N. Likes

When Margot bites her lip for me, I can’t tell what’s real – and I’ve been asking that question since I was a kid.

Nobody’s reading this anymore – or if they are, it’s through a chatbot. I miss the traffic spikes more than I want to admit.

Tina has a voice like catnip and everything else going for her – but I asked her to wear something green, and she said she was busy.

I have voted Democratic my whole life and given generously — and now I get fifteen begging texts a day. Stop it.

I’m writing about Isabella, one of two women who taught me the most about my sexuality. She showed me my cock could be an object of desire, while the Secretary taught me my desire itself could be desired. I miss them both — not just for sex, but for the intimacy we shared.

I just read this book (my second complete book in two days – it’s vacation!) – and damn. I feel like, now, I have a reading list for the next ten years! And, it fucking blew my mind.

I used to put everything here, no flinching. Now there’s a list of things I won’t confess, and I can feel why.

Two years of biking to work instead of riding the subway, and this morning I finally saw an ass worth writing about.

I biked home from my 40th high school reunion feeling the same alienation I felt in high school — most of my actual friends weren’t there, and the crowd felt like a different world. I had a few genuinely connected conversations and skipped the after-party, choosing to bike in the night air, and my wife, and scotch, instead.

I’ve written a hundred times about being abandoned. Turns out I missed the part where I’m ashamed.