On Decay

The scenes of the spring and summer have largely been characterized for me by an obsession with speed. My natural inclination is to move quickly. I like living and working in New York City because the speed makes me feel alive. My scalpel slices quickly, deftly; I pound someone with my fist until I’m pummeling their guts; my words cut quick and fast; I step on the gas pedal until the car (my submissive) accelerates into a wall. Acceleration lends itself well to an explosive destruction, one that leaves both parties breathless and exhilarated. 

(A dear client and friend told me the following joke: “How do you get a submissive to stop smoking? Use more lube!” He’s told me this joke more than once, and it’s always punctuated by a deep belly laugh. I laugh back every time.)

But as the days grow shorter, I am finding that I have less attraction to the manic and frenetic energy that defined my summer sessions. In the space that speed leaves behind, inspiration strikes in the funniest of ways; my brain has been relentlessly wrapped around this tumblr shitpost from 2018.

“You cannot kill me in any way that matters…decay exists as an extant form of life.”

The northern hemisphere slips longer and longer into sleep as we approach the winter months and I start to yearn for longer and slower decompositions. Out are the days of quick and fast destruction, in are the nights of extended disintegration. Scenes of psychological warfare, of edging, of pushing limits deliberately and meticulously until the sense of self dissolves altogether. I will always love the thrill of a hard and fast collision, but I’m interesting in teasing out sordid scenes that deal with the abject. More body fluid, more consumption, more deranged creative roleplays where we become so immersed that finding our way out is a challenge within itself, but we emerge nonetheless, undead, unkilled, unrecognizable. This winter, taking our time will be the new proof of vitality.