It was our third date. This time, it was dinner at his place. In the extravagant manor that he called home, we dined among crystal goblets and Belgian lace. It was somewhere between the palate cleanser and second course that an ominous tone sounded, and a strobe light lit the room. Diving for the control panel hidden behind a Van Gogh, he switched off the alarm. Steadying himself be turned to me and said gently, “My dear, there is something I have been meaning to yell you. Perhaps you bad better sit down.” He poured us both some brandy, and handing mine to me, continued to tell me that he was not the carefree millionaire philanthropist I thought he was. I grew dizzy, faint with the knowledge that I was...

...in love with an O.T.O. initiator!

I grew used to the idea, in time. Oh, there were those mysterious phone calls late at night, dark cloaked visitors appearing at the back door, whisked away to quiet meetings in the library. Once I blundered into the gymnasium, and caught a glimpse of what can only be described as, well, a squirrel covered in axle grease. But I learned never to question the plaintive bleating of a goat far away in the west wing nor to ever voice my suspicions that he was secretly using my smudge-proof eyeliner.

I never knew when he would be called away, just a brief note on my email then he'd be gone; the faint smell of abramelin in his wake. He would return worn, but victorious and we would celebrate with great joy.

I'll never forget the first time I went with him on one of his journeys. He received a phone call from Zurich; an Initiator was down in the field and he was the only one in place that could make the ritual in time. There was not time to linger or to even drop me off. We drove like demons; the traffic moving to the side of the road when he affixed the magnetic flashing black light to the roof of his Jaguar.; the siren screaming iitiiiAAAAAAAA00000ooooo all the way there. The customs agent stood aside when he showed his badge of office, the golden seal of Baphomet shining like a ray of sunlight. We flew day and night and arrived in an exotic land where we were whisked immediately to an office where it was grimly determined that there was not hope but to perform the initiation in the terminal. He gravely surveyed the situation, then commanded that all flights must be canceled and the terminal cleared of all waiting passengers.

“But what about the airport personnel?” the airport administrator cried.

He thought for a moment; “let them boll water.”

In the frenzied chaos that ensued, an exuberant camaraderie permeated the airport. The initiatior team disappeared inside the main terminal and sealed the doors. As ticket girl and baggage boy cheerfully boiled water others were sent to locate strange and mysterious objects—a water pistol, axle grease, a hula hoop, moose droppings, black garter belt. These were passed in carefully and, when the candidates arrived, a hushed expectation settled over the crowd. When they emerged, hours later, sweat stained and smelling like moose droppings, everyone gave a great cheer and lifted up the candidates on their shoulders, bearing them off with fanfare.

My wonderful lover came out, and grinned boyishly, a smudge of axle grease on his cheek. “Let's go home now my love.” Handing me a tissue wrapped box, he added, “Oh, by the way, I picked up a little something for you.” Tearing the wrapping asunder, I found a lovely lace garter belt, which I wear to this day under my robes in fond memory.

Yes, being in love with an O.T.O. initiator has its drawbacks, but it certainly has its rewards!

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