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A sex party in a Bushwick loft, with velvet pouches, topless acrobats, and a crowd that works in public radio.

A testament to just how straight I am.

I hadn’t seen the movie, but I placed an ad James Spader might have written — in the “Erotic Services” section of CraigsList.

My problem was never sex. It was the elaborate edifice of deceit I constructed around it.

A weekly sex party in a borrowed Manhattan apartment, where everyone gets naked at 9:30 and you can still be home by midnight.

A review of one of the sexier party options in New York — where the dress code is white or nothing, and the crowd delivers on both counts.

Exercise equipment roped off, bridge-and-tunnel couples fucking in the pool, and a vibe that wasn’t quite as welcoming as all that.

Two words that will pretty much guarantee I don’t want to fuck you.

I never thought of myself as an exhibitionist. Turns out, Google Analytics is my crack.

A field guide to the various twelve-step fellowships for sex addiction — their bottom lines, their rigidities, and their surprising nuances.