I’m back from summer break and here to announce 2 parties for Halloween Weekend. Paid-subscribers get first access to Basement tickets and a super secret pre-sale to the second party below… See you out there :)

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After many years in the making, we’re rolling out our next phase of limited edition merch with illustrations by Kelsey Niziolek.

Once they’re gone, they’re gone.

SHOP

CUFFED CAP

SHOP

Schiaparelli Couture made everyone’s neck break with illuminated silicon bodices, fringed latex gowns, and a collaboration with the iconic British inflatable designer Dayne Henderson.

Robert Wun’s signature sculptural whimsy took new shapes with inflated latex balloons adorning and covering some garments.

The RTW runways for AW this past Spring had latex sprinkled throughout, with a hand full of the designers returning to the material as a code of their artistry.

A hard headed Vogue Business piece released last week frames the material usage as so back but questioning its marketability due to it being, “hard to buy, and even harder to wear. The measurements need to be exactly right to be comfortable and look good, experts say.”

GIRL BYE.

If you’re a sub here, I don’t feel it’s necessary to elaborate with more harsh words on this lazy piece. Read it and have a cynical laugh with me. Even from a more pedestrian perspective, a quick search for latex on The RealReal will show consumers have been purchasing the luxury RTW garments season after season. Moreover, with the margin of error and cost of material, they wouldn’t continually be produced for market if it wasn’t selling.

But I digress, we’ve seen fantastic interpretations of use and design this season. Most impressive to me though, is the bigger houses bringing on independent latex designers to collaborate and advise with appropriate credits to their name.

But why wait for Fall? Here’s the “hard to buy and even harder to wear” Part 2 of my Latex Grails:

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It’s a Saturday night in Brooklyn. 9PM barrels in with it’s typical avenues for the night. Most people are either wrapping up a dinner commitment with promises of meaningful rest, or just beginning to get dressed for an odyssey of recklessness. At the new Bathhouse on Atlantic Avenue, a lucky batch of 100 ticket buying insiders made the choice to flee the uncharacteristically hot weather for scorching saunas, heated pools, and low visibility steam rooms. Pleasure or masochism? Potentially both. But inside, heat is the point.

Inside, the eagerness to undress is part of the premise. of Pleasure Seeking is hosting another Sauna Salon. Camille’s curiosity and understanding of desire is a priestly venture. Fusing intellect with our most carnal urges, has birthed an environment with cultural substance and social reverence.

Are readings the new wild night out?

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Pleasure Seeking points to yes.

The commonalities with traditional nightlife were overwhelming. Everyone was wearing as little as possible… which is a given with the environment, but a supremacy of modest one-piece swimsuit didn’t have a leg to stand on in this space. Playful hair accessories and jewelry were the primary styling language, not a far cry from peak time in neighboring warehouses. With the café in full swing, there were just as many people drinking… and with the current state of bar rings at clubs today, it’s not much.

Though ticketing was open to Pleasure Seeking subscribers, the crowd feels overwhelmingly intentional. Everyone is attractive… observed by a friend standing poolside beside me, This is the hottest crowd I’ve ever seen, it’s unreal.

I can confirm.

The contrasting elements were even more enticing. Attendees arrived barefaced and ready to get wet. A soft playlist in the house speakers was barely audible from the booming chatter bouncing off the tiles. The central pool was an illuminated soup of waving doodle tattoos and slicked back hair. Guests were connecting in a candid display of socializing rarely seen today… wading around in clusters with no purses or cellphones in sight. The revelation of availability came to be a luxury of its own, but Bathhouse has extra amenities to please the senses. There aren’t many places in New York to get an artisanal croissant at 11pm, though judging by the amount of options in the case, nobody came for laminated pastries.

At 11PM- Camille appears front and center for introductions, wearing an iteration of her typical uniform: a red bondage strapped Gaultier for La Perla swimsuit with a matching cover-up mini skirt. Pulling off a successful switch from latex to spandex could only be done with such precision by a true high brow fetish fundamentalist. You can tell she’s amused by the scenario she’s created, smirking at her disarmed audience submerged in water.

We’ve arrived at the apex of the night, the readings. Caroline Calloway, Tony Tulathimutte, , , , , and Camille take turns with cultural critiques, narrative experiences, and witty observations.

Noelle raises questions about #wetlook #messyandwet internet communities by stepping into the pool, deluging her jeans and white ribbed tank top. Is it porn? She lets the audience decide, as they come to terms with that they’re also participating from their own immersion.

Caroline reminds the audience that her brilliance surpasses her colossal internet presence. Bringing the historical reverence of Roman culture into a space inspired by it, with a series of poems by Sulpicia, self translated and modernized from Latin. The plights of girlhood haven’t changed.

By Camille’s end cap, couples were fitting together like puzzle pieces. Her reading of the iconic Am I the Bad Sex Neighbor? post leaves everyone with something to aspire to by the next morning. It’s struck a match and once the salon winds down, the room is fully activated.

We’ve hit cruising altitude.

People are slinked up against each other on the side of the pools, while others are branching off from their cohorts, slip into the steam room.

Pleasure Seeking wasn’t asked to reinvent readings or parties, but is doing so by nature with good curation and serendipitous casting. The event didn’t ask for digital exposure, but demanded attention. It inspired attendees to have an original thought, if just for a moment, before diving into indulgence. Intimacy doesn’t have to be reserved for the dance floor or against a concrete pillar in a raw space, but maybe its greatest form is listening.

Where the night led beyond this, is only their story to tell. But much like other ventures after dark, perhaps it’s better to remain discreet… until called to share on the mic.

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Libraries/Archives:

Accessibility is paramount, so I’ve outlined independently run stateside libraries and archives. In more cases than not, you’ll need an appointment and let the librarian know your interest/goals so they can assist.

