I was standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear, when my lovely wife, Claire, walked in and, without saying a word, picked out a pair of charcoal-grey slacks and a crisp white shirt and laid them on our bed. “Add that sports coat I got for you last Christmas, that should do it,” she said, and when Claire speaks, Stan listens.

“That’s it?” I asked, “Not a suit?”

She smiled at me and said, “It’s not a funeral, Stan. You want to look nice, but not too formal. Remember, this is a fun event, don’t take it too seriously.”

“What do you mean, don’t take it seriously? I’m going to be auctioned off to another woman, and god knows what she’ll want from me.” I was halfway kidding when I said that, but I was a little worried that I might end up having to do something I hated, or even worse, almost no one would bid on me.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” she told me, “remember, it’s all for charity.”

What I was getting ready for was a charity auction my wife’s social club held each year as one of their fundraisers. The idea was that the highest bidder would have the use of “her” man for 8 hours for whatever chores or tasks she wanted. I thought it was kind of silly, but this year, my wife had talked me into being a participant.

“And don’t worry,” Claire said, “Maggie’s going to be your high bidder, and she won’t want much from you.” Maggie was my wife’s best friend. I had met her shortly after I had started dating Claire, and to be honest, if I had met Maggie first, Claire and I might not have happened. Maggie was an energetic, slightly chubby thirty-year-old with a wicked sense of humor, a trait that I greatly admired. We had sex a few times before Claire and I got serious, and I found out she was an imaginative, enthusiastic sex partner.

Maggie was a year out from a nasty divorce, so I figured there were a few things I could do for her that her ex would have taken care of if he hadn’t been a total piece of shit who decided his twenty-one-year-old secretary was better than Maggie.

I’d talked to a couple of guys who had participated in the auction last year and asked them what kinds of things they ended up doing. One man told me that his high bidder was a widow who wanted her garage cleaned and windows washed. Another said that his “owner” was lonely and just wanted someone to talk to. Another lady wanted her spare bathroom painted, a chore that her husband had kept putting off. None of that seemed too bad. Anything for charity, I reminded myself.

When we got to the club, I went around to the side entrance, where the “volunteers” were supposed to report. Claire had told me that there were 12 participants that year, and most of them were already there. We stood around, introducing ourselves and chatting uncomfortably while we waited. A couple of the guys were wearing suits, and I noticed that they were quite a bit older than I was. There was one younger guy wearing jeans and a tight shirt, showing off his impressive biceps. Maybe he was expecting a different kind of auction. As usual, Claire had made the right call. I felt comfortable with my appearance, and some of my nervousness began to dissipate.

A few minutes later, the woman in charge of the event, Angela something-or-other, came in and gave us our instructions. “Gentlemen, you will be assigned a number. No names will be disclosed. When your number is called, walk out to the stage and say a few words of introduction. You can tell the bidders any special talents you might have, or why you volunteered, or anything that might help the bidders get to know you better before the bidding starts. When our auctioneer declares the bidding over, the polite thing to do is go and say hello to the winner and work out the details of your servitude.” She smiled at that word. “Remember, she gets to use your services for eight hours, for chores, errands, whatever. You always have the right to politely decline any request that you find objectionable for any reason. Remember, this is for charity, and we hope it’s fun for everyone. So far, in five years of doing this, we’ve never had a volunteer complain. That’s all, boys, thanks for volunteering, and have fun!”

I was number 12, which meant I would go last, so I had some time to observe before I had to face the crowd. Most of the bidding went quickly. There was a lot of joking among the bidders, some of it a little risqué, some of which came from some of the older women. It kind of made me wonder just what some of them were planning on doing with their “slave”. We all had to laugh when Mr. Muscles was “purchased” by a lady who must have been at least 75. Maybe she just wanted to watch him flex.

Even though everything seemed fun and light-hearted, when my number was finally called, my legs were a bit shaky. There was something unsettling about having fifty-some-odd women looking at me like I was a prized bull at a cattle auction. My intro speech was very short because supposedly the fix was in. My wife’s friend Maggie was going to be my high bidder.

I was a little surprised when the bidding started, and two other ladies started competing with Maggie. Since I was the last volunteer, they must have felt that it was their last chance to “get” a man. As the bid quickly climbed past $500, the highest so far, I began to worry that Maggie might not be willing to go that high, and I could end up with someone I didn’t know. I glanced at my wife, and she just gave me a shrug of her shoulders and a little smile. I think she was as surprised as I was.

Finally, Maggie prevailed, and for the princely sum of $550, I was hers for eight hours on a date to be determined. That drew applause from the crowd for being the highest amount, and made me feel a little special. As I made my way through the audience to the table where Claire and Maggie were sitting, everyone was looking at me. A few ladies even reached out to touch me as if to see if I was real. I gave my wife a quick kiss and whispered, “Am I worth that much?”

“To me, you are,” she said, “and remember, it’s all for charity.”

I turned and shook Maggie’s hand, acting as if I didn’t know her. I figured anything more personal might be misinterpreted. “See you outside,” she told me, as the chairlady gaveled the event to a close.

We met Maggie in the parking lot and quickly decided on a date. “See you next Saturday. You’re mine from nine to five. Wear some work clothes, and bring something you can change into after you finish the hard part.”

I had no idea what the “hard part” was, but I was in good shape, so I figured I was ready for anything.

Saturday morning, I showed up at Maggie’s home at a quarter til nine. I have an aversion to being late for anything, so I usually show up too early to compensate. I was wearing an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt I usually wear when doing yard work. I still had no idea what Maggie had in mind, but I was pretty sure it was going to be some outside manual labor.