The last time I tied up a friend and took her to dinner, the hard part was letting her go.

It was easy fastening her arms, then covering her upper body with a jacket. It was easy walking along the street: Passersby didn't have a clue that her sleeves were empty because her arms were tied. Even at the restaurant table, she looked almost natural sitting there with her hands behind her back.

But we had a problem with eating. Did it look normal for her to wear her jacket for the entire meal? Did it seem casual for me to cut her meat and feed it to her? Did I arouse suspicion when I said to a curious waitperson, "I'm a CIA agent, and this is my captive spy. Even though she's chained, we still need some chow"?

To avoid culinary disaster, we ate quietly, paid quickly, and went out to the street. There, I found a darkened doorway, fumbled for my keys, and unzipped then unlocked my date.

Because of the complexity of dining-out restraint, I'm tempted to abandon restaurant bondage in favor of automobile bondage. In-car tying has got to be easier, thanks to the seatbelts.

Thinking of car bondage, I'm reminded of a classic limerick:

A cautious young fellow named Lodge

had seatbelts installed in his Dodge.

When his date was strapped in,

he committed a sin

without even leaving his garage.

When my date is buckled in, I do intend to leave the garage. I want to visit drive-in movies, fast-food windows (the clerks can ring up my tied-up rider!), even toll booths (I'll pay for my sins!) to show off my pinned-in partner. I want to cruise beside eighteen-wheelers, playing lazy leapfrog, to display my safely cinched passenger. I want to go "parking" on Lovers Lane with my neatly rigged companion.

Sex addicts on the go crave order, you know.