• Lesbian Herstory Archives — Brooklyn

• Tom of Finland Foundation — Los Angeles

• Leather Archives and Museum — Chicago

• Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art — New York

• Bob Mizer Museum — San Francisco

• QT Library — Boston

Books:

1. The Butch Manual by Clark Henley

   

2. Best Woman by Rose Dommu

   Rose Dommu’s passion for reinterpreting iconic media has been prevalent in her work since her party promoter days in the 2010s. My Best Friend’s Wedding was absolutely never safe from this, but impossibly hilarious and beautifully done through today’s lens.

   

3. Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration by David Wojnarowicz

   

4. Liminal by Jordan Tannahill

   

5. Fierce Pussy by Fierce Pussy
   A collection of usable posters from the legendary activist collective Fierce Pussy.

   

6. The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions by Larry Mitchell

   

7. Bound Together by Andy Campbell

   

8. Memorial by Bryan Washington

   

9. Gay Semiotics by Hal Fischer

   

10. Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg

    

11. A Song for You by Robin Crawford

    Stripping back from the glamour of familiar names, what Robin Crawford does best is detail the intricacies and pitfalls of an intimate queer relationship and friendship.

    

12. The Wonderful World That Almost Was: A Life of Peter Hujar and Paul Thek by Andrew Durbin

    

13. Chelsea Girls by Eileen Myles

    

To the dismay of avant-garde dressers everywhere, summer is very much here. This doesn’t mean we’re imprisoned by cotton tank tops and minimal looks. It’s a key opportunity to get creative with styling. Who doesn’t like a challenge? For those of us who live in climates with four distinct seasons, we only have 50-70 summers in this life being lucid with our personal style. There’s mesh, organza, and, if you’re lucky, endless Pleats Please options. I have a collection of wide mesh overlays for the season, including a favorite high texture Noir Kei Ninomiya number for a big moment. But where does that leave us with leather?

We have to think of leather more practically, or resign to being completely impractical. Some enthusiasts can suffer through the heat in a leather getup. There’s no doubt body stench will linger on it longer than anyone could hope, but this is a lifestyle. So yes, here we are with a warm weather friendly selection of Leather Grails… though I’ve listed a couple of heavy garments for those of us who love to punish ourselves in the name of compulsion. There’s no need to abandon leather for the season, in fact we can revel in it’s impact.

THE SECOND EDITION — LEATHER GRAILS:

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Peppered throughout every international airport, there are microcosms of travelers rehearsing for relaxation. Waiting at the gate for my flight from DFW to Maui, the tender energy of impending tranquility was visible through a series of behaviors and costuming… signaling a deep commitment to the bit:

• Honeymooners- Couples donning complementary color coordinated outfits with graphic nods to their nuptials… a wishful way to signal they’d like an upgrade?

• Content Pushers- Pods of ”girls trips” sporting Alo lounge sets with woven wide brim hats strapped to the handles of their carry-ons. Their faces buried in their phones, strategically planning their proof of arrival.

• Reluctant Financiers- A slew of patriarchs wearing Aloha shirts deep in dissociation, while mom is delegating iPad time and snacks to antsy children. The delicate balance needed to avoid group meltdowns is already teetering.

I had similar anxieties about the promise of fun and respite. I was on my way to the Grand Wailea, Maui’s largest resort. The site of Paris Hilton’s family vacations, situated next door to the (arguably less opulent) Four Seasons where The White Lotus was filmed.

My idea of vacation has been one that’s restricted by research and curation. Millennials, such as myself, have subscribed to a Bourdain doctrine of travel for the entirety of adulthood. It culminates into more of a moral superiority complex; attempting to syphon the authenticity from a destination with the goal of living the experience of a local. An endless ranking of real that has started to feel more like a series of tasks than leisure. So my journey to a resort is a new adventure entirely.

Travelling to Hawai`i complicated that stance from the get. There’s an uneasiness in seeking pleasure in an annexed state that’s repeatedly asked to accommodate other peoples’ escape. I wondered whether joy under those conditions could ever feel innocent without arrogance? Or, is carefree indulgence unavailable to people who read the news? But still, I watched the honeymooners at the gate lean into one another with enviable certainty, and hoped to borrow a little of their faith in the weekend ahead.

The beauty of Maui is apparent before touchdown. Flying in to aerial views of the mountain ranges that look like lush folds untouched by the hand of man is bewildering as someone born and raised in the bustle of the Mid-Atlantic… where nature exists as more of a suggestion in sanctioned preserves. My ego starts to subside.

—

Upon arrival, I learn every hotel in the state is required to have a Cultural Steward on staff… and it shows. The Grand Wailea has taken this mandate seriously enough that it shapes the design of the entire premises. In line with pillars of Hawaiian tradition, the property is laid out in a way that’s personified and pays tribute to the culture’s belief that gender is a balanced into a division of (the south side) masculine, kāne, and (the north side) feminine, wahine, offerings. Paying tribute to the culture’s rejection of binary gender roles… a functioning philosophy that individuals possess both traits for a balanced life. The lobby is an open structure that blurs the line between interior and exterior, a grand entry point between these two halves. To articulate this, on either side of the entrance stand sculptures of both masculine and feminine warriors, with a mermaid figure at the center serving as the “navel” of the property.

These pieces are just a taste of what’s in store for an aesthete. Grand Wailea owns the largest private art collection in the state, with over 2,000 works in its possession. The magnitude of its credibility is underlined by nine mammoth Fernando Botero sculptures in the centrally located lobby bar, aptly named Botero Bar. A figurative demonstration of the hedonistic delights in store. In line with the kāne and wahine, the north side his famed figures are in positions of rest and romance, while the south side sculptures are in more flagrant active poses.

—

There’s no shortage of amenities for travelers.

