Women of Drummer

The leather was stiff and unyielding. It rode up when I sat, pressing against my throat until I felt like I was choking.

The concept of home has never come easy to me. I carry nostalgia for the places I once fled to as a child—the scattered woods and musky bogs outside of Boston —where I wandered aimlessly just to avoid being in the house.

When I boarded the plane to Atlanta, I was bathed in a sense of excited anticipation. Having spent two decades as a leatherdyke, I...