When we pulled up behind the moving truck in front of our new home in Clinton, N. May sunshine bathed the little house in radiance and stretched down the street, lined with thick-trunked trees and well-groomed lawns. I jumped out of the car and led our pound pit bull out of his nest in the back seat. For a moment, Red stood dazed in the brilliant light, ears lopsided, watching a bumblebee hover over the overgrown lawn.
He tilted his head toward the ground and collapsed onto the grass, flinging his legs into the air and rolling with glorious abandon. Patti introduced herself as a college professor and area native. I told her I'd recently accepted a full-time position at a nearby college and a bit more nervously that my girlfriend and I recently moved from Brooklyn.
I didn't tell her that before joining the professorial ranks, I'd been a professional dominatrix and drug addict, or that I'd recently published a memoir about my days of spanking and shooting heroin. It unnerved me in that moment how much my recent success felt like something to hide. It just seemed impolite to mention. But I was accustomed to hiding.
In my early 20s, I juggled the life of a heroin-addicted dominatrix with that of a successful college student. It almost killed me, so good was I at keeping that secret, at maintaining my manners and appearance.
For my first three years of teaching college, I covered up my tattoos for my students. I had been dating someone for three years, but in the months leading up to my book's publication, I never even told his parents what it was about.
