The first time I faced Death, the doctors didn't tell me that my chances of surviving were slim. The deadly bacteria from septic shock had permeated my brain, my heart, and every organ in my body as I blacked out from the pain on an ER stretcher. Sweating, feverish, with unforgiving hospital lights searing my eyes, I was informed that I didn't, in fact, have a sprained ankle. "Who told you your ankle is sprained? You need emergency surgery. You're in septic shock," the uncari

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Sex work and Proton Mail go together like a submissive and his teeny tiny chastity cage. (Locktober is finally here!) I wanted to look...