By Christopher Munroe
I’ve had my portrait painted, so as to live forever.
Because that’s how that works.
I like it rough and weird in the bedroom, you see, but my proclivities have on occasion left marks upon my body that were tough to explain to my more vanilla friends.
Now, the painting bears the scars, the bruises, it wears the collar and ball-gag and, no matter what I might get up to in the privacy of my home, I always look fine to go into work the next day.
All in all, it’s been a good system.
50 shades of Dorian Grey…