I have a deep, dark secret that burns inside me like a fireball in a fist. It has for years plagued my conscience, mind and spirit all at once, while maintaining its vicious burden even when other evil feelings attempt to take its place. It sees through new additions. It roars through them like fists through tissue.

Dark enough for you? Eh? After losing my eBay virginity in the UGA Main Library, I have turned into the lovestruck deflowered one. No, I haven't ventured back to the hub of online auctioneers and memento jettisoning. I haven't been poring through the listings, becoming turned on by eye candy, such as trucker hats and old Stryper backstage passes. I have not become an eBay slut, eager to do it again, but this time dirtier, and quicker, right down to the last minute, maybe where someone will catch me.

This writer has become the girl waiting by the phone. Waiting for the love to arrive. It's only been four days.

Opening up my mailbox this afternoon, hoping to find my rare copy of Del James' "The Language of Fear," I was greeted by bound pages.

It was my eagerly awaited Kingsize catalog; the have-it-all tome for men of mass with style. You can't go wrong in size 68 pants with an elastic waistband. You must look good in the gym (either these men are getting bigger or trying to get smaller) in your workout pants with the Hawaiian flower/Japanese script hybrid racing stripe. While the denim fade should come natural for these men, it is available for a couple of dollars more.

I'm so eager for enlightenment, I've read the catalog through and through. And still I sit, lonely by the mail slot, horny in the bidding war.