August 2012

She tells it better than I could.

It’s Frisky Friday again — show me what you’ve got.

I almost never cum before I mean to. Almost.

I directed you through the crowd, watching your ass, before we ended up in a champagne room with whipped cream and a dancer named Dee who couldn’t stop talking about your tits.

Google Analytics tells me what you read, where you come from, and where you go when you leave. The results are revealing — and, honestly, a little flattering.

A short dress, a dark bar, a sex party, and three marathon sessions between her thighs.

I cried this morning, for only the third, fourth, and fifth times in my adult life, for a friend I’ve never met who is heading back to be killed.

Sometimes there are no words, only tears.

It’s Frisky Friday again — show me what you’ve got.

A granular deconstruction of the ritual of visiting massage parlors — from the craving, to the wave of inevitability, to the Blackberry full of taxonomies.