Saturday’s release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the final volume of a 5,000+ page saga in which I’ve already invested a good week or so of my life, is creating within me a desperate anticipation greater than every childhood Christmas Eve and the moments leading up to the loss of my virginity combined. The knock at my door announcing the arrival of the sacred Amazon Box of Happiness can’t come soon enough. In fact, there’s a good chance I won’t even blog next week, instead holing up in the attic of some old church with Harry Potter and a ham sandwich like that kid from Neverending Story. But until the book arrives and the paralyzing joy is finally upon me, I’ve passed the time by putting together a game plan for the first few moments me and my precious are going to spend together. Here’s how I see it going down:

As the mail carrier approaches my front door, where I’ve been waiting since 6 in the morning, I verbally admonish him (or her) for brazenly taking so long to make such an important delivery, berating his utter incompetence, and mercilessly condemning the countless shortcomings of the United States Postal Service. I snatch the Holy Parcel from his hands and slap him across the face with the additional bills and junkmail he so crudely attempted to foist upon me in vulgar disregard for this monumental meeting of Man and Book. Bowing his head in shame, he shuffles along to his next delivery, completely defeated, unresponsive to my parting “You give muggles a bad name!” taunt.

Once I’m back in the womb-like safety of my apartment, I demand that my roommate vacate the premises immediately and until further notice, promising violent retaliation should he refuse to cooperate. Once he’s been shoved out the door in whatever clothes he happened to be wearing (or no clothes at all, if that’s the case), I carefully secure all of the doorlocks and drag a couch in front of it for good measure. I move to the kitchen table and ever so gently, I rest the Amazon box upon the blue velvet pillow I’ve purchased for it, then pause to take a few moments to collect myself after all the initial excitement and unpleasant intrusions. I clear my mind and steel my legs for the unfathomable elation I will soon experience when I lay my eyes on this miracle book for the very first time.

With a single grandiose swipe of my saber, I chop off the cork of the chilled bottle of ‘95 Clos du Mesnil champagne, which was procured months ago when I pre-ordered the book online, and innately knew that its long-awaited arrival at my door demanded to be marked with a celebratory toast of only the most exquisite champagne. Taking a crisp sip of the sparkling vintage, I gently rub my index finger along the taped crease on the top of the box, teasing my treasure ever so slightly, but resolving to take my time and savor the pleasure of the moment.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” I whisper, “I’m gonna take it real slow and treat you nice.”

I slide my finger under the flap of one side of the box, my hand steady despite the ecstatic nervousness that’s pulsing through me, and delicately break the first seal of packing tape that stands between me and destiny. The popping sound of the tape fibers being broken sends me into a fevered frenzy, and before I know it, I’m desperately clawing at the packaging like a ravenous lion, ripping and pulling my way through paper and cardboard with reckless abandon until a brief glimpse of yellowish color from within the box stops me cold, leaving me momentarily ashamed of my wanton, overzealous lust.

After catching my breath and steadying my nerves with a long sip of champagne, I pick up my Hogwarts letter opener, and carefully, purposefully, slide it across the final piece of brown tape holding the flaps of the box together. The panels are now partially opened, seductively inviting me to plunder the treasures hidden beneath them, and as I fold them aside, the front cover of the book is shining in all of its wizardly glory, bathing me in a magical light like it was the face of God, and a chorus of angels is singing its praise in the middle of my kitchen. I’m stunned, unable to breathe, totally incapacitated by the vision of unspeakable beauty that is displayed before me.

I remove the book from its box with the tenderness and care of a mother holding her newborn baby for the very first time. I rub the front cover across my cheek, trembling at the cool smoothness of paper upon flesh. My book has had a long trip and I know it’s tired, so I gently massage it all over, familiarizing my fingers and palms with every line, crevice and corner that makes up its beautiful form. I offer the book some of my champagne, but it neither accepts nor refuses it because it is a book and therefore incapable of speaking. So I take a sip for both of us and suggest that we retire to the bedroom and slip into something a little more comfortable. I assume the book was not taken aback by the forwardness my demeanor, for it made no attempts to resist when I took it in my arms and kissed it deeply while leading the way to my bedroom.

I lay the book upon my bed with the gentleness and sensitivity of Bon Jovi nursing a wounded puppy, then move to my stereo to select the appropriate music to set the mood for this intimate encounter. I select Silk’s 1992 R&B classic Lose Control, and the first notes of their timeless ballad “Freak Me” set a smooth, seductive tone for the lovemaking that is about to take place. After lighting a few candles, and changing into my velvet robe, I join the book in my bed, and stare deeply, passionately into its cover. After only a few moments of this wordless intimacy, it’s clear we have no choice but to submit to the carnal desire attracting us to each other like an uncontrollable electromagnetic force.

The lovemaking is painful at first, likely due to the fact that I’m having sex with a book that doesn’t have genitals and whose unread pages are sharp, but I remain focused and determined, and before I know it the papercut pain goes away and I lose consciousness, floating in a void of orgasmic esctasy, my thoughts and feelings replaced with a joyous sensation of euphoria that overtakes me completely. Time no longer exists.

Waking up in bed, snuggling the book close to my chest, making it feel secure that I will love and protect it unconditionally, I look over at the alarm clock and realize we’ve been asleep for three hours. After showering and dressing, I feed my ravenous appetite with a hearty meal, then return to my literary lover. It was been waiting patiently for me, and greets my return with the loving expression of the image on its cover. The physical consummation of our union now complete, we know we must now move on to the other things we’re destined to do together.

And then, without uttering a single word, I open the book and read it an hour or two at a time over the course of the next week or so, find pleasure in the experience, and upon its conclusion, move on with the rest of my life until the film adaptation shows up in theaters in a couple of years and vaguely disappoints me.

THE END