Robbie is not the blogophile I am, probably because he has other things to do with his life. At one point he banned sentences that began “I was reading in this blog that . . . “–it’s hard enough for us to talk briefly and clearly about what we want, never mind including what he calls “the footnotes” about other peoples’ thoughts and desires.

He will patiently read articles I send him from the Times about new methods of rice farming, or a Control Tower column on polyamory, or a Fleshbot piece on how hardcore porn stars are, really. But it’s better if I can digest the stuff and talk about it myself.

Or in this case, post about it. I was reading in this blog that . . .

That at Alison Tyler’s house, there’s an understanding. As she puts it “when my clothes spring leaks—when the fishnets rip, when the t-shirts start to fray—they become fair game. In a word: shredable.” These cords were apparently the latest casualty of The Rule.

Robbie has threatened to rip, cut, or shear my clothes off dozens of times. We’ve even bought a few dirt-cheap tops for the purpose–but then we both end up liking the way the shoddy fabric is pretty much see-through.

So, my dear, if you happen to be reading this blog . . . what do you think? I have a pair of jeans that are just ripe for ripping, and you know those stockings we’ve been hoarding for occasions when you might want me to crawl? Those are definitely shredable, too.

Alison Tyler’s actual cords, and “Portrait of Stoya”, by the incredible Nikola Tamindzic.