It is inconceivable that anyone would consent to such a thing; no previous experience nor apparent motivation, just a raised eyebrow and a simple "Yes, I would" said in a tone leaving no doubt to his sincerity, yet betraying no emotion. His eyes carry an equally blank look, offering no entrance. He has no reason to trust me, in our short association and lengthy talks, that I will go no further than what I described. We have no emotional ties, no history testing our limits and perceptions. And he is painfully aware of my past. My honesty both draws and repels. I have caught hungry looks, short, spontaneous, then quickly veiled. He fears me, cringes from the most casual contact yet reaches out, constantly tugging my sleeve with questioning words and ravenous interest; then, just as quickly, retreats, leaving me empty and slightly sad. Again, I am unprepared. 

Dressing is ritual, a necessary preparation to create the mood; outfits are selected and discarded, the choice must complement the occasion. Should there be candles or a single bulb swathed in pink gauze; on the bed or in the bathroom with a warm tub drawn. Music, low or sonorous, melancholy or joyous; or silence, solemn and absolute. Every detail is carefully thought out, planned with the utmost care. His submission to my whim—perhaps whim is too frivolous a word, everything I do is born of curiosity, then desire—must be a sacrament. The altar: An antique silk kimono, heavy, frayed, intricate embroidery raveling, magnificent in its decay. Rich ebon folds spread out to the floor, a fitting garnish for so extreme an act, even though his reasons remain unclear.

His trepidation, nervousness, alienated me long ago; not in the literal sense; his sporadic courtship—one day grasping, wanting, the next distant, neglectful—made me feel isolated, on display, like a mannequin in a store window watched unmercifully from all angles yet ever distant, untouched behind thick glass. Now he, the observer, wishes to step into the tableau: My realm, my rules.