I.

He was married. He admitted to this when I saw the doll house in his living room. I sat on the arm of a couch that was covered in junk mail and dirty laundry.

He said it wasn’t cheating if it wasn’t sex. I felt I had set in motion something that could not be easily undone, so I went through with it. I had to keep reminding him to please not suck my cock.

After, he asked if he could keep my briefs and I drove home commando. My clothes smelled horribly of his sweat. I threw them away.

II.

He bound me and tipped glasses of water to my lips, hoping to make me wet myself. I drank quickly to avoid spilling water down my front. Between glasses he talked, detailing his golden shower fantasies, recommending books he hadn’t finished. I saw loneliness in his look and felt embarrassed.

I couldn’t piss my pants. “Too shy?” he asked. He undid my binds, and I rubbed and pressed my stomach until a trickle of urine stained my khakis. He masturbated, watching.

When he left, the relief of my pent-up piss streaming into the toilet was the highlight of my night.

III.

He arrived at my front door before we could talk about limits, safe words, etc. “Strip naked,” he texted me, “unlock the door, and kneel.”

I did what he asked.

When he asked if I had a condom, I told him I didn’t like to fuck. Later, with my hands chained together, he said, “You told me ‘no,’ but your body is telling me ‘yes.’” He believed my ‘no’ the third time, and instead gagged me with his cock. “You gonna swallow, boy?” he asked. I didn’t want to, but at that point I figured I owed it to him.

V.

He said he would be free Saturday at one. I drove the two hours early and went to the art institute while I waited for him to give me the go-ahead. At one I had bibimbap. An hour later, a coffee and cannoli at little Italy. He never texted.

Before leaving, I visited the cemetery where a former U.S. president was buried, a maze of looping paths punctuated by gaudy obelisks and statues. I felt profoundly unsettled by these monuments, and realized I no longer believed in an afterlife. Driving home I witnessed a roll-over, and didn’t stop to help.

VI.

After keeping me in chains for seven hours he offered me a PB&J. My blindfold had only admitted tiny impressions of his home: boxes crowding the stairs, dozens of shoes piled behind his bed. “I could keep you all night,” he laughed, pulling strips of duct tape off my bare thighs. “You couldn’t stop me.”

In the kitchen he removed my blindfold and cuffed me to a chair. The room was grimy, covered in mouse shit. He fixed my sandwich on a greasy plate, sucked my nipples as I chewed, trying not to vomit. I shook all the way home.

IV.

He sounded, as he came, like the start of a sneeze (ah-ah-ah-ah!) but instead of sneezing he roared like a bear. This briefly interrupted his tragic litany: dead mother, sick father, vengeful ex. I made affirming noises through my gag.

After, he fixed me a plate of Brussel sprouts, though I’d said I wasn’t hungry. He prattled over Jimmy Kimmel. I tried to work out how little I could get away with eating. The program changed. On the screen a folk singer performed beautifully, with a passionate twang. It was enough to shut him up. We sat in silence, listening.