2012

From George Costanza to Gary Sinise — and the secret society that opened its doors along the way.

On the right words for what I do in bed. Wanna fool around?

Don’t travel to fuck someone you haven’t met. Obviously.

T and I find ourselves with rare, kid-free hours, and spend them in a tangle of laptops, oral sex, emailed fantasies, and the complicated arithmetic of compersion.

Desire is strange: compliance medicates a deep, dark wound, and photo #126 of her ass is every bit as thrilling as the first.

There’s a tendency to imagine some objective standard of ethical behavior against which we should measure others. I’m not buying it.

A graphic novel about being a john, found on a neighbor’s doorstep — and what it gets right, and wrong, about the humanity of paying for sex.

Noms de whatever: the evolution from hiding behind “Grey” to being liberated by “N. Likes.”

Sometimes the best encounters last just long enough to leave you hard the rest of the night.

Wanting what I can’t have is the single thing that most torments me in life. And it’s never about them — it’s me.