I have never been into being tied down. Until now. Lately I am so anxious to be restrained that this morning I actually grab an ankle strap out of the orderly’s hand and start buckling myself to the table. “Aren’t we the eager little beaver this morning,” says Florence, perennially cheerful. But it’s not so much that I can’t wait to be zapped. If anything, it’s the feeling that being bound and gagged is the only thing that will stop the sensation—that I am the third rail; that I am filled with a kind of buzzing, humming energy that keeps my knees bouncing and toes twiddling. I am chewing the insides of my cheeks and yanking out strands of hair. And so, while God knows I’d much prefer my first voluntary experience playing the M in S&M to be shared with a highly experienced, leather-clad dominatrix—the kind who makes house calls and comes equipped with her own bag of tricks—I have resigned myself to the fact that my first priority is ridding myself of the feeling that my flesh is about to come flying off my bones. So hospital-issue restraints, a paralytic and generic knockout drops will have to do. When I am finally, completely strapped down, the relief is immediate. The restraints provide a kind of counter-pressure I have not been able to give myself. In being secured I finally feel secure. I haven’t told anyone about this, though I admit it’s been hard to hide. I just tell them I’m nervous. If I told them how I really feel they’d think I was out of my mind.