Epilogue
Four years.
That’s how long it’s been since Russell first stepped into my home—my world—unsure, trembling, and curious. He’d driven seventy-one miles that night, chasing something he couldn’t yet name. And I—I had long since set aside any fantasy of permanence. I had no intention of finding a partner.
But some men—boys, really—arrive not with submission, but with truth.
And truth, in its rarest form, demands attention.
He gave himself to me so fully that first weekend. Not just in body, but in willingness. I did not take him lightly. I never have. What began as ritual—disciplined, ordered, precise—evolved. He became a mirror I hadn’t expected: one that showed me how much I still wanted to feel, to teach, to build something enduring.
By the end of that first year, I had released all my long-time trainees. Not out of cruelty, nor shame. I told them the truth—they deserved more than I could give while falling in love. I took no new boys, save one or two who asked explicitly for mentorship and nothing more. Even then, Russell was always informed. Always present. Sometimes participating.
And Russell… he blossomed.
From trembling to teasing. From wide-eyed to wicked.
He teases me now—mercilessly—about my neat sock drawer, my old jazz records, my insistence on “real tools.” He built a business from scratch with my seed capital, but the labor and vision were all his. And he still blushes when I call him my husband, though it’s been legal since February.
The courthouse ceremony was unceremonious—just us and two dear friends—but what we signed that day gave us both the dignity of legal protection. We do not play house. We fortify it.
The chamber still lives, of course.
We visit it like one returns to sacred ground. Not weekly anymore, but often enough to stay fluent. And when we do, the rituals feel like prayer. Even now, he surprises me with his capacity—for pleasure, for surrender, for creation. There are moments when I am still stunned that he is mine to tend to.
And Francis—yes.
Francis, who welcomed Russell that day, at the beginning of the end of multiple trainees. Who helped me vet him, guide him, understand him. Francis remains.
No longer a trainee, not for years. The power dynamic is long gone. But what remains is something I did not anticipate: family.
Francis is a friend to us both now. A confidant. A kind of godparent to the life we’ve made. And sometimes—on special nights—we go to the club. We dress the part. We perform. Publicly. Purposefully. Francis often joins us—sometimes as stagehand, sometimes as audience, sometimes simply to laugh and drink and toast what we’ve become.
What began in secrecy now thrives in openness, in community, in love.
Russell is no longer the boy who walked in that day.
And I am no longer the man who opened the door expecting only another weekend ritual.
We are more now.
Not just because of what we do,
but because of who we have chosen to become—together.
And I will never stop being grateful that he chose to stay.
