiastically agreed to allow me to post this. I think it's star-ship fantastic - perhaps even more so because I know the author and am familiar with his sense of humor and sensibilities. It does nicely illustrate that, in these matters, one is really only limited by the scope of the imagination. (Some fantasy details have been tweaked to protect the innocent. :-)

The text of his letter to me follows below.
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You, Pricilla Goldbergerstein, a vivacious blond known to your many friends and fans as "Prissy", are a judge on the hit TV reality show "America's Got Talent." I'm a contestant. After making it through the first elimination round and being in the running for the finals to be held in Vegas, we happen to run into each other at City Hall, an upscale steakhouse in Phoenix. You live in Los Angeles and are in Phoenix for a celebrity appearance. I live in Phoenix. You're planning on having dinner. I'm dining on the the little wieners in sweet sauce.

My act in the "America's Got Talent" competition is that of an exotic male dancer (a la Chippendale's), an unusual act for the show, since most contestants are singers, dancers, jugglers, ventriloquists, munchausened miscreant knife throwers, dog handlers or tuba-playing transgendered teenagers. But of course, I don't take all my clothes off in the competition the way I do when I work the weekends at the Olympic Gardens strip club in Vegas. Yes, I have a big one, hence my stage name, "Mucho Gigante Geoffrey", or "MGG Money" to my friends.

Although the audience loved me in the early rounds, I'm a long shot to get to the finals in Vegas and I know it. I really need to get there because I desperately need the career boost and the money, and I'm horribly deficient in self-esteem, and I may lose custody of my kids in my divorce if I don't soon go mainstream with my dancing. (I also salsa dance but no one cares to see that *wink*.....even if I'm doing some Shakira and "her hips don't lie as she's startin' to feel me babe.")

So I just need to get to the finals.....I don't need to win. And of course, as a male dancer, I'm not real popular with the two male judges, so I need your vote.

Anyway, you're a former "Mouseketeer" and soap star who is one of "America's Sweethearts" and you have a squeaky-clean G-rated celebrity image (not to be confused with the Spot, a place as yet undiscovered in your body.) You're very attracted to me and, as I am attempting to seduce you, you realize the power you have to make me please you in any way you demand. Power corrupts and power corrupts Prissy absolutely.

I'm quite experienced in sensing what women want. I know you're complicated and have celebrity-induced insecurities and that you need to feel and act dominant, but in some respects, you also need to be subservient.....perhaps treated a little roughly and talked to with (just a little) dirty talk.

So you agree to dine with me and I come on to you, offering a private dance performance and more. But you think of Paula Abdul with that young male contestant on "Idol" and you start to pull back. You think of your marriage to your high school sweetheart, your two teenage daughters and what it would do to them, as well as your image, if we are discovered.

But then you realize you can have any fantasy you want fulfilled by me and it's brand new and so overwhelming. You sense I know how to please a woman and you become quite vocal on what you would want because Prissy is NOT taking this kind of risk for a MEDIOCRE erotic experience.

(Secretly, and unknown to me, you have a kinky side. For instance, you often masturbate in the guest bathroom of your own house during your many dinner parties and then (in your afterglow) you flirt unmercifully with both your male and female dinner guests.....even to the point of touching them casually with the same un-washed hand that was just in your most private parts.)

We continue to dine and talk and you are so turned on but desperately trying to remain in control. You are just full of the notion that for once, Prissy will be the one to tell a guy exactly what she needs and to demand total subservience from him. For maybe the last time in your life, you have an opportunity to explore your sexual self. And you deserve it. You've repressed your desire for men like me, as well as for the many hot women that have come onto you because you are Prissy. You want to taste the men, you want to taste the women, you want to dominate and be dominated.....you want to be entirely Prissy!

I continue to tell you that all you need is the courage to ask....I will do anything, do everything, talk to you the way you need, degrade myself, whatever, to get to the Vegas finals. I will go so far as to present MGG$ to you in your hotel room like a piece of meat to be examined, if necessary.

And you continue to test the waters, telling me exactly how it would go if we were together, what you want, step-by-step from the beginning to the end, telling me what I would need to do, if given this opportunity.

You are only in Phoenix for one night and you must now decide whether to take MGG$ back to the Phoenician, or spend another night masturbating and wondering if your husband, Rex, is really who you think he is. Hoping in some ways that he is not, and being mindful that there have been some odd occurrences over the years. Like the Playgirl magazine you found, his insistence on male masseuses when the two of you visit resort spas, his hints that a strap-on might be fun for the two of you, and the way spittle forms on his lips when he watches the male Olympic diving competition.

Dinner is over. It's showtime now, girl. Is Prissy a player or just an observer?