October 2013

My desire baffles me. E wants me, she doesn’t want me. My brain says run — but something deeper wants to convert her ambivalence into enthusiasm, even as I suspect I’m really just teeing myself up, again, for the crashing disappointment I secretly crave.

My cock speaks to me. I don’t always do what it says, but I always listen.

Sometimes I don’t want to touch. I just want to sit across from you, hard, and tell you what to do.

Sometimes sex is everything; sometimes it’s nothing. And sometimes I’m just wondering about everyone else’s.

A husband, a father, a slut, a blogger — but who am I, really, and does “always” ever mean what we think it does?

A woman at a bar, described in the only way I know how.

I used to be able to stalk you so elegantly, but Woopra wants $40 a month for the privilege now.

I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back to it from different angles — exhibitionism, pride, shame, sunlight, and the intellectual hard-on I get when something I write actually lands.

A woman on the train, reading the Economist.

Two words that contain everything I want.