By mutual and willing consent, there are no boundaries. This why we converge. Neither husbands, wives, mothers, sons, doctors or congressmen are we. Here, we are simply human, alive and free and desperate to leave behind the constraints of society and the trappings of everyday routine.

Tonight I am Cinderella. When the clock strikes, I regretfully exit with the other guests, leaving behind my fairy tale escapade, with only my panties, askew in one of the mansion’s dark, closed space, deposited as evidence of my seductive participation.  

Looking back to watch the mansion fade in the distance, I know that I can be anyone there without shame or consequence. Heaved back to my world of reality, I do not fear the lack of inhibition or even the return to normalcy, but rather the stark comprehension that wearing a mask, even a metaphorical one, is to blur the boundaries painstakingly constructed by a lifetime of conclusions based on good and bad, right and wrong.

Lovingly, I place my mask into its rich velvet box and close the lid, tightly securing my adventurous  memories. As I lay in bed, it’s as though the existence of the woman who wore the mask was merely an intangible dream.

I smile into sleep — that is, of course, the art of masquerade.