June 2014

I don’t call myself a sex addict, though others seem happy to do it for me. A fellow blogger asks whether her own obsessive thinking about sex makes her one too — and I have some thoughts.

Luna is difficult, entitled, and spectacular — and on this particular evening, she was lying face-down on the bed, as instructed, her magnificent ass writhing in anticipation.

Poof. She was simply gone from my list. The kids today….

I abhor drama. So why does it keep finding me?

A recent exchange with the Rockette, and its satisfying conclusion.

Adam Phillips, on the futility of sexual jealousy.

She’s late, and I cycle through annoyance, gratitude, and want before she even arrives — from the wrong direction, dressed exactly as I asked.

On Tinder, I lead with something vaguely suggestive and slightly funny — and I mean every formulaic word of it.

A set of instructions for an evening.