The property is fit with five bars, seven restaurants, 10 boutiques, and the resort’s 24 hour quick service cafe, Loulu… which also serves as an Erewhon Outpost. Complete with their eponymous liposomal vitamin packets, bags of spirulina popcorn, and branded metal travel mugs. The partnership is a key indicator of the resort’s commitment to contemporary luxuries, anticipating what people want before they know they want it. The grocers famed Coconut Bliss™ soft serve anchors the experience. Following in the footsteps of their LA locations they highlight collaborative sundaes by Hawai`i’s reigning it-girls: surfer (and Hailey Bieber bestie) Kelia Moniz and, currently, Sydney Agudong of Disney’s Lilo and Stitch.

The wahine side of the resort has amenities that emphasize serenity. Spanning from the largest spa on the island, a non-denominational chapel with vaulted walnut hued ceilings, ocean excursions, walkways lush with native plants leading to a hidden Japanese teahouse (disassembled in Japan and rebuilt on location), and a peaceful adults only pool. Complimentary to this convention, Maui’s first Nobu restaurant overlooks this side of the grounds out to the water.

The kāne side of the resort is primed for brazen wildness; a myriad of retail shops, high octane restaurants and bars, a festive luau dinner experience, and a collection of whimsical swimming pools.

—

And where did I find myself in all of this? With the kāne side feeling more like my chaotic baseline, my inclination was to heavily lean into a path of tranquility.

My first morning I woke up early to watch the sunrise, then made my way to the beach for an outrigger snorkeling excursion with the promise of swimming with sea turtles. I was wracked with nerves; my fitness level is informed by climbing subway stairs in heels and a dance floor moment here and there… abysmal. To say I’m confident floating in open water would be a misrepresentation of both me, and the word confident. Our guide was a caricature of my polar opposite; perpetually at ease, strong, and impossibly hilarious. Through surfer vernacular, he had a fluency with the environment that could only develop in someone who has been learning it his whole life. He predicted wave patterns based off the wind coming from the mountains, swam deep into the reef to pick up urchins and baby octopus that were invisible to the untrained eye. It felt like a party where he has all of these wonderful little friends to introduce us to.

Despite the guide’s pacifying energy, fierce life vest, and slow pace, I was quietly fighting for my life trying to keep up… masking my struggles through the tide by lingering a bit longer on a specific turtle. Powering through and back at shore, I felt a rush of accomplishment. I had an entirely new experience and survived despite my insecurities.

I’m on vacation. I’m relaxing. I’m relaxing.

My next appointment made this affirmation considerably more straight forward… A massage at the resort’s famed bilevel Kilolani Spa. Kilolani translates to “something the eyes cannot see,” which leads into their methods follow rotating intuitive practices on the lunar cycle. On the ground floor is a Hydrotherapy Garden, with multiple steaming mineral baths, a cold plunge, aromatherapy showers, saunas, and expansive high design Hammam. I shuffle into my appointment, skin stinging and muscles twitching from the morning swim. My nerves calmed, it was as if I’d been disassembled and put back together. It was easy for me to surrender my body to rest, though characteristically, my mind continued turn. Just as I began relinquish control, it was over and I slink away to a meditation room with refreshments overlooking the expanse of the resort.

The adults-only pool is where this shift locks in. My group was lounging in a sea facing cabana, settled in with tall ice cream blended pina coladas, fresh fruits, and (my fave) Maui Onion chips. Aside from nature’s song and haptics, it’s quiet. I’m immersed in the experience, sun kissed, massaged, tipsy enough to forget there’s life outside of this bubble.

When asked how I was by a fellow traveler, “I think this is the first time in my life I’ve ever felt relaxed.”

I meant it.

The occupational hazard of a creative worker is that there’s no off switch. Being an artist is ego driven and relies heavily on constant self reflection, which can easily turn into insecurity and self loathing. As a culture worker, it’s a hamster wheel of considering others… thematic programming tailored to a client and their lofty dreams, pleasing wealthy stakeholders, remaining committed to an artists integrity, and servicing talent agents who are tirelessly working to accomplish similar goals for someone else. In both lanes, rest feels like stagnation. I love my work, but when is there time to connect with my most genuine self?

—

Against my nature, everything is handed to me. The cycles of rest and reset, are coming naturally. I’m transforming… trading in restrictive footwear for slides, tailored clothes for the linen pants I packed just in case. Morphing from my anxiety laden standard, to the vacationer I saw in my gate’s microcosm. My jaw is unclenched.

The following day, I start the morning moving like vacationing is my newest personality trait.

I turned up to a sound bath meditation in the chapel, the visual center piece of the resort’s feminine power. Likely the site of dozens of lush destination weddings and vow renewals every year. Adorned with multicolored storytelling stained glass and vaulted walnut-hued ceilings, I was more prepared for this as I’ve ever been… mindfulness queen. I laid on the floor mats and situated myself palms up to receive universal energy, because I’m based now. The journey begins, singing bowls, atonal ambient recordings, and a gentle strum on the leaders guitar. The gentle coos didn’t take me away. In fact, I’d never felt more in my body, aware of my surroundings, or fear of making movements that could disturb others. Perhaps this was the longest hour of my life? I was in a venue that’s only ever filled with boundless love, seasoned practitioners, and willing participants… here I am… the impenetrable vessel.

The meditation was over and I headed to the cabana and sat for a moment, so this is it? A despicable feeling to have in paradise. My progress was backtracking.

The truth is, I hadn’t breeched beyond the adults-only pool to the other side of the resort. My impression of this area was that it was far from elusive, with the assumption that it was wracked with the chaos of family vacations… screaming children, over extended parents, and blissfully unaware elders whose duties were done after carrying a tote bag from room to pool chair. But, I was maxing out on the luxury of peace and quiet, so I quietly departed from the cabana to do some exploring.

I first walked past a shallow pool filled with sand, fashioned after a shoreline.

Cute.

Continuing on, it became clear the pool situation is far more expansive than I realized. The tropical vegetation had become more dense, creating a peek into fun to be had. I reached a simple suspension-style bridge that crosses over a lazy river between two pool areas, with winding theme park grade waterslides poking out. It’s apparent that this isn’t just a passive family-friendly area, but it’s own level of excitement and chaos. At the other end of this bridge I find my oasis, a childhood dream only realized now… a grotto bar. Since the era of MTV’s Spring Break and Girls Next Door, and I’ve yearned to wade up to an underground barstool and slurp down an electric blue curacao drink. A Red 40 soaked maraschino cherry should fear me in this moment.

