Delayed, not derailed. Little surprises.

The Europe trip got pushed. I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed for about twenty minutes, and then I made peace with it the way I always do: by deciding to actually be where I am.

So February turned into something else entirely. Rain for days, the kind that makes Los Angeles feel like a different city. Hot yoga in the evenings, then walking out into cold night air with the steam still rising off my skin, that specific contrast that resets everything. Long dinners at Living Room, the private members club where the food is good enough that nobody's in a hurry to leave, the kind of table where three hours vanish and you don't want them back. Hikes with the dogs once the sun came back. They don't care about itineraries, which is maybe the whole lesson.

And then there was the night I'd been both dreading and craving.

I told you Mistress Iris was on the calendar, and that I was equal parts nervous and thrilled. Here's how it went. I've been the one in control for a long time, and I'm good at it, so saying yes to being dominated by a professional meant handing over the one thing I almost never hand over. We started with dinner. The three of us, me, Iris, and one very lucky gentleman, at a table with the whole downtown skyline spread out below. Iris is petite. You notice her across a room before you understand why, and then you understand: a stillness, an authority that never has to raise its voice. We flirted through every course, all three of us aware of where the night was headed and in no hurry to get there. Until we were. We skipped dessert.

I won't give you the whole of it. Some of it belongs to your imagination, and some of it stays in the room. But there were restraints, and there was the moment she brought me to my knees and I let her, completely, without a flicker of resistance. Somewhere in the middle of it I crossed into something I'd only ever heard described. Sub space. No performance, no steering, nothing to hold up. Just trust and sensation and the strange, total freedom of letting someone else decide. Afterward I curled up between the two of them, undone in the best possible way, quieter and happier than I've felt in a long time.

That was the little surprise February had been hiding. A reminder that I love being the one in charge, and that I love, just as much, the rare nights I get to set that down.

I made a playlist for the in-between time. Spring In Bloom. 31 songs, starts with Billie Holiday in Paris and ends in French. It felt like the universe being obvious about something.

The website also just went live with new photos. Worth a look if you've ever been curious what I look like when I'm not thinking about the camera.

Somewhere between the rain and the yoga and that one unforgettable night, I kept thinking about you. Not you specifically. Or maybe exactly you. The one who reads these and still hasn't reached out. I find that interesting. I'm curious what you're waiting for.

Now I'm ready. And honestly, the trip got better in the delay.

Where you'll find me

A small update: Paris ran a day long, which pushed London back slightly. Here's where things stand.

Europe, London and Paris, March 1 to 7. The Connaught, then the Ritz. Tea at Claridge's. Gymkhana, because once wasn't enough. Raye at the O2. The Dior exhibition. Dinner at Passionné. Le Marais for vintage. My first time in Paris, and I have a feeling I won't want to leave.

Palo Alto, March 11. Brief stop, always glad to be there.

Indian Wells, March 13 to 15. BNP Paribas Open, my first time. Desert light, great tennis, spa time between matches. I'm very good at balancing the things that wire me up with the things that bring me back down.