New York City in the summer is notorious for its uncomfortable heat and sticky humidity. Tourists in Midtown sag together, pushing past each other in a sweaty August frenzy. Taxi exhaust clogs the air, the sun tries hopelessly to pierce through the smog and Manhattan swelters — a tired, miserable haze. There is no reprieve beneath the sidewalk. Steamy subway platforms seem to breathe, and the metal cars push columns of air even hotter and denser than the oppressive heat in Times Square.
With the recent release of E.L. James’ BDSM mega-hit “50 Shades of Grey” on the big screen, the fetish community worldwide has reacted with an uproar of mixed opinions.
I could no longer enter what was once our home—her home now. I looked down the hall of the apartment. There were so many doors, and for a moment, the only one I wanted to enter was the one door that was now shut to me forever.
It’s December and I am returning home from a semester abroad. After dropping my bags and greeting an ecstatic dog, I go to my childhood room to check up on my parents’ nascent business; in my sister andmy absence, they are separating our rooms from the rest of the house and converting them into short-term rental units.