I’m in the middle of a bad divorce. No one has ever told me that it’s okay to be kinky. Up until now, I was lucky to have my wrists inexpertly bound together once every few years. I have a single porn magazine that I keep hidden. I have never owned a sex toy. I can’t even fathom a world where people really get to fuck like that.

I meet Jay. He looks like he just stepped out of a story book forest-long dreads, tattoos, a skirt. Spiral brands shimmer and shift on his skin. He writes, works with wood and leather.  We spend hours reading out loud to each other. I call him Mama Bear, he likes to nurture- cooks me spicy food, makes sure I eat my vegetables.

We talk about everything. I shamefully tell him my fantasies. I can’t even look at him. He opens a drawer, shows me restraints, dildos, whips, knives. Jay tells me that I’m not a freak, well, not a bad freak. Patiently, he answers my million questions. We spend long summer afternoons in bed, napping, talking, then finally fucking. I’m still shy about asking for what I want most. It still seems extreme and deviant. I’m scared, but I ask him anyway.  My heart pounds, will he laugh at me?

Taking a length of soft rope, Jay instructs me to lift up my legs. He winds the ropes over and under. It takes a very long time. I’m on my back, but in the fetal position. He tucks the last end under and steps back. I’m so peaceful, so happy, I can’t even speak. Kneeling next to the bed, he touches my face. “Your eyes, wow!” he whispers reverently, “You should see yourself, you’re so beautiful, you’re glowing.” We don’t fuck. This isn’t about sex anymore. Jay carefully curls his body around mine, stokes my hair, tells me I’m so beautiful. I fall asleep, bound and content. This is my new religion.