novaMARQUIS

Male Dominant, 53

Switch Couple, 26, fairfax, Virginia

Male Dominant, 55, Fairfax, Virginia

HEADED TO BASIC TRAINING FOR THE ARMY ON MARCH 17th!? MARRIAGE SET FOR FEBRUARY 13th!? BUSY BUSY BUSY, BUT CAN'T WAIT FOR THE COMMENCEMENT OF A NEW SHINY LIFE!

seven days without you Already I miss your hands calming the tremor of my body which has longed for so many years this warmth, this light I stopped believing in until I found it in you. Already I miss your breath thawing the glacial shield bestowed upon me by the callousness of others who were too careless or lazy or blind to see beyond visages/anatomy. Already I miss the way you smile me into believing that there is such a thing as true happiness, complete rightness, unending love. I don't know how to sleep anymore unless you're sleeping next to me, as if the function itself loses validity without you. What worth can my words possess if you aren't here to hear them? Lying in bed, I'll conjur you beside me just to feel the heat we create when you are buried in me, a fire akin to the dying whispers of some ancient exploding star. Be in me now, be in me forever, hunting for and finding those pieces of ourselves within one another, those vital glimmers severed at birth, a light, a torch to guide us through the unknowable depths of tomorrow. Held safe within us until lock accepts key, key fits lock, lets loose all things shining, lets loose the fierce poetry of the physical incarnations of this love I have for you, and I pray you have for me.

the harvest And she's got sweet red fruit gripped between her teeth, dripping down her lips, and she's got a virgin's eyes (they used to be genuine; used to be) still focused on the reaper, and she never wants to be his harvest again. She still misses the scythe. She's handed real openhearted love from a gentle man who mistakenly calls her angel and holds her on his lap and prompts something lovely and childish out of her. He stares at her long and smilingly as if he's painting a portrait of her with the wine spilling from her mouth in his head, a portrait of her in the wheat in ancient moth-bit dresses in his head, a portrait where she is innocent, saved herself for him, for the right man who would've worn that honor in a locket around his neck and not a notch on his belt. He loves her as his damsel from fantasy, she loves him as her savior who ripped her out of some lung-clotting mire. Her honorable man with big dreams and humble wants, who keeps her warm from cruel nights, a cruel past, who averts her gaze from the scarred earth, scorched fields; fixes her attention instead on the pearls of kind words and personal sacrifice he dug up inside of himself, all for her. And still, stupidly, she misses the scythe.

my mind an ash-covered thing Dark other world in me, incubated by the warm throb of frontal lobe. My imagination is a surreal horror show where the director is drunk on pureed tongues. My imagination is always leaving me alone in an emptied city, always leaving me to the sound of fallout sirens, always leaving me sinking slowly in obsidian waters. I've got horrible sounds trapped in me, my soundtrack of sorrow and paralyzing murk, the gloomy obscurities of a twisted heart, horrible sounds bouncing against interior walls of arteries and poisoning the crumbling marrow: the sound, the sounds that haunt me, the monstrous gurgle I recorded two and a half years ago as I heard a man dying, drowning, choking on the fluids in his lungs. Grotesque morbid images that flash, thickened seepage I sometimes cannot control or shove in a shatterproof glass box, products of a dangerous imagination. So many so many so many things that expose the frailty of the body by destroying and deforming and annihilating whatever made it beautiful or efficient. I am burdened with the ability to see the delicate good in people that they, hidden behind shiny exoskeletons, often don't want seen. Am I ubiquitous observer or depraved voyeur? My fingers, a mockery of crow's mouth picking through the dirt for sustenance to feed some naturally instilled hunger. It is a cruel aberration of the mind that one should imagine all the possible ends that one and those one loves should meet, that one should feel and mourn and experience the loss before it comes to fruition. That I should witness the delicate good in all, and the ways it is chewed through and consumed, that I should see the monsters in us that are both born and created, the Cain in us, the Judas, the Beelzebub. And it is my curse and my fortune to be aware of these things, that I should be a sentient being to both ends of the spectrum so that one end might enlighten and inform the other. That I should crave and relate to the darkness and the light, and in return be a slave to the middle-grounds, the no-man's-land where I kneel and turn my head from side to side, hoping I'll never veer to either direction without dragging elements of the other with me until both worlds are superimposed on one another. And these are not my words but I felt them in me before they were ever dreamed up: If my life were not a dangerous, painful experiment, if I did not constantly skirt the abyss and feel the void under my feet, my life would have no meaning and I would not have been able to write.