I hurry back to the cabana to share my findings and try to rally my euphoric compatriots. A few emerge, and it was game on.

We begin with drinks at the bar, finding a dark alcove to slurp them down as single men dot the bar to watch whatever game was on. Continuing on, outside of this area is the beginning of the lazy river, which turns out is more of a wild rapid starting with a waterfall. Any hopes of not getting my hair wet are left behind, as are my morning hangups. Floating tubes are an extra cost, so I brace my body to go down the initial surge and immediately tumble over. I’m ignited with childlike wonder, letting the water carry me. We’re pushed to the waterslides, climbing out of the pools and running up the stairs, reminiscent of my summer camp trips to rickety water parks in Pennsylvania. The slides are ageless by design, an open air flume that sent flashes of floral hues, blue skies, and greenery past my eyes. The more thrilling enclosed tube rendered my vision pitch black from the light shock. We do this sequence a few times, finding little adventures everywhere… More drinks, more fumbling.

The final night and it’s time for dinner… a Nobu opening celebration with Chef himself. My raucous cohort and I are now teed up in resort friendly evening-wear, lei-ed with fresh orchids. Overlooking our domain from the ocean facing terrace, we’re munching on wagyu skewers, sipping flower garnished cocktails. I crossed the threshold of “at ease” to blissed out. In only three days, my world had shrank into the presence of this moment.

Dinner guests were ushered into the lobby for a luau style celebration; gorgeous hula dancers, svelte men with fire poi and blazing staffs. In another timeline I would have written this off as camp, with the idea we were all imperialists ogling at a cultural song and dance for entertainment. But this isn’t theater, it’s storytelling. Experiencing these traditions, controlled environment or not, was a gift.

It was time to go home. I cancelled morning yoga plans for a walk along the coast; passing gorgeous cliffside residences, friendly passerbys, and the beauty of unmanicured nature. I was balanced? I never would’ve thought with my cynical tendencies that I could find my peace at a resort. What was once a stifling, uninspired, and structured corporate complex, now feels far more considered and curated than I could’ve imagined. I was still master of my own destiny, but there’s no denying that a selection of amenities and experiences presented to me is what allowed my arch of transformation, without the stress of happenchance.

—

The lessons of this trip have become the groundwork for my day to day. Rest isn’t passive, but a series of decisions… starting with not being available to the beck and call of a cell phone that’s telling the story of the apocalypse. It’s not about the places you go, but the balance of your actions. Wahine and kāne… a harmonious soup creating the peace of our being. Relaxing and luxuriating in an age of unrest isn’t to deny any turmoil, nor is it something that can be handed to you, but creates enough reprieve and restoration to keep going.

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TICKETS

Here’s your link to the pre-sale to the next BOUND. As an Acquired taste paid subscriber, you get first access to BOUND tickets and info.

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I’ve had many nights that tell endless stories:

• My first night at the Philadelphia rave hub, God’s Basement, in 2005 (google it)
• Some electro-clash party at a shuttered bank in 2008… My friends and I tore off sections of party flyers to look like wristbands to sit in the 21+ area. We were too afraid to pass security again to use the bathroom so, in a fever, we peed in a corner… which we then realized was the back of a balcony (sorry!!!!!)
• My first time going to the Digi Bar at Milk Studios in 2010. It was an industry cabal where I certainly had no place being, and inspired me to set the goal to work there (achieved). They ordered everyone cases of Pop Burger and we stumbled to the Jane after and my friend and I danced the rest of the night with Gus Van Sant in a pink beanie
• Pre-pandemic weekends at Berghain I won’t dare to share details of…
• Up to last year, at a Saint Laurent event at Chez Margaux, where a beautiful stranger and I latched on to each other and lived a thousand lives in one night

And now, there’s March 13th, 2026… the Performance Space Gala and Afterparty. I worked on this for months with a team of the most brilliant, creative, empathetic people. It’s fruition was nothing short of stunning.

There’s a magnetic pull around everyone who was there. We’re finding each other in every room and configuration. It was one of those rare alignments, the perfect je ne sais quoi of social and experiential excellence that can only be manufactured to a point, until the energy of the crowd takes charge. I know this is punishing if you weren’t there… but there’s much to process.

Even now, as I move through other big moments swirling around, it still goes back to that night. I’m still trying to unpack it all, but Adnan Qiblawi did a fun write up for THEM and there’s a cheeky who’s who piece on PIN-UP.

Next week, when my head’s screwed on a little tighter, I’ll give a run down of the last month.

Until then, enjoy some of my favorite, mostly unseen photos, from the BOUND after-party. For an extra treat, my stage remarks from the dinner below—

Art moves best when it challenges the observer. As artists, curators, and patrons, it’s our responsibility to defend free expression and defy puritanical systems. Intimacy in its many forms regardless of gender, sexuality, or as a service, is not a crime.

BDSM is so much more than pleasure and pain, but the notion that we can listen, touch, and live in the moment on the grounds of explicit consent. We teach each other levels of care, identity validation, and a world of self discovery. This is BOUND’s mission.

Everyone interacts with someone who has a relationship to kink; your cousin has heard Rhianna sing S&M on a gym playlist, your mother has strolled into a Peter Marino designed building, your accountant slips away at lunch to be transformed into a bimbo. Every reinterpreted leather jacket off the runway or extra buckle on a fast fashion garment has trickled down from a lineage of kinksters.

As Gianni Versace said after his 1992 showing of the Miss S&M collection, “Last night, there were 200 socialites in bondage!” Tomorrow as we wake up with our wine headaches, that quote will be everyone here tonight.

