Michael Robbins is not precisely bad kink representation. I can’t call him that, even as his essay, published in Harper’s Magazine (175 years of arts and culture!) makes me viscerally recoil. He themes together two things, the safe, tidy masochism as curated by his domme, G, and the anxious despair of the apocalyptic nature of climate change. And he wrote some free verse imagining Percy Shelley with a Bazooka, in that sort of liminal self indulgence that we award ourselves post play, under the banner of aftercare.