requested decay How it should be, watching things slip away, curl up into themselves like burning leaves, watching things emaciate and shrivel and rot and die. The death of all things a stationary and undeniable truth. There are days when I look in the mirror and have this gut-shot feeling, the realization that there will come a time when I have my last thought, see my last eyeful, mouthing "this is it," but never having the chance to speak it aloud. There are days when my chest aches for that last beat, when my heart feels dense and calcified as a mineral or some massive unmined garnet, and it clings to the interior ribcage, terrified of its own transience. There are days when I want to practice not breathing, just to know what it's like. I have always been fascinated with the darker side of nonexistence, the reality of decay, I have seen it as those I love fade and fight and die, I have seen it in myself and in this blood-clot world. I have seen it within and without the church, I have seen it curled in the fetal position sleeping in the rounded edges of others' tears. I have seen it sensationalized and used as a tool of fear and obedience, I have seen it avoided and ignored and denied, I have seen it resisted and painted over with plastic surgeries and midlife crises. I have had it crawl up on my hands, hold me down, watch me while I try to stay calm try to be ready, I have seen it study me and then scurry away to the next Russian roulette participant. I have seen beauty in it, in the reliability of it, I have seen order and grace in it, the perfection as with literature that one should have an end all their own, an end that no one else can have but them. Heaven is a sort of hell, far as I can tell. A place where things stay the same age, never change, never mature or die when death is the thing that gives meaning and significance to life, nothing can be beautiful to our eyes if it wasn't for the sad, gulping foreknowledge of impending decomposition. Which is why I'd much rather skip heaven and stay here, be one of those many things in the history of things to break back down to its origins, the atoms smearing against the wind, their buzzing electricity silenced eventually.

until you so long i've had this love in me, feathery eyelashes against a burned face, so long i've held it beaten and sucked as a dying bird in my hands, held it to my chest and touched it to sleep long hibernating years because no one could hold it as gently as me, everyone found a way to drop it on the asphalt or take gaping chunks between their teeth or throw it in the fireplace. so long i've had this dying battered beautiful love in me and no one to give it to so i put it back, hid it under my pillow waiting for something else, some cheap pittance to replace it, the world couldn't take care of it after all, the world wanted to watch it trampled, the world gets its cheap thrills off of rigor mortis. so long i've had this love in me dehydrated and busted up and sewn back together, until you took it in your hands, rubbed its chest with your thumb, put you mouth over its lips, breathed purpose back into its paperbag lungs. nursed it back to a living functioning laughing thing again. i was never a good keeper, i never guarded it vigilantly enough, unmindful and distracted and dream-headed, i nearly lost it to the predators. let me hide it away in you, i trust you with it better than i trust myself.

sum fine "The Lord of Death is paid in bitter coin For dissolution, hoping he'll rejoin The scattered parts, far better rearranged, For callous Death's decrees cannot be changed. 'Accept thy fated end,' he doth enjoin." That blade has been at the back of my neck for over two decades now, the reaper's scythe polished with tears, it leaves a metallic taste at the back of my throat when I am dreaming. Sometimes, that blade, it seems to be as long and stretch as far as the horizon, unavoidable just like so. I take my deepest of inhales, I close my eyes, I whisper "This is it, this is is, this is it," as the skin breaks and my lungs are crushed with readiness and it is done. I have seen death, heard those I love tremble in fear of it and the mysterious great below death drags with it in some time warp, in some dimensional collapse. The only man I ever knew who discarded fear of the end believed as I believe that there is no Heaven to turn to, no Elysium to run off to and find happiness that was absent during life; he believed as I believe that death is a long sleep you never have to wake from, as your body forgives your shortcomings and the molecules that made you and every thing you ever thought or hoped or loved feel no mission to hold together, and they drift away, find some new bond to forge elsewhere. And that man, he has died too, and I was not there to see it. The taker in his black, in his faceless black, the taker sighs but never speaks, the taker wanders the plains and the sands with no aim but to end it, I Am Come Death Destroyer of Worlds and whatnot, the taker has more sadness in him than God ever did. Autumn, or at least the first tattle-tale breaths of it. In voluminous scores of nostalgia, memories have a smell to them, something for a sense to hold on to. I always seem to break a casket around myself the same time every year. Telling myself I am new, now, I have birthed a new me yet again out of the knobby-knuckled, burned black tree branches whose silhouettes slice patterns out of the sky. Telling myself I dug with my fingers down in the earth and found a beautiful corpse to breathe the life into, so that I will always be one anachronism or another, believing there were better days and better ways of character, and it's not too late to resurrect the dead.