Feel Everything
Performance Space Gala Afterparty

This Friday | March 13th
Performance Space | East Village, NY

FREE w/RSVP

FREE w/RSVP

BOUND is proud to present the afterparty for Performance Space’s annual fundraising gala, Feel Everything. Tapped by this year’s gala Creative Director, Jordan Tannahill, we’re excited to offer a free event to our community, celebrating artistic heritage in BDSM.

BOUND

Performance Space New York
150 First Avenue, 4th Floor
10PM-2AM

Hosted by Michèle Lamy

Live Performance
Kembra Pfahler

DJs
Volvox
Kyruh
Katie Rex

Scenes From
Pup Voltzy
Dylan Gong
Vanilla Honey & Mildred S. Pierce

Dress Code Encouraged: Haute Fetish

If you’re interested in attending the gala, individual seats are still available (tax-deductible). Co-curated by BOUND Founder Katie Rex, with performances by Dahlia Domme, Mistress Neena, & Tristan Allen.

For clarification on BOUND vs. BOUND: Blackout events please visit our website

Here we get literal about armor: chainmaille, plating, cast hardware, aluminum fringe, and chromed prosthetics. Metals round out the holy trinity of alternative materials, championed by subculture. A material with conviction for strength and resistance… adding visual, physical, and intellectual weight. Metals are incredibly laborious, requiring specific sets of tools and modalities to sculpt and forge into a wearable piece. It demands time, precision, and scientific considerations. Unlike a printed illusion of armor, chainmaille is link by link infrastructure, with historic roots in battle, butchering, and labor. Structured breastplates have been molded to the soft contour of bodies creating sumptuous exoskeletons. In an era when many runway collections choose the safety of beauty and vague concepts, metal refuses ambiguity. It resists fast fashion and demands craft.

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Sitting in this reflection can have brilliant results… confronting what you really want from a partnership, or otherwise, reveals what you want the future to hold. The antidote to loneliness isn’t partnership, but authorship. Even for those who are already partnered, relationship status can’t be the catalyst that subsumes your identity or replaces the responsibility of maintaining autonomy. That recognition isn’t isolating, but expansive… exciting… because here we find the endless possibilities of romancing yourself.

My most romantic friend, Coco Layne, understands this intuitively and practices without abandon. Offering them an envious gift that can only be rooted in Quantum Mechanics, the ability to feel everything at its highest frequency and accomplish anything as if it’s inevitable. I met them while they were a fashion student at Parsons, interning for an indie brand in Brooklyn. Out of the blue, they were offered a full time roll at a major beauty PR agency; leaving their program to join the work force and managing early stage influencer activations. Imagine having this level of energy transference?

Coco puts an idea forward with fervor, no matter how left-field it seems, and then executes. I’m in active recovery for being a naysayer; something I would’ve liked to think is based in practicality, but was more of a fearful way of looking at the world. So when they told me they’re going to be a dream pop musician, tattoo artist, chef, or graphic designer, historically I was like…. ok babe. But I’ve learned this isn’t grandiose statements or delusional thinking, it’s their limitless ability to romance everything… they always deliver. With the swiftness, they have an EP, a tattoo gun, are catering a wedding, and are working for leading brands in packaging design. Inserting unrestricted passion into every process and facet of living offers them prodigious talents. Romance is the guiding force to their devotion.

Committing to romance is resisting cynicism (I should be repeating this in the mirror as an affirmation 10x a day). I find that romancing yourself is knowing that the best version of yourself and your aspirations in life are easy to achieve because the formula is ingrained in you. It’s as simple as performing these attributes and tasks until the reality’s no longer what you perceived as fiction. Refining my personal taste over the years has been central to this. The experimentation and exploration of my intimate delights have allowed me to stop outsourcing pleasure or expecting someone else to generate atmosphere.

I try to move maladaptive daydreaming into an itinerary at least once a week. It’s a solo endeavor by design. You can’t feel like a protagonist under the influence of another’s gaze.

In preparation for these days of magical thinking, putting myself together is everything. This winter I’ve been skin flooding, forfeiting heavy foundations in exchange for a suite of hydrating serums and creams. My current obsession is Decorté’s Youth Power Essence; which is impossibly lightweight and silky. My long-time hack to the aspirational glass skin glow is sealing everything with Cetaphil SPF 50 Daily Moisturizer. I’ve switched my day look from the usual 90s cool-tone lip to a red Violette_FR lip stain. Reducing the severity of my approachability to symbolize I’m trying to be a little friendlier. It’s easily the most potent stain I have. I feather it out with a Qtip (or my finger on the go), so it goes from high impact gloss to the most iconic and desirable low maintenance French lip.

The energy I’m channeling comes from the most memorable stranger I saw a few years ago on Christmas at Parc. I became the worst dinner companion, as I fixated on a woman dining alone in a perfectly fitted red dress with an impeccably color-matched bag and lip. She was seated in a park facing window with a book, leading her own cinematic universe. The room seemed to adjust around her; it was a rather quiet night at the restaurant and the waiters were falling over each other to tend to her… forgetting half of our order to find any access point to approach. I can’t blame them, her mystique was intoxicating and played out like a public domination. The evening wasn’t happening to her, but was dictated by her presence.

Romanticizing your life isn’t about attracting attention, though attention may follow. It’s about constructing an internal atmosphere so coherent, that it commands. If we succumb to the cultural baseline of acting only for an audience and detachment, what does that make of us when we’re together?

In considering this, the look takes priority (though in contrast, mine vehemently acts to deter the male gaze). To embody this I shed mindless WFH outfits and play clothes, to the balance of whimsy and brutalism in my avant-garde closet. I barely have an outfit that’s reserved for a special occasion… everything is fair game in a disordered world. A Rick skirt with a floor dragging train, a plain black tee with a Fleet Ilya harness in Natural on top, and/or a Noir Kei Ninomiya bolero ruffled to the gods. Perhaps on a Tuesday? Why wait? This helps if window shopping is on my agenda, sales associates dote on me as a valuable customer vs. lurk behind me like potential shoplifter.

