This is not placement.
This is receiving him without direction.
This is not control.
This is not me saying when and where and how.
This is me on my knees and elbows, breath gone,
having him supply everything that's mine.
Because sometimes I don’t want to own him.
Sometimes I want to be wrecked.
Not like porn.
Not like a scene.
On why I don’t get to London often enough. Fish and chips on Notting Hill. Noodles and dumplings steaming in Chinatown. And the correct Brasier.
He ruled the wok and the pot. He cooked tong from scratch with rice fluffy and hot and sweet. He pulled me out of abuse and hospitals and brought me home when I was lost.
No spam. No marketing partners. No tracking. No data collection.
