ABSTRACT
Some things that were His: a belt, a chair, a hanky, a snapping cock-ring, a collar. And me. With the exception of the hanky, which is red bandana-print cotton, and me, all are black and made of leather. I’m leather, but white. Or rather, I’m one of those light pinkish-brown tones that are usually called white. But that doesn’t matter. Or rather, it does because it always does, but it is not what I want to talk about here, now, to you. A black person (or someone who is what is usually called black) has said that different readers create different readings. That’s so simple, so obvious, that it verges on idiocy to even mention it, but since we forget it so often, and with such obstinacy, I repeat it just as often and just as stubbornly.