The spa becomes one of my most sacred spaces for recalibration. I’ve done countless of these outings with friends, but in time I’d rather choose my own adventure. Sojo is 100% my favorite facility and it’s location is unmatched, with the skyline views from the larger pools and resting room. There’s a shopping center across the street that could be a full day adventure in and of itself, with a Daiso, Mitsuwa Marketplace with the best food court inside (skip the food at Sojo for this), and Kinokuniya. The only issue I have with Sojo is exactly why I am privy to spa alone: gaggles of chirping friend groups celebrating birthdays and bachelorettes with sashes and tiaras, sitting in circles in saunas with their phones out. Similarly, there’s King Spa 20 minutes away; which has the most iconically aggressive body scrub on the east coast. For a more individualized (albeit, shorter) experience, Pure Qi in Greenpoint has the most excellent hot stone massage I’ve ever had. Blissful Headspace is just around the corner, where the head massage feels more like a brain dump than years of therapy (but also, don’t fire your therapist).

I’ve been fortunate enough to find the most intimate parts of myself from traveling alone: hiking through canyons in the Chihuahua desert in Southwest Texas, slowly pacing through the Rijksmuseum until security is edging me to the exit, and standing amidst altars of the exhumed at Sedlec Ossuary. In these quiet moments, I find the most expanse.

There are far more humble activities you can dive into: going to an independent cinema, taking the train to a bakery in a far off location, choosing a single gallery in a museum to melt into for an afternoon, or going to a department store to try on different shoe brands as an exercise on learning your variation in sizing. I used to take the J train to Jamaica Center and Uber to the Jamaica Bay Riding Academy for a guided horseback ride on the beach with skyline views. We have to be comfortable with wandering and not feeling lost.

Being alone doesn’t have to be radical in the age of “proof.” It’s an intentional nurturing state that can increase your appetite, if you’re tending to your desires. We can’t wait for permission to feel fulfillment. Romancing yourself is just as simple as deciding your worth, savoring, and acting on it.

Absurdist, sleek, versatile, camp, revealing, haunting, and restrictive: LATEX adapts and performs. A light catching slapstick comedian or a dangerous and slick second skin, that insists on being seen. Unequivocally, everyone looks good in latex.

Putting on a latex garment is exchanging a vow… to honor, wash, lubricate, and powder… to otherwise degrade into an expensive and perilous disappointment. There’s no neutrality when it comes to wearing it. It’s an invitation to skintight sensory pleasure, yet you’ll freeze when it’s cold and melt underneath when its hot. It can also be character study, in the shapes of a perfectly moulded hood, an ominous silhouette, and inflatable buffoon. She’s the perfect drape and, even more, a faultless operatic ruffle. Far less disciplined and coded than other alternative materials, but a hair more intentional. As it’s flexible but fragile, prone to oxidization and tears, the mortality of latex is part of it’s magnetism.

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Who shares my excitement for this season of indulgence? Not many I’m sure.

When I was in my 20s, I was riddled with feelings of desire and succumbed to the fleeting rush of lust, true for the masses. Everything from lush dinners with friends, or the frenzied build up to a one night stand, felt like a conquest of indulgence. I could also be thrown into a feverish state of limerence when the same set it and forget it behaviors I was imparting, happened toward me. The constant favorable discourse around individualism is easy to subscribe to, because it’s just that, fast and easy. The emphasis on lust and consumption in our culture has deadened the value of yearning, reducing longing to neediness and obsession… but also rendering all of us as disposable. These fleeting pleasure-centric thrills are as hollow as they are emotionally cheap. I found myself running from others, as they also ran from me, to avoid attachment. In time, this cycle became tiresome and left me incredibly jaded. Despite the shallow optics of this lifestyle seeming aspirational, it didn’t make me a better friend, lover, or person.

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Before BOUND, I was living in Philadelphia throwing a monthly party, Factory Girls. Beginning in 2011, and operating sloppily as a femme-forward collective, we pulled in live performances in the shape of live musicians, burlesque, and drag. Like BOUND, we started in small clubs and grew to a chaotic beast, with our base event at a large capacity 3 floor nightclub and a few multi-city tours. At its core, Factory Girls was 3 DJs with 3 vastly different sensibilities. It worked because we were remarkably defined caricatures of ourselves. DJ Suga Shay, now Shay Elys, radiated joy and glowed with wonder at the fruits of the world. Shay was(/is) a club music selector whose saccharine disposition and jewel toned hair sat in juxtaposition with facial piercings and (the once coveted) spiked Lita heels. Then there was Gun$ Garcia, a fierce energy who played mostly trap and indie girl jams. Her love of hyper-feminization and streetwear armed her with a rolodex of nail artists, cotton candy machine owners, and young women artists a text away (connecting us to Junglepussy, Princess Nokia, and Uniiqu3). Then of course, there was me. I’ve refined and abundantly matured in the last 15 years, but not much has change in the tune of my darker and experimental techno proclivities.

Through the twists and turns of the early stages of these late nights… I met Porcelain, a shock queen and ferocious multi-hyphenate artist. Beneath the flawless drag paint and tailored outfitting, she’s disarming… impossibly funny and chill. We shared a penchant for testing boundaries and flirting with depravity. While mine was rudimentary in the shape of art school-level ideation and arrogance, Porcelain was an off-duty tattoo artist with a visceral performance practice akin to the Viennese Actionist movement. When her name was on a bill, there wasn’t a shred of knowing what her act would be, with the lack of predictability flocking curious crowds to venues. She may urinate in a cup, take a sip, and spit it on the audience, or get elevated from a circular stage in the middle of a nightclub floor swinging above the crowd by hooks in her back. Her performances would test the limits of the physical ability of repulsion and delight, leaving unsuspecting onlookers to feel both.

