Why I Write: On Beaches, Forehead Kisses, and the Gentlemen Who Ask

What a Data Scientist Taught Me About the Art of Feeling

Photo by Natalia Dmitrak on Unsplash‍ ‍

The invitation arrived quietly, as the best ones often do. A regular client, a gentleman whose company I have come to genuinely cherish, asked if I would join him for a quick Spring break getaway to Isla Mujeres. One of my favorite beaches. The promise of solitude, rest, and just the right amount of debauchery with excellent company. It was an emphatic yes before he finished the sentence.

I packed my bags, mostly bikinis and sunscreen, and headed south to Mexico for the weekend.

The days that followed were a blur of sun and salt and laughter. There was partying, of course, mixing with the local crowd at a vibrant outdoor gathering, then drifting off to a private lounge where the music softened and the night deepened. We ended each evening passionately, the kind of tangled, breathless intimacy that leaves you smiling into the dark long after.

The morning after one such night, we ordered breakfast in bed. We took turns feeding each other, bits of fruit and pastry, our fingers brushing, our laughter easy. The passion of the night before extended lazily into the afternoon, unhurried, luxurious.

Later, I wandered down to the beach. I found a spot under a wide umbrella, ordered a virgin piña colada, and pulled out my tablet. The waves lapped at the shore in a rhythm that felt like permission. I began to write, my thoughts spilling onto the page, drafts of what I would later share with my subscribers, with you.

I did not notice him approaching. He emerged from the sea, skin glistening, droplets of saltwater tracing paths down his chest, his arms, his back. He looked like something from a film, the kind of scene that feels staged but is, miraculously, real. He came to me, leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. It was a small gesture, almost casual, but it disarmed me completely.

He took a cursory glance at my tablet, at the draft I had been writing.

“You know,” he said, settling onto the sand beside me, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why do you write? Sincerely. Maybe I’m just a logical thinker, but I don’t see you writing about data science or analytics, even though I know you’re passionate about it.”

He was right, of course. It was an astute observation, the kind I have come to expect from him. We first met at an AWS conference in Las Vegas, our own small “meet cute” born of shared interests and academic pursuits. He is a man who thinks in systems, in architectures, in elegant lines of code. My writing, to him, might seem like a departure.

And yet.

I told him, there on that sun-drenched beach, with the waves as our soundtrack, that yes, there are data analytics topics I could write about that intersect with companionship. The relationship between the state of the economy and the demand for intimacy, for example. Some refer to it as the “sex work index” or the “stripper index.” It is fascinating, a metric that deserves its own study.

But I reserve those conversations for those who are interested. Not all of my clients come from the data analytics world. Some are artists, financiers, attorneys, entrepreneurs. Some are shy first-timers, others are long-term lovers I have known for years. Each of them arrives through a different door.

For many, the first glimpse of me is my website: a few photographs, a carefully crafted blurb, an elegant silhouette of who I might be. But what captures my persona, what truly invites them in, is my writing. I write about my experiences with them in mind. To welcome them to my world. To give them a glimpse of the person they might meet, while maintaining just enough mystery to make the first hello feel like a discovery.

I write to make them feel something.

There is a quote from one of my favorite writers, Maya Angelou, that I have carried with me for years: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

That is the heart of it. That is why I write.

I want those who read my journals to feel something: my presence, my humor, my embrace, my passion for pleasure, my desire. I want them to take a piece of me with them, long after the screen has gone dark. I want the shy first-timer to see himself in the stories I tell, to recognize his own nerves and hopes reflected back at him. I want the long-term client to find echoes of our own shared history, discreetly immortalized in a paragraph or a turn of phrase.

Perhaps, in person, we will talk about data analytics. Perhaps we will not. Either way, the goal is the same: to make you feel seen. To make you feel that you are not alone in your desires, your curiosities, your quiet yearning for connection.

The gentleman on the beach listened to all of this. He did not interrupt. He simply nodded, reached for my hand, and squeezed it gently.

“I get it now,” he said. “You write to leave a mark. Not on the world, maybe. But on us.”

Yes. Exactly that.

So, to you, reading this now, whether you are a long-time subscriber or a curious stranger who found your way here: know that these words are for you. They are my invitation. My hand extended across the digital divide. My way of saying: I am here. I am real. And I would love to meet you.

The beach at Isla Mujeres has long since faded into memory. The piña colada is a ghost on my tongue. But the question he asked, and the answer I gave, remain with me still.

Why do I write?

I write to welcome you. I write to make you feel. I write so that when we finally meet, whether over dinner or drinks or tangled sheets, you will already know a part of me. And I will already know a part of you.

Looking forward to writing the next chapter together…