every layer obliterates the one beneath it Paint me a picture of girl gone wrong, girl on pedestal staring at the fog below and wondering how far away the ground is, if she was to push herself over the edge of that pillar would she stand on her feet or would she shatter every bone? Someday she'll make a decision to jump or to stay, and either choice will be tragic in its irreversibility. Paint me a picture of girl disappointed, can't find a single person who holds themselves to the principles she holds herself to, greatness can be a lonely thing, turning yourself into a sculpture in some underground mausoleum that no one has ever seen, no one could withstand seeing. Paint me a picture of girl under pressure, she has been Atlas for so long holding her sleeping family up on her shoulders so that the harsh starkness of reality will not burden their permanently closed eyes, her back and joints feel the strain of a thousand reasons to let go. Paint me a picture of a woman who wears ashes well, who has learned to hum the atoms in the air into a sort of moveable hypnosis, so that she has found a way to demolecularize the bars that have surrounded her since birth and finally slip between them, and as she leaves she will not look back on the cell that has held her as a mother as a tyrant for so long.

forgive them father they know not who they are Yes, I sometimes lose faith here. In this particular mist, hugging the asphalt as monsters abound, holding all my air strict to my chest because if they hear my voice they will know I am not one of them. And I'm too tired to run. Somewhere there's a banquet for seraphim, a place where even they belong, sit beside another who can relay a synchronous message to god that all is not well down here. That we are often alone, susceptible to primitive darknesses. That we are alone and can often not risk believing in anything else but ourselves. Yes, I lose myself sometimes to the practice of ascetic principles, the ability to walk away from anything ruinous, anything indulgent or false, honing the talent of disowning disappearing leaving behind breaking bonds because I am all I need. Invite me to those rose-tinted fields and I will tell you where god went wrong, and where people flat out failed to deserve that sacrifice he made and will never live down. Better off saving one wash of good and hanging the rest, better off being selfish because no one really tries, anymore, no one aims for decency, it's all want and triviality nothing worth waking for and yet so many do, worshiping their visages instead of the self that is the real gift, but now I'm preaching, and heaven forbid anyone call me reverend. Sometimes I can't hold back this urge to peel it all back, the skin the muscle the smiles, rip it down to the bone where lies swim in the marrow, and I want to store it away at the roots of some dying tree so that unborn truths may not be miscarried

macabre There is a deep, God-spilled gray in my head, dominating the spectrum between light and dark, so that the slightest things can immerse me in one or the other, drop me into ink or milk and leave me there for days. Born with an aberrant brain, full of mutinies from itself and from the laws (or, more accurately, the feeble unanswered requests) of nature. In this head I've dreamed up documentary videos of the beginning of all, and the end of all. I've dreamed up a biography on the original artist, who locked himself away in some birth-canal of a cave and painted in ash on the walls, as his Adam's and Eve's grunted and clicked and fucked themselves into the future. I've dreamed up the first swelling of sorrow in the human heart, as primitive one coveted primitive other and invented the concept of beauty, as he cried at her reflection--unmarred by ripples--in a pool of rain. I've dreamed up the very moment of finality, of a million hands held together in the streets as the sun sheds its reactive nuclear coat and leaves a sad iron core behind. I've dreamed up lovers in bed praying for one more taste, just one more before the world crashes down around them, one more before left eternally mid-pant. In this head I've found such unbelievable fucking beauty and such gasping horror in this place that something called god, I imagine, spit from his mouth still dripping like a cherry-stem he tied in a knot with his tongue. Because god is the sort of whore who likes to impress with any of the assortment of transparent prick-tease carnality. I started this trying to describe to you the color that fills my head all the time, the pump of gray like a cemetery monolith, like the faces of all the casket-dodgers, like ash people of Pompeii left with their daily tasks permanently incomplete--though they appear to be unaware of this. I started this trying to understand where I went wrong in nature or nurture, where I became Hansel and Gretel and dropped squirming pieces of brain-matter behind me so that I might return to the place from where I came, from that point of bifurcation. I was trying to come up with a coherent line of thought or an explanation for this morbid skull that dictates how I live and love and lose and mourn and communicate and cry and fuck and eventually how I will die. (I will die awake. I will die with my eyes open. I will die soaked in a past unique to me, an unrepeatable life. I will die with words on my lips but I will not utter them, I will keep that final whisper to myself, so that, if there is time, I might die with a smile. I will donate the gray to the nearest bystander and wish them the best with it.)

