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.

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.

Naked I felt as if my soul was exposed, my thoughts could be read. In the mask I felt protected. I eased the elastic strap over my head, adjusted the fascia to my cheekbones and glanced again at the mirror. The acid in my tummy had gone. Masked I am me. Masked I can do anything.

The secret is to become someone else, something else. All sex grows dull. You renew it by reinventing yourself, and as a new character, you have new urges. I adore being a rabbit.