Personal essays on kink, lifestyle, the inner experience.
First-person, intimate, literary. Pieces here begin in a specific scene, a specific evening, a specific letter, and rise outward into something a reader can hold. Not journal entries. Letters.
He wrote it down in the careful handwriting of a man asking permission of himself — and handed it to me, the way one hands over an inheritance.
There is a tenderness to pencil that ink doesn't allow. He wanted me to know he could be talked into it; he wanted me to know it would take talking.
The hour after a scene is its own country. You enter it together; you leave it, eventually, as two separate people who have agreed not to apologize for the trip.
Yes is not a default. Yes is not a politeness. Yes is the most expensive single word in the language, and I had been spending it on things that did not deserve it.
Monthly. Italic-forward. No theatre at the door.