Photo Source: Unsplash My least favorite position There’s no wiggle in this clinched Missouri arch, nothing fluid in a state of bated breath, straightened limbs, breasts dangling like slack sails. Nothing but quaking calves and fingers wedged against the floor, surrendered to his pressing commands. Oh captain, my captain – the man pushing against my lower back, urging me to breathe, just breathe to release the edges when I can’t help but tense my thumbs and stiffen my bum because it’s clear...

Photo Source: Wikimedia Commons Wanderlust We didn’t stop until we reached the streets, the green-tipped cathedrals, the Linden leaves and every newspaper clipping of sky. We didn’t stop until our feet grew wings, until we crossed the grey-washed bridge and stood over the memoirs of the Spree. When you get what you want – when you can hear that river murmuring – the yearning returns: for spring, for dictionaries and white-winged birds, for a creaky little boat to pull you to another...