N. Likes

Jealousy, for me, boils down to the fear that I don’t exist — and that a woman holds the power to confirm it.

Folly is making a late-game push, and I’m not sure I’m rooting for wisdom.

I seem to have a gift for giving offense where none was intended — and I’m not done yet.

Twenty minutes. Go.

Illness, recovery, and the slow return of desire — for sex, for writing, for being myself.

Under the weather. Back soon.

Honestly, I could listen to this shit all day long.

C discovered my blog, read everything, and then started sending me her orgasms. The first one takes a while, but it’s worth the wait.

Wet hair, rubber boots, and dishevelment, generally.

P is spreadsheeting her orgasms for me, and every time she updates a cell, I get an e-mail. So. Fucking. Hot.