The idea and name BOUND came at one of our more successful parties with Porcelain. Entranced into a meditative state watching her float above me, with blood tracing down her chest, while she lip sync-ed a pop-song about flying. I was having existential revelations about freedom, femininity, and the physical. The kink parties of my youth are a paywalled post for another day, but they lacked the safety that I felt in this moment. More importantly, they lacked the trust Porcelain must have felt in this vulnerable space. I knew I needed to start something new.

I mentioned the idea of a darker fetish forward party to Shay, to which she said, “absolutely not.” Which made complete sense for her (we’re still utterly best friends to this day), why would the beacon of light and positivity want to participate in something she associated with distress? Alternatively, my dear Porcelain was in.

The facts around the dissolution of Factory Girls aren’t exactly laced with a passionate fallout… we were tired of it, and each other (love you both though). The venue was predatory, and took majority of the door sales. If we were lucky, the nights would break even after paying out guest talent. I’d achieved what I could with the resources available in my beloved city. Soon to follow both Shay and Gun$ felt the same. We moved with a wave of natural progression, that feeds into the parodies of ourselves: Shay to LA, Gun$ to Chicago, and myself to New York. Around this time, Porcelain made her own move to San Francisco.

The ideation for a new party never stopped forming. I built a fantastic multi-layered community while meeting the best DJs, working girls, and dancers in the world. But the biggest piece to this puzzle was now thousands of miles away.

In the late summer of 2016, I got the call from a new venue opening in the basement of the McKibbin Lofts. There was only one concept I had to offer: BOUND. It was a tall order: I wasn’t giving any concessions like I did in the past. At the same time, in a stroke of serendipity, Porcelain was given an old Jeep from her neighbor and decided to drive across country to move back to Philly. In an alignment that could only come from kinship… and so BOUND began.

As the original host, Porcelain was pivotal in creating the original anything goes environment at BOUND. Perhaps not with the same shock, awe, and mechanics as her other performances… but with the notion that any space is possible if you make it intentionally. We eventually set up a tattoo area on the dance floor and she created flash unique to the events (Who reading has a tattoo from BOUND? I have several).

Porcelain has since hung up her wig and is now tattooing full time. She’s fantastic and you should book a session with her!

It’s past the third week of January, which means you’re overdue to wash your sheets. The New Year reset has gone stale and we’ve reached the crossroads of how to manage the Jan/Feb slog. The abundant social sprint from Halloween to NYE ill prepares me for slow season. I’m burnt out and broke, with an emptier calendar and quieter inbox. SAD! This time of year agitates the slew of Type B traits I like to pretend don’t come naturally for the other 10 months of the year. I just ordered my 2026 daily planner and cleared a slew of cups from my bedside. The endless scroll doesn’t exactly help. While more financially stable artists are posting from their month off in warm climates, I’m keeping the thermostat at 67 degrees in hopes that my gas bill doesn’t break $100.

Much to the chagrin of fellow freeze-state girls the trope, what we do in quiet informs what is seen later, is fact. Rotting is an earned right of passage. Like most great cycles, there’s a period of surreptitious growth in quiet before it’s visible. The quickened pace of media and expectations work hard to deceive us into thinking otherwise. Hustle culture’s false promises are somehow still seen as aspirational… despite it being incredibly trite and cringe. We deserve to relax and luxuriate, even if there’s a healthy tinge of rumination.

This isn’t a pity party though, through years of this endless cycle I’ve codified luxe rotting. My preparation for winter lethargy is a year-round endeavor in collecting to purge: matching pajama sets (no matter how ugly), skincare samples, event favors, over a decade in cookbook digging, pantry item gift-sets, and little appliances. If you’re saving anything in your house for an occasion or because it’s precious, now is the time. With the majority of my regular activities being entrenched in the underworld, I revel in the excuse to maximize this time by being completely basic.

Our pre-programmed reward systems can be activated by our senses. Using this knowledge to the best of my ability… here’s the high impact, low effort approach I take to indulge in the experience:

1. Elevated laundry detergent—

   With the budget being tight, I reserve this exclusively for bedding, towels, and home fabrics. There’s nothing quite like wrapping yourself in a plush cocoon with a subtle scent of luxury. Topanga Scents Laurel Canyon is my go-to.

   

2. Curate your rot space —

   I’m generally in bed by 9PM in the winter for prime EOD rotting hours. My night stand is stocked with indulgent activities for my evening binge: dark chocolate peanut butter cups, under-eye collagen patches, a carafe for water, my book of the moment, a TheraFace, and a vibrator.

3. Luxury scented candles —

   Everyone has one that feels too precious to light or has been on the dresser as an ornament, it’s time to strike the match. If I wasn’t using what was squirreled away on my shelves, my favorites of the moment are Dilo, Flamingo Estate, and D.S. & Durga. What I am burning is Fischersund Incense in my bedroom (which is nearly identical to Comme des Garçons Wonderwood), the Edition Hotel scent by Le Labo in my living room, and Utendahl Creative’s Burnout Burner in my home office.

4. Project cooking —

   Project is a misleading word in this context, but helps this become a higher brow procrastination tool. There’s nothing quite like the 2 minute oven blast of a disk of dough to come out as a perfectly puffed and steaming pita, a glossy and chewy fresh baked bagel, crispy scallion pancakes, and slow roasts of Korean pork shoulder, prime rib, and pernil with salsa verde. All of these recipes are more of a sequence of simple steps you walk away from for long periods of time, giving you ample screen glow in between. Much like a scented candle, the aroma from home cooking will permeate your space for hours. But what a candle can’t provide that cooking does is the ephemeral energy of effort, care, accomplishment, and multi-sensory joy.

   

   Bonus… in most cases, your freezer is your best friend making these last further into the season.

5. Clean your workspace and plant the seeds of your next project —

   I’m not suggesting you to do anything, because we are rotting. But to feel an air of productivity, I organized what’s visible in my home office and put my Ableton Push where my keyboard usually sits. I’m one step closer than I’ve been for months to sitting down and starting what needs to be done… eventually.

