The studio is cold this morning. Clay dries differently in winter, slower, with these tiny hairline cracks that tell a story about patience. I'm thinking about how sex work and ceramics aren't so different. Both require a kind of attentive stillness.
Last week I had a client who wanted to talk more than touch. He was an architect, hands rough from drafting and model-making. We barely fucked. Instead, we discussed the mathematics of negative space, how silence can be a form of communication. His fingers traced the curve of a porcelain cup I'd left drying on the windowsill.
Sometimes the most intimate moments aren't about bodies. They're about recognition. Seeing someone fully, without expectation. I'm learning this more and more.
The kiln will fire today. The clay will transform. My hands smell like slip and something else, something quieter.