journals of little girls My eyes have become so hot with this sorrow they've taken to bleeding, and the boiling red rivulets chisel valleys into my cheeks. I learned some time ago how to walk into a tar pit to cauterize the vulnerabilities, my creaking joints exploding like the dye that is slipped into bags of hijacked bills. Marking me so that I cannot be spent without setting the hounds loose. So many people I see lining their eyes with ash (with fabricated souls for the sake of writing insincere copycat bullshit non-depth into little velvet spined journals, smearing the black glittery gel-pen ink with self-pitying tears) when I swallow the coal itself, when I consume liquid blackness by the gallon, let the murky syrup pump through me, crystallize into onyx barbs across my skin, all the vital functions and fresh virgin-pink organs that are sacrificed and fed to this nightly ceremony, this holy consecration that gives the bravest of us all the cleansing endpoint that can only be met when one explores the narrowest depths of every fear and dread and fate. I'll tell you about the dark you cannot truthfully embrace, I'll tell you about how I visited the devil in his icy tenth circle and all the screaming lost who orbit his tongue. And all the people in my life, the loss of whom I mourn long before they are ever gone by way of death or disgrace or disappearance. I'll tell you the musical dissonance of every imagined death knell. I'll tell you how to drink the venom so that you might build immunity. I'll tell you that you are the generic, the cheap synthetic version of my organic toxin base.

adagio for psychology (progress towards regression) There is some biological secret behind the workings of the mind. I've heard things about synapses firing, and dendrites taking the bullet, forming some Stockholm Syndrome connection with the shooter. Emotions are even rationalized as the emission and balance of certain chemicals, which can be controlled and manipulated for the sake of comfort. But how many of the peope who have bashed their faces into history were ever comfortable doing so? Plenty have brought up human nature, usually to grant themselves an anthropologically-approved pardon for their own flaws, cruelty, lack of impulse control. A blank check for blanker souls to do or say or metamorphose on a whim into anything without questioning whether or not it is right. When did the intrinsic parts of us, the instinctual Cro Magnon with shoulders slouched forward and only the most basic of ponderings, become good enough, something we should not try to bypass for the sake of something fuller, something beyond grunts and clicks? That gap between thoughts, when you're grasping for a word or image or some deep and fleeting sentiment; or that sinking inward revelation of some horrible truth about yourself that you were able to hide from just perfectly before and your eyes glisten and you swear that your head is a knot wrapped tight around a ruby, the rope fraying and unwinding but the gem pulled tighter into the clutch; when you stop understanding for a moment the meaning and designation of your own name, the weight in the idea of self, why you are instead of are not; when the tribal drums and screams make you remember the notion and objective of home: that's when you are not excused by nature but condemned by it, when progress equals regression equals the hunger once more for progress, when the dendrites pull a Judas and turn the gun around... That's when you can almost make out the faintest sound of the original voice, a voice that is a million years old, an ascetic ache to it, lacquered with all the tragedy the world had to offer since the first single-celled organism evolved and left something behind in so doing.

circles of hell i wear around my neck There is this place underground, this graveyard of self. Nautilus shell inside out, you fall deeper in that coil and dream of a center that no one has ever seen; one should make a point of not slipping too far down it, cavernous maw that it is: it's easy to get lost when you left your light your guide miles back, years ago when you could still smell the ferns at the lip of the the egress. Ovals inside one another, like a strand of pearls around a dead woman's throat, and there's the one no finger will ever pry loose, the one tight against the ropey artery where life once percussed. This is the way to the darkest coldest core, rip her skin away and swim behind the larynx. I've got it figured out, I've mapped the concentric circles of this hell I must ascertain, a conquistador for myself, whatever treasure or tomb that trek might lead me to exhume. Fools look up for some reflection of themselves at the base of the clouds. You have to crawl through the bone-grit and chomp on the marrow in the soil to know. You have to swallow the earth twice over and choke on stringy tissue/ toughened skins, and then deal with indigestion before you can ever deserve this world, or claim that it doesn't deserve you. Down in myself, I drown in those glacial waters, sinking ever deep, headed toward some frog-belly pale figure below me, feel its eyes still open, its sonar wail vibrating the droplets, stuck down there, waiting for someone to set it free, let it rise to the surface, burst its heart with the bends; I'll find myself bound with weights scraping the white sands of the bottom.

