Neither does he. He notes my attire with a puzzled stare; perhaps he expected pungent leather, constricting, tightly laced, creaking with every breath. No, wearing another’s skin would be inappropriate, nothing must detract from his own—although I can secretly enjoy his disappointment. No prelude, no polite conversation; words, dissonant sounds in the perfect stillness—would not, could not, justify nor condemn what lies, interred, in our hearts.

I lead him inside, away from the mundane, the ordinary and senseless. He studies the scene: Black silk pooled on the floor, a brass goose neck lamp atop a cherrywood tea table capturing the arrangement in harsh white brilliance. One other item also shares the table, unmistakable in its stark reality. He looks away. A slight smile in my direction, he removes his shirt; steady fingers coaxing buttons, slipping cool fabric from pale flesh. Reaching for his belt, hesitating, deciding, rejecting; his pants shall remain on. I leave him to his own ritual. Whatever has led him into this store window, he now must grasp, fully, willingly, with both hands, heart, and soul, the experience.

I secure the doors, windows, disconnect the telephone, then wait. Sitting in a chair in the hallway, the tapestry seat scratching freshly shaven thighs, I stare at the closet door, partially open, the trappings of clandestine fantasies swaying on padded hangers. Dissolute whispers and cedar tinged sighs demand my attention, worrying my resolve. I could crawl inside, close the heavy wooden doors and retreat to the farthest corner; wrap myself in silks, velvets, leathers and vinyls reminiscent of sweat, twisted ideals, and scabrous fancies; make myself disappear into the cold night as if we had never spoken. How odd, I think, so easy—too easy—to enter a stranger’s wretched desires—why hesitate now? On becoming a grotesque for another’s pleasure: One moist, salty moment and they’re gone, faceless in, faceless out, a simple transaction; tenderness is complicated. Seconds, minutes, heartbeats pass noticed but not counted; physical time, so precious and jealously guarded has no place when mysteries are invoked, that is why I removed all clocks from view.

Upon return I find him sitting, knees up. Leaning back on his hands, in the kimono’s center, bare toes working the ancient fabric. Again, a smile. He is ready. Kneeling down beside the table, taking care not to come too close, I retrieve the instrument he previously shunned and held it up, delicately, between thumb and forefinger, letting the light play on the cold steel; the top edge so thin and sharp as to seem nonexistent. We both gaze upon it, with perhaps a sense of awe that so ordinary an item, something so common it would go virtually unnoticed in a drawer or on a counter during day to day living, now elevated to a higher purpose. Now I am strangely calm. I roll it between my fingers, weighing, savoring, feeling the power; an x-acto knife. Light spots thrown by the revolving blade reflect in his eyes. A slight quickening of breath and the moisture forming on his upper lip (I resist the urge to lick it off, instead watch his own tongue appear and remove the temptation.) could be fear, but the eyes don’t lie; chocolate brown pools so deep I near missed the subtle widening of the pupil as some tenebrous finger stroked his pleasure center.