Laurel 37

I print with my hands and I want to be undone by someone else's hands. I am thirty-seven. Seth is forty. He started coming by the shop with lunch and stayed long enough to learn that I do not want a performance, I want pressure and attention and the particular way he touches me when I have asked him to take over. Ink on my fingers does not bother him. He washes it off after, which is half the tenderness. We keep the play in the shop only when the door is locked and the type is safe, or at home when I am too tired to be careful of the press. If I need the scene to end I say proof, and he stops, hands up, and asks what I need instead. What I usually need after the heat is water, a clean towel, and him staying while my pulse climbs down. I am not interested in being rushed out of my own body. He does not rush me.