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trivial, with equal pleasure. The only thing I ever hid from her was the extent of my drug use.
    Our other two roommates came in as I started sautéing garlic and onions.
    “Smells good,” said Luke, our household’s only male member. He leaned over my shoulder and grabbed a slice of pepper from the pile on the cutting board. “Thank god for your Italian mom, Melissa.”
    “It’s no secret, my friend, just garlic and olive oil.”
    “Can I do something? I have a take-home physics exam to procrastinate.”
    “Ah, yeah, there’s a block of tofu in the fridge. Try and squeeze the water out of it and then cut it up.”
    We cooked and gossiped and sang along to Otis Redding and Irma Thomas, and for a little while the dungeon seemed farther away than just across the East River. Amidst the warm clamor of familiar voices and cooking my anxiety slipped away and I remembered that I was capable of anything. Dinnertime in my childhood home had often produced the same effect; the crackle and smell of sautéing garlic coupled with the murmur of NPR’s “All Things Considered” lulled me into a feeling of safety beyond which my daily worries seemed remote and flimsy. That comfort had always been fleeting, though. That night, as I lay alone in the dark of my bedroom, the world outside loomed again, pregnant with uncertainty.
    An hour can be a long time. Hell, a minute can be a long time. The minute before your first kiss with someone is a painstaking collection of seconds, each one more bloated with anticipation than the last. The first minute of a tattoo is a long one as well. Pain has few rivals in its ability to slow time. Fear, excitement, elation—these are kissing cousins, all with the sensorial power to render each second humming with every tick and gasp of our bodies, the whirr of insect wings and distant car engines. Sometimes, I could savor these moments, relish them as opportunities to walk straight into the fact of being alive. In the seconds that crept into the minutes of my very first domination session, I had no idea what I wanted. The $75 certainly, but beyond that? Character-building life experience? I would have confidently named these motives right up until the moment that the door of the Red Room closed behind me. With the clasp of its latch, all bravado and ideology dimmed with the light of the hallway behind. It was only me, a naked old man, and sixty minutes of palpable expectation. An hour alone with a naked man with whom you do not intend to have sex can be a very long time.
    On my second shift ever, and after only Mistress Bella’s example, I teetered over my first client in a borrowed pair of seven-inch platform stilettos. Anxiety, and a corset that cinched my waist six inches smaller than nature intended, confined my breath to the shallow region of my chest. My bosom literally heaved, straining against its lacy contraption and obstructing my view of the naked man who knelt at my feet. Cold tears ran from my armpits. The darkness smelled of stale incense and the briny tang of bodies past and present. It was hot, and the red walls seemed to breathe slightly, as if I were inside a great belly.
    Despite the fact that I was high on heroin, I felt only fear. It snuck up on me as I stepped into the room, and my confidence lifted like a flock of startled birds. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother. What was I, my mother’s daughter, doing here? It suddenly didn’t make any sense. But that’s what the drugs were for: to keep Mom out of moments like this. Narcotics create distance, and I only needed an inch to turn away from that question.
    I knew I had to say something. My mouth was gummy with 99-cent lipstick from the all-night drugstore down the block. Opening it, I prayed that the waxy paint would bear some talismanic power and bring the right words to my lips. Instead, I burped.
    “Yes, Mistress? Are you all right?”
    I felt his breath on my fishnetted knees and fought the urge to back away.