stay Arrow of opinion stabbing our faces with what we are told to do or strive for or accumulate, worthless pittance, seven pieces of silver at our feet. We almost always pick them up, coward-spined and shrinking. Shivering at the thought of "no more". Sometimes it takes losing people to find yourself. The ever-budding struggle, the things that haunt us, that's what makes us who we are. Things that crash around us, mold us into ourselves, or the stiffening corpse of who we should be, human-shaped monsters of us. In that pain of what should have been, you dig yourself a hole (about the right size and shape for a coffin or the beginnings of a tunnel to the core of it all), and you say I'll just stay here a while, but it gets deeper. And then there is that devil throated whisper telling you what you should do. And it's always the wrong thing. Jesus baby don't look back on us we are starved things, we'll cut off our own limbs for something to suckle, always lost in this world, away from the original mother whose belly let us swim let us be warmed and silent, our hands holding the interior walls of her, trying to never let go, but christ how we let go of all so that our hands are free to pilfer and rape and harm and hide. And my heart is swollen, it's a congenital thing, my heart swells too big over the tiniest shards of beauty the antibodies in the blood attack, the blood can't push that beauty out, and it's clogging the arteries, makes it hard to move sometimes, makes all the words in my mouth solidify like smooth polished riverbed stones that drop out when I try to speak. Jesus I don't know what to do now, where is there left to run when all the world is burning without you?

portrait of a ruined angel She plucks her cat-gut harp with broken fingers, twisted and knotted and dark as wind-mutilated tree branches. Her neon halo and complimentary flashing XXX! sign are collecting powdery moths that are barely a cough away from nonexistence, that flap at the inside of the glass tubes and then lie very flat and still at the bottom. She is alley-bound, gutter-strapped, paying for past life sins in singles and bruises and the gold dripping out of her hair down the drain chase it through the sewer boys it might get you to heaven. Cracked lips hide a voice so clear so sharp it's not at all unlike the call of one of seven trumpets, hark the herald angel sings, and it's a voice that will haunt a man, hang around and sulk inside his head until the day he dies and prays, dear god of course, to hear it again. No one will notice that she is pristine beneath earthly grime, no one will notice her dented shield of innocence, no one will notice the muddy rivulets her tears dig through the dirt on her face. No one will notice that her knees and ankles are snapped from impact. She plucks her harp, unharnessing her painfully beautiful sounds to an undeserving piece of driftwood caught up in the sea. Land without roots or clouds, land that is not capable of patronage, land where her effervescent decency is confused with weakness. Her heart a bell without a hammer. She plucks her sad song, an angel dropped rather than fallen, some radiant thing misplaced among moldy brick and leaking walls, her songs piling high like stacked masks making their way to the firmament, might make it there too if the smog of human voices was not so heavy.

pull the mirrors off of god i don't know if he looks for me anymore, if he ever found me in my entirety, martyred on the bed that is my crucifix. i don't know if he has any say past dusk, the animals come out then, moloch-mouthed beasts drippingly ferile with ember eyes and alterior motives, cutting themselves against the grasses in hunt of some feebler innocent sustenance. i don't know if he holds sovereign over anything but the safety of daylight, or are his fingers slipping from that underling as well, are his fingers burned on the swell of the sun and all the horrible things that happen in plain sight? i think sometimes he must wring his hands and pray to his own god that we might stop disappointing and flagrantly defying his will thrown like a tarp over this world (he does not realize we are suffocating underneath it). i think he tries to change just as we try to change. an omniscent overbearing substitute teacher. i think he is lonely and throws himself in the middle of the crowd to try and get attention like a drunk pink-lipped party girl with glitter falling from her eyelashes and that pout of daddylookatme. i think he trembles at what benificence and malice we are capable of, and hides in the clouds sucking his thumb. i think we are far greater than this fabled conception of a clockmaster architect web-weaver god, god with a white beard who has always been old but just won't die. if there is a god he is not always smiling.

