My face is pressed into hard wood and my lips are curling up cruelly and I can feel a bone aching and throbbing in my chin. It seems I am in some sort of 18th century stockade and my head is secured in a vice. They will burn me soon as a witch.
It’s dark and hot and I’ve been asleep on the floor. I struggle up on one elbow then instinctively grab my iPhone and log into Grindr. As the postage-stamp sized images appear I groggily recall my celibacy but I don’t put the phone away. I stare at my Grindr men. I just want to see who’s online, who may have joined, who is in shape, who has a big c**k or bubble butt or wears Speedos or spandex and, of course, if Swan is anywhere nearby. Is he here, is he alive?
I sit up in the dark, lit with my Grindr phone glow, and scan the men. No Swan. At th
