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image of what is wished for can be fully formed. We know we are ugly before we have even seen ourselves, and the injustice of this, the falsehood, chokes me.
    What then, are my choices, as a writer and a sadomasochist? I could keep my sexuality private, write about other issues, other sorts of people, and tell myself that these are more important themes, more universal characters, more valid as literature. That involves telling a lie of omission—becoming invisible as a pervert, assuming an undeserved mantle of normalcy and legitimacy. Or I could become an apologist and seek to persuade the tyrannical majority that sadomasochism is not violent or self-destructive. But that would require telling many little, white lies—watering down the descriptions of frightening acts, softening the dialogue, emphasizing what S/M has in common with vanilla rather than where they part company, and appending endless, didactic justifications. This kind of fiction makes the non-S/M reader feel condescended to and lied to; it bores the well-disciplined reader and confirms a suspicion that our lives and visions are too trivial and base for explication.
    It doesn’t feel as if I really have a choice. Writing is hard work. It is boring and lonely. And there are too many long stretches of panic and self-hatred between the moments of inspiration. I have never been able to endure this drudgery and finish a piece that I did not care about passionately. If there isn’t enough lustful electricity in the work to keep my batteries charged during the false starts, tedious revisions, and backtracking away from dead ends to come up with a proper finish, I run down like a neglected wind-up toy. These short stories are attempts to tell the truth about my own desire, and they are written for people who understand what I need and value what I see. I would rather be a tribal storyteller than a self-conscious member of the literati or a leather missionary churning out tracts for a bunch of people who will never think of themselves as heathens.
    This book will be accused of being pornographic and thus misogynistic, a piece of hate literature. So let me say explicitly, at the risk of sounding foolish, that this is a valentine in its original form, a cunt held open by a woman’s trusting fingers. It is a visible act of love, written for any reader who is not a traitor to her own cunt. (It has something to do with hatred, too, but not what you assume.) It was meant to generate some of the hope that leather dykes need as much as they need raw courage to survive in a hostile world. I want more of us to make it to adulthood without being driven mad or driven normal or driving off a cliff. And I want more of us, period. So this book is also a recruitment poster, as flashy and fast and seductively intimidating as I could make it.
    You might not like the women in my stories, but all of them—tops and bottoms—are strong women. They are not completely autonomous human beings (even I can’t suspend disbelief to that extent), but they chafe under any restrictions. You won’t get any charity fucks out of them because they don’t feel sorry for you. Nor will they say something that will make you feel bad about yourself under the guise of upgrading your id and your politics. They are selfish bitches, but they know how to have a good time, and if you amuse them, they could show you a good time as well. They don’t want to save the whole world, but they know it’s essential to be able to save your own ass. These are women who get to be heroes, have adventures, kick up their heels and kick butt.
    Under the guise of keeping you entertained, Reader Mine, I wanted to get some social criticism flowing as well as some j/o grease. Why exactly is it that pornography (especially pornography about sexual minorities) is assumed to be either worthless trash or toxic waste? Why has it taken so long for any sex books (whether their jackets are leather