You don't think we've met? I sat next to you once at the airport, and you asked me what time it was. I hoped you wanted to strike up a conversation. We sat at tables next to each other at that coffee shop on the corner, where the atmosphere and coffee both have character. Remember when I caught you staring at me when I came out of the courthouse? Or was it the exquisite old building where I practice law? You were embarrassed, but I didn't mind, not at all. In fact, you made me smile. Maybe we met at one of the "special clubs" I enjoy in Seattle, or Portland, or Vancouver or San Francisco, Denver or Las Vegas. You know, clubs where clothing is optional and anything goes, with friends or with strangers. I admit I like that, but "no" always means "NO.

" I've been told I'm arctic cold, and hot as a black sand beach in the Caribbean; I'm either indifferent, or too passionately engaged. These are labels and don't really matter to me any more. I've been called a slut, a force, a lawyer, a nymphomaniac. You decide which one was the insult if you'd like, I don't really care. "Exposed" is about who I am and why I'm that way. I describe a few events in a story you'll think explains everything. It doesn't, but gives an idea of how I grew up, how I discovered sex, what I like about men and what I don't, how close I came to being murdered and how that led to my discovery of who I really am. Sometimes, when explanations fail, story is all we have.

And though my story may be very different from yours, you and I are very much alike in those places where we hide our desires.