beksinski Monster of girl on lap, breathless, churn of machinery and gears in her grinding against yours. Gray space, swelling steel and lock and key inserted accepted. I am many knuckles, all gripping you, every stairwell rib a mecca for your hands. I am a city demolished by loose cannons/ nuclear fallout that you carefully reconfigured into a streamlined indestructible metropolis. Crooked buildings, bone cathedrals, metal steeples. I am catacombs for you to wander. I am the ash sculptures of Pompeii. The tide of me turns over and over. Laced to you, cobwebbed to you, strapped to you, my body leaking into yours, your fingerprints molded to my lips. Echo of primitive chants, altar of us, shrines of us, double-torsoed beast, the envy of all those who have not learned to worship only themselves. Clamp your hand over my mouth and they will fasten and grown into each other and you will be the flower I spit out. We make only surrealist paintings here, any still-shot of the centaur of us will be praised and studied as dark high art. Monster of girl on lap a mummy that you unwrap a face you peel off to replace with the warm mask you made for me to stop my breath altogether

sacrifice (from the point of view of the executioner) Stained glass has been blackened and covered with newspaper so that no one can see in or out. The wine has been turned back into water. The walls are the rust color of old blood. The pews caught fire long ago and still smolder, the congregation kneels in the aisles, their knees are bleeding and swollen and cracked, spider eggs drip slowly out of the joints. The congregation, with their faces peeled back and muscles of the eye sockets twitching wildly, the congregation with parched mouths from endless years of chanting praying begging crying, the congregation with hands clenched together for so long that the knuckles have adhered forming one huge fist held up on gaunt wrists: the congregation is waiting for recompense. The bleeding alligator-toothed monsters wait in the sacristy and put on their robes and masks and prepare to give their contaminated speeches of glory and faith, humility and sacrifice. They will probably speak of Abraham and Isaac. They will probably speak of lowercase savior. On the altar is the girl everyone expected me to be: she is ever-smiling, she is outgoing, she dances to the music everyone wants to hear, she has simple wants and docile tendencies, her touch is a vaccination a vitamin a cure, she has stuffed animals still arranged on the lilac bed-covers, she finds love in the right place, she will not find or fight for happiness, but rather be handed it under the pillow as payment for lost baby-teeth; she never splashes her vivid dark ink against the walls nor does she scream at the places where the recalcitrant ink drips away, she never peers into the blackened maw to find the bits of herself that have slipped down the drain, she does not confuse fear with excitement or love with power, she doesn't avoid mirrors to keep from scrutinizing her own eyes and whatever revelation of impermanence lines the pupils. She doesn't wall herself up and use bones as mortar, she has never had to bury herself. That girl I might have been, sunflare-smiled and soft-eyed, with sugar stuck on her tongue that will never be swallowed or dissolved, that girl with a simple and unobtrusive future, she smiles at me every time I hold her up for expiation, every time my hand rips her jaw away, every time I bleed her out to the hum of the chanting congregation, relieved that the church will stand erect for one more day now that the purity in it has been massacred and passed out for communion. I mourn her everyday but I will not wipe her from my scythe.

I have learned to see your face in the dark Your body wearing shadows Eyes hiding nothing. I am Walking forever towards you (never will i lose sight of that dot at the belt of the horizon never will i slow my pace towards the vanishing point where you are waiting for me to deserve to stand beside you there) And your breath guides me home again-- The heat of you pulsating some drone of awakened power-lines. Room of perpetual night We are eternal, no sun or moon to dictate goodbye or hello No blue or black to persuade Our bodies conjoined at the hip whenever the magnets lose polarity and find north and south within each other How far outward do our desperate animal cries of divine hunger radiate like nuclear fallout from this room Where we admire death best by embracing what it is to live? I have discovered through much observation that The clock is a liar. You are the name of every hour. And the seconds with you are pieces of silver I'd sell myself for again and again Without apology or fear of damnation. I am greed at its finest-- Waging war in this battleground bed Two tyrants vying for one chair and all you have won, new territory you conquered I gave away, call it your Pyrrhic victory, an opening for me to steal what I can of you and offer what I can of myself.

Female Submissive, 21, Bishop/Athens, Georgia

Female Dominant, 43

Female Submissive, 37, San Diego, California

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Male Submissive, 28, Near Grand Rapids, Michigan

Dominant Couple, 33, Woodbeidge, Virginia

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Male Submissive, 51, long island, New York

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