I often had the passing thought that I would be happy dying—you have those peak life experiences and hey, it’s been a good run; it’s not so bad to end on a high. And then one day I assigned my book club The Story of O as my pick for the month, just because someone had mentioned it. You should understand it had been a long time since I felt something all-consuming. There was nothing specific to live for, besides my interests and my family and friends, very quotidian, same-same. Boring. At least with a child, even if they’re a pain in the ass when awake, you can look at them asleep and think you’d die for them. People do that with their cats even, but I didn’t have a cat. Anyway, I read it on the subway, discomfited. It was alluring; got me a little riled up and a little uncomfortable. I was jealous of her. That’s why I made the account, rolling my eyes and groaning in embarrassment as I did—there’s something so pat about those profiles with an anonymized photo, built on all our tired cultural references of BDSM or kink, sexiness through the cover of a potboiler, costume design for a Bond girl, basic desires listed as if they’re transgressive and special. And then I found Chad, or Clive. He had gotten tired of his routines in the app world—the arranging gangbangs and then collecting testimonials kind of thing. He was ready for something different, and like I said, it’s been a good run; my affairs are settled pretty tidily. But then, when I showed up, I still liked the idea of it, of abandonment in bliss and sacrifice, but for these random, reddit-style guys? Smug in their transgression, so Eyes Wide Shut about it? So, I left. Boring—it’s not so bad, really.