2015

A fantasy I’d like to make real, involving a hotel bar, black dresses, boyshorts, and very specific instructions.

A reader asks a pointed question, and I try to give it the answer it deserves.

If you can’t spell all the letters in the word “you,” we won’t hit it off.

Emily’s young, she’s hot, and she’s convinced she’s bad at fucking. I’m not worried.

This is not a sub-tweet.

Jealousy follows no rational rules.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for a stranger reading smut on a crowded train is to look away.

Continuing to elaborate on the logistics and choreography of my core fantasy. The devil, as they say, is in the details.

Someone didn’t appreciate my photos.

A woman on the subway, gone before I could finish writing about her.