A mask is not to disguise who you are but to show who you really are.

Masks reveal. They don’t conceal. Masks reveal your cravings, your passion, your deepest most secret desires.

The mask in which you choose to disguise yourself uncovers who you subconsciously are or want to be. Masks reveal in the eyes the face that lies hidden as if the mask is a dark glass mirroring your soul.

Masks reveal the shape of your soul and the state of the world and, in today’s world, everyone wears a mask.

In a mask we are faceless and classless, ageless and anonymous. Masks reveal the primal urge to behave like the beast in rut that leaps on the stranger or waits in the penumbra to be leapt upon.

A mask tempts the wearer to play out carnal fantasies and, come daylight, the perfume of a stranger’s sex on your flesh and clothes can be blamed or thanked on the metamorphosis stirred by the mystery of the mask.

Blindfolded, your feelings are enhanced. You see less, you see nothing, but you feel more. You feel everything.

Being watched in the act of coitus is disconcerting, even for the most brazen. Yet, more than merely making the experience tolerable, masks reveal an innate longing to play to the crowd, to be naked, sweating, screaming in orgasm.

A mask is a mirror. The masquerade is the only time I am me and it doesn't matter how many men I have sex with or how many girls I touch, I want more.