January 2012

L concedes our contest, but not without first turning my Twitter feed into porn set in an Applebee’s.

I catfished Craigslist to win a bet with L. It worked, sort of.

I don’t believe you can be addicted to sex. But I had a relationship to it that sure looked a lot like addiction.

She asked me to humiliate her, to hurt her. I did my best, against a window, high above a construction site.

L is losing our contest, and the terms need adjusting — but either way, she should be punished.

Once in a while, my catholic tastes bring me into contact with women who remind me of a me I’d rather forget.

She wants to see me again because of a kiss we shared. Only problem: we’ve never met.

Two hundred messages, one reply, and she probably wasn’t even a she.

A farewell to a great restaurant, and the story of a memorable visit to its men’s room.

A wig, nude stockings, a very pregnant belly, and a husband who really, really wanted me to fuck his wife.