6. Automatic espresso machine —

   Fresh ground beans, no hassle of mess, and an americano, cortado, or cappuccino in 90 seconds. Getting one of these machines in 2022 was the catalyst for when my rot turned elite. No more giant vats of unfinished coffee or dirty Moka pots sitting in the sink, I’m sinking into my sofa in the press of a button. Even with the unappealing price tag, it pays for itself in under 2 years… I’m saving $850/year on one bev a day (real ones know I’m having much more than that). For design and function TerraKaffe wins…

   

   For the full suite of options, TK02, or if you want a pared down machine the Demi provides the basics. Get the extended warranty!!! Nothing is perfect.

7. Off-center playlists —

   In more active times, I’m constantly tuned into SoundCloud sets, mind-numbing power electronics, or the nostalgic albums that have fueled me for years. That’s all great, but in stasis I need a vibe check to transport me.

   VIBES

   Scorned intellectual villain: Opera

   City buzz: Dizzy Gillespie Radio

   Martini on the beach: Bossa Nova Essentials

   Rolling in a Katamari fantasy: Shibuya-kei Playlist

   Post-coitus with no lover: Claude Noguro

8. High brow hydrating —

   Typically, my mind just won’t let me drink water like a regular person until I’m dizzied running to gulp glasses at the end of the day. I wish I could have a water bottle kink like other American girls, but the allure bypassed me. Nonetheless, I’ve hacked my brain into accepting hydration:

   • Half of a lemon in hot water with a heaping spoonful of local honey (I’ve been using SCAD Back40),

   • Aarke Carbonator and 3 reusable bottles for a bounty of sparkling water and high design on my counter

   • Keeping an endless supply of immunity juice shots ($11 for 14 in bulk) and mixing them into a glass of sparkling water as a night cap

9. Raid your bathroom cabinets—

   • Skincare: It’s important my face looks like a glazed donut when I’m in hiding. I’m out of a few of my most adored products and can’t afford to re-up. Fortunately, I’m a sample hoarder and have been enjoying the chaos of replacing steps with what’s on hand, using night masks during the day and serums with no instruction printed on the junior-sized bottle.

   • Neutral lip stain after I brush my teeth: I got got by the Sacheu lip stain ads on TikTok with zero regrets. In the harrowing situation where I have to run out to get an essential, I’m effortlessly appearing less sallow.

   • A spritz of perfume right when I wake up has been essential for my mood. I typically only use perfumes when I’m in social situations, offering a recall of who I am in my most confident moments.

10. Matching sets—

    Perhaps my most basic suggestion of all. In the past I was a prisoner to the oversized tee and leggings, but matching pajama sets and robes have elevated my sedentary season to new heights. My PJs are printed jersey cotton atrocities (which are still buttery soft after many washes). The intentionality of putting on a set, instead of a faded vacation or band tee, gives me an undertone of ambition. I’m here to rot due to the necessity of the act, not to waste out of lack of purpose.

    

Over the years I’ve written thousands of love letters on leather in my notes app:

— Late nights after BOUND, whispering talk-to-text confessions in the back of an Uber

— Pausing my Instagram scroll on Peri Rosenzweig’s styling sensibilities of stacked textures and hardware

— My pupils turning into dinner plates on the train, watching stylish commuters in a seasonal ritual of fussing with soft patinaed gloves

Leather welcomes this kind of reverence.

In being pragmatic yet precious, leather occupies a rare duality. Over the years it’s relentlessly tugged at my heartstrings, punching down my account balance and credit score. In earlier days of collecting, each piece became a precious object of devotion. I used to spiral at the first nick or blemish, but that anxiety misunderstood the nature of the material. Leather is inherently merciful: it absorbs time, records touch, and (I now understand) grows more compelling through use. Its value isn’t diminished by wear, but clarified. We saw this recently with the hysteric awe of Jane Birkin’s weathered namesake bag fetching $10m at auction vs. the cringe effect of a hollow showroom-esque closet full of pristine multi-colored clones of the same style.

Unsurprisingly, leather predates aesthetic fashion altogether; utilized as one of humanity’s earliest technologies for armor, shelter, and as tools. Worn by horseback riders, soldiers, laborers, and motorcyclists, it continues to function first as a protective layer against speed, friction, and the elements. In the 20th century, subcultures created material symbolism instinctively. Whereas latex flirts with fantasy and whimsy through its own flavor of versatility, leather communicates gravity. It’s charged with authority: holding chains, studs, buckles, and spikes effortlessly. All being said, its true potency isn’t in the ornamentation, but the confidence drawn from the wearer.

What makes leather enduring is its adaptability, slipping seamlessly between worlds. Styled thoughtfully as a sharply cut blazer over silk at a chic dinner, supple lambskin trousers with a button up or t-shirt for a midday serve, down to footwear taking shape as elegant pumps with towering heels or rivet head boots with a thick rubber sole. It’s the anchor of an outfit, the intentional balance to an otherwise forgotten look. Few materials can move so fluently between rebellion and refinement. Leather itself resists trend cycles because it never belonged to them. In subculture, it operates as a coded language… a subtle nod that signals discernment, experience, and belonging.

As part of an ongoing series, I’m excited to share with you the first edition (of what will inevitably be infinite) of my leather grails———

1. R & M Leathers — Charm Mini Skirt

   

2. Shame — Lover Wallet

   

3. Zana Bayne — Cateye Bra

4. Fleet Ilya x Dion Lee — Bodice

5. Anoeses — Everly Top

Their Grunge color that was available for the now sold out Morgana Corset would look amazing on this.

6. Aleksandre Akhalkatsishvili — Fringe jacket

   (vegan)

7. YVY — Knot Dress

8. House of Compulsion

This is an edging game… their site is under construction. When they’re live I’ll take one of everything in inventory, but more imminently I need the below…

9. R13 — Triple Chain Belt

10. Perrin L’Eiffel Classique

This, with silver hardware, is the holy grail.

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