The twenty-two-year-old me, the taste of flake a bitter, recent memory, kneels on the wood floor of his loft with light pouring in the windows. I am naked but for simple panties. He says that when he ties me naked, he’s taking me. We haven’t fucked, though our relationship is intensely sexual. He’s worth waiting for, this delicious man with his scorching eyes and knowing smirk. I want to obey the rules for him. I feel right when I take care of myself for him.

When Deacon returned from Africa, he sailed, and when he sailed, he knotted mast ropes and women. He’d been led to what Westerners called shibari....