N. Likes

The Historian sent me her journal entries from our weekend in Miami. The fucking was hot, but the feelings were hotter.

On the evolution of my fucking technique, from passive to aggressive — and the semicolons along the way.

She got a free vacation; I got her at a moment’s notice. It was a good deal for both of us.

A seedy, psychedelic hotel in Manhattan, perfect for a couple of hours.

At the Liberty Inn, everyone you pass in the hall knows exactly what you just did — and there’s something liberating about that.

Checking into an hourly hotel is a strange act of mutual acknowledgment.

Some things are best worked out in private, even by a guy with a sex blog.

French theorists on her reading list, no panties under her skirt, and an invitation to Miami before the jazz even started.

The line between privacy and secrecy is thinner than any of us would like to believe, especially when you’re a parent.

Life isn’t fair, my grandmother reminded me. In this dissolute life, I’d rather it be interesting.