“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” -- Oscar Wilde
You'd met online, messaging ever more often about your shared proclivities. You shared with them your darkest fantasies and most carnal desires; they responded in mind. Gradually, your taboo imaginings became less inaccessible, perverse phantasms marching ever closer into your grasp. You discussed with them a reciprocated wish to throw off the shackles of normality and austerity, to free yourselves from the burden of autonomy. After months of exchanges, you'd finally agreed to meet in person.
They met you, dressed in plainclothes and weary from the week's toil, at the bar at the arranged time. Their appearance caused a panic in you--until now, everything has been removed from reality, kept comfortably restricted to the other side of a keyboard. Now, it had become real, tangible. You felt as if every eye had turned its gaze upon you, carrying with it the imagined judgments of the crowd, as if the people there knew what secret desires good in the corners of your heart. They approached you, reaching out a hand to finally associate a name to a face, but your panic overtook you. You recoiled, arms throw up in reproach. You took your leave and left them at the bar, stoic in the face of your rebuke.
Taking the long route home to give yourself some time to settle, you reflected on the scene you'd made and the panic that inspired it. Guilt supplanted the anxiety with each step away from the bar. When you finally crossed the threshold home, you had sworn to never repeat such a cowardly act. You dropped your coat and belongings at the door and made your way to bed. It was only when you stride into your room did you finally realize you weren't alone.
Sitting upon the foot of your bed, they sat, clad in rubber and neoprene, face largely obscured by a red hood. Only enough of their face to recognize them remained visible. They spoke, answering the questions you begged your stunned mind to ask before you uttered a word. They had figured out where you lived because you had run out on your tab, and they were to cover it and collect your cards. They hadn't needed to break in because the front door was unlocked, so they simply let themselves in. And they'd had plenty of time to change into more comfortable attire since they took the short route here.
They stood, fluid and confident, and moved calmly into the space that separated you and them. They stopped midway, extending their arm out to you, leather hood and muzzle in hand. They said they had already forgiven you for your retreat--embracing one's desires risks shattering the version one's self projected into the public eye. They explained that the loss of that facade, so carefully cultivated to avoid the scorn of your peers, creates panic. It's only natural to want to run from that loss. But it's not what will make you happy. Not really. They extend the hood further out, now within your reach. They softly asked that if it's your public face you're scared of losing, why not put on a new one? An honest one. One that will allow you to express your truest self.
You stood quietly, silence filling the space between you and them in the wake of their question. You were cautious, scared by their return but agreeing with every statement they'd uttered. You wanted to run.. or did you. Was it really you, or just the version you felt you were expected to be? You dug in, holding still while the question resonated deep into your core, demanding an honest answer. Searching, yearning, begging for clarity, until finally.. you silently reached out for the hood. You felt the supple yet durable material glide under your fingers, your fingertips brushing theirs. You looked at them, certain that they were smiling beneath their red neoprene. They stepped in, closing the remaining distance. They leaned in and wrapped their arms around you, circling behind you. You felt each syllable hit your ears as they whispered, firm and enticing, "Finally. Let's make an honest thing out of you."
