June 2015

Some days I can find beauty and desire in nearly everyone. Other days, the world looks like a drive through monotonous suburbs dotted with strip malls.

It started badly — standoffish, defensive, closed. But her pussy was wet, and my cock was hard, and the evening improved from there.

Sometimes all I want is to be hard — not to connect, not to come, but to counter a deadness deep within me with the undeniable sensation of being alive.

My body responds before my mind does, but thankfully, my mind wins every time — and it’s not virtue, it’s something deeper and darker that keeps me honest.

Strip clubs can be glorious, and they can be where you go to watch a little part of yourself die. I’ve done both.

You’re out there, reading, aching, wanting. I know. Write to me.

There’s so much more sex I don’t have than sex I have. Sometimes I wonder if it’s not the rejections I crave even more.

Coffee, months of tension, and then, finally, a late night in which she did everything I asked and I disappeared into the dark.

Two sexy women, two great dates, and two write-ups that made the sex sound less hot than it was. I’m better at desire than satisfaction — on the page, at least.

This.