January 2014

I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of talking to women in bars — no agenda, no expectations, just conversation.

I write with my left hand now, and I wonder what that does to my brain.

A screen full of my favorite gifs, all at once. You’re welcome.

I used to reply to every message instantly — in work, in dating, in sexting. Now I’ve learned that the space between messages can be more charged than the messages themselves.

Forgot my wallet, made her pay for everything, collared her at the bar, and lost count of her orgasms at Le Trapeze. Not very dom-ly — except for the parts that were.

A taxonomy of sexual commitment — what we promise, what we pretend, and what we actually mean.

The exponential complexity of four-way attraction, and the useful sting of rejection.

Sofia has been lurking in the background of this blog, and it turns out she’d rather not be.

Sometimes a reader introduces herself with more than just a comment.

Steve Martin’s “The Cruel Shoes,” and why I’d rather see a woman in flats than in heels.