I am a far, far furrier woman now than I was before I met Robbie.

The first time I met the man, I had a cute, chin-length bob-ish hairdo, and a fresh bikini wax, and newly shaved legs, underarms, and feet. (I’m not kidding. I have hobbit feet and they must be dealt with.)

Robbie was always a fan of the natural look–70s beauties with lots of fur. (“It’s a secondary sexual characteristic,” he said, rather unarguably.) At one point, at his direction, I let the hair under my arms grow out completely. It took about four months. I begged so hard for that requirement to be lifted that he relented, then pouted about it, which neither of us understood.

But he never relented on wanting me to have a full bush, though he toyed often with the idea of demanding variations. And he never relented on my ever-lengthening locks, though he fantasized out loud about having them “prison-inmate short” sometime, just for the control of it all. (I found all of this hot as hell, by the way. Just so’s you know.)

On my walk this morning it occurred to me that I could go back to my erratic waxing habits, if I wanted. But I don’t. I am clinging too fiercely to the rules he set that did manage to stick: collar, fur, skirts (well, mostly), no underwear (well, mostly). I’m not ready to let go of them, because I’m not ready to let go of him.

First image by the arresting Bill Tong.