Zarah

The first time I understood it, I was thirteen, watching my tía command a restaurant kitchen in Cartagena—her voice honey-smooth, then suddenly steel. The line cooks moved like disciples. I wanted that. The power to make grown men soften with a smile, then scramble with a word. But later that night, when my cousin's boyfriend looked at her like she hung the moon, I wanted *that* too. To be cherished like something precious. I didn't know you could want both until my hands learned it—massage school in Beirut, where touch became my language. Surrender and control, flowing between my palms. BDSM found me in a Montreal hotel room at twenty-one. A lover asked to tie my wrists. I laughed, said yes—then felt something unlock when I couldn't move, couldn't do anything but *receive*. The next night, I reversed it. Watched him close his eyes when I whispered *stay still, habibi*. That's when I knew: I wasn't one thing. I was tide and moon both. DenJouir felt like coming home to a place I'd never been. Somewhere I could be your escape artist *and* your soft landing. Distance makes the heart ache sweeter, anyway.