Chapter Eight
Dear Darren
Six months after I returned to New York, to start my second post-doc at Columbia, in that luxury hotel suite in midtown, having waited on the coffee table for almost three hours, crouched—until it hurt more than I could have possibly believed—in the position of submissive dog, a submissive b***h, I was . . . confirmed.
Yes: I’m skipping around in time a little . . .
I made my surrender explicit and complete—this after the better part of my two years in Berlin, a photographic flipbook of submission and degradation that I would not have believed possible . . . had it not happened to me, had I not something between allowed and facilitated it.
It took almost three days, my New York Surrender.
And then—confirmed, committed, submitted—I went on with my life.
Afte
