The more I had to hide, the more I had to tell.

Someone I don't know that well (acquaintance, at best) paid me to see a dominatrix in NYC on my second-to-last trip.
They paid me well, and I was curious because. Because. Because I'm me. So I said yes.

This was outside her door. I'd had half a cocktail at the severely overpriced and over-air-conditioned hotel bar next door.
The bartender gave me a small glass full of candymints (her way of apology for ignoring me earlier).

In the session, the dirtiest thing we did, the hardest thing we did, was shaving me.
I hadn't shaved (anywhere) in a few months. It was the only time I was naked or truly vulnerable in the entire experience.

Except for maybe this moment. In the mirror.
Wondering how in the world I could live my days not trusting the people who loved me the most to continue loving me.

Not in spite of the fact that I find myself in moments like this but because of them.
But not only because of them. Because I also like to bake cakes in 100 degree weather.

And I keep plants alive for six months and then kill them somehow overnight.
And because I like to believe I don't want to snuggle you, that I can do without a long hug in the middle of the day.