"I see that you are about to engage in sexual intercourse."
It had been a wonderful evening up to that moment. Liz and I had gone to the same dimly lit restaurant in which I'd proposed to her fifteen years earlier. Over appetizers she stroked my hand and gave me dewy, come-hither looks. During the main course and two bottles of wine, she rubbed her leg against mine, as though we could make cricket music. Dessert had her toe at my groin.
Once home, we disrobed on the way to the bedroom, grappling with each other and leaving a trail of clothing and inhibition behind. Liz dropped onto the bed and spread her long legs for me.
"I want you," she whispered huskily.
I leapt onto her and was poised to make her toes curl when that voice came.
Liz cried in alarm. I might have made a fearful, unmanly noise too.
Home invasion was the first thing that came to my mind. Horrible timing was the second. I turned to look for the owner of the voice, ready to defend my beloved and atone for the surprised squeak that I'd uttered a moment before.
A man sat in a chair in a darkened corner of the bedroom. I hadn't noticed him on entering, but in fairness I'd been more interested in following Liz's bare rump to take much stock of my surroundings. Despite the fact that the chair was the repository for dirty clothes -- Liz was forever reminding me that we had a hamper for that sort of thing -- the man had folded each article of clothing and stacked neat piles of it around him.
"Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my bedroom?"
"Our bedroom," my wife corrected me. She was sensitive about these things. Nonetheless, I was surprised by her reaction. I would have expected unmitigated hysteria from Liz at the presence of an unexpected stranger in our bedroom, but remarkably, it was not the case.
"Our bedroom," I corrected.
The man crossed his legs and ran his index finger and thumb along the crease of his trousers. If he was concerned at being discovered, he didn't show it. He was nattily if conservatively dressed in a suit and tie. He cocked his head, peered at me through thick lenses, and flashed a grin that seemed to contain too many teeth. Too many teeth notwithstanding, the man appeared completely non-threatening. He was, in fact, the very essence of meekness.
I rose from the bed and balled my hands into fists. I hoped that I looked menacing despite my pale, middle-aged nudity.
"Dwight Dunker, auditor." He flipped out his wallet and waved an identification card around. "I'm with the Revenue Agency."
His words stopped me dead in my tracks. He'd spoken words that strike more fear in a man than any others, with the possible exceptions of syphilis or alimony. Revenue Agency.
I let my hand fall to my side. Then I sat on the bed and I let it fall to the bedspread, upon which it scrabbled for a moment before pulling an edge over to hide my erection.
Liz, having drunk a volume of wine over dinner, was nowhere near as modest or discomfited as I by the inexplicable presence of a stranger in our bedroom. Perhaps the wine had lent her courage and brazenness. Perhaps she had faith in my ability to ward off whatever threat this little man posed. Perhaps she liked being ogled by a new pair of eyes. Whatever the reason, she perched herself on an elbow, her full breasts attractively obeying the laws of gravity as she reclined on the bed like an odalisque. While she gazed suspiciously at the auditor, her hand insinuated itself under the cover that hid my boner. The cover began a fluttering movement, as though a small animal were attempting to escape.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"It's a pre-emptive audit." He must have interpreted my wide-eyed look as confusion, though it was really the result of Liz's fingernails running a tingling path up the underside of my penis. He continued, "You didn't receive the letter?"
"No," I said.
"We sent a letter," said the auditor. "Two, in fact."
"There may have been a letter. Or two," Liz admitted.
"What's this about?"
The auditor adjusted his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "Had you read the letter -- and I must tell you that you really should pay more attention to government communications -- you would know that the government has launched a new taxation initiative. Having exhausted all other revenue-generating avenues, we've been forced to introduce what the media has erroneously called a pleasure tax. You may have heard of it. Whatever you choose to call it, I'm here to establish a baseline for you -- the both of you, that is -- so that the tax is fair and equitable. You should carry on as though I'm not here and perform as you normally would. As I said, I want to establish a baseline upon which we will levy a modest tax that's based on both the frequency and quality of your coupling. If you refrain from certain customary activities in the hopes of decreasing your tax burden -- though I strongly advise against it -- we would be forced to levy a penalty should it be discovered that you do, indeed, perform such activities."
"But you can't just break into people's homes!"
"Had you read the letter, you would have known that it contained a return communication that would have indicated to us that you wished to exempt yourself from pre-emptive audit. As of last week, we received no such instructions from you. As a result, your non-response indicated your accession to our request to evaluate the relative value of the services you provide to each other."
"That's ridiculous!"
"I get that a lot, but you should understand that the services you render to each other do have an inherent value. Do you deny it?"
It was a loaded question and I chose to invoke my right to remain silent.
"Consider, for example, the sex trade worker who is deprived of custom by your actions. Admittedly, sex trade workers don't pay into the system in terms of source deductions or sales tax, but that is precisely the problem. The government is obliged to provide a modest standard of living for all of its citizens, regardless of whether they have contributed monetarily. As well, numerous peer-reviewed studies have shown that those who engage in regular intercourse live longer than those who do not. Consequently, society incurs a huge expense to support those who, as a result of their healthy intimate relations, are at risk of outliving their savings and thereby become a burden on society."
Liz tugged at me. "Come on," she implored me.
Her hand felt good on the part of me that she was tugging and I momentarily closed my eyes.
