Musing

Most of my dates are sure things. This one won’t be, and that means something much scarier than not getting laid: the possibility of being rejected not for my looks, but for *me*.

The distance between who I am online and who I am in the world protects me from more than I like to admit.

Some days I can find beauty and desire in nearly everyone. Other days, the world looks like a drive through monotonous suburbs dotted with strip malls.

Sometimes all I want is to be hard — not to connect, not to come, but to counter a deadness deep within me with the undeniable sensation of being alive.

Strip clubs can be glorious, and they can be where you go to watch a little part of yourself die. I’ve done both.

There’s so much more sex I don’t have than sex I have. Sometimes I wonder if it’s not the rejections I crave even more.

This.

Esther Perel talks about infidelity without demonizing anyone, and gets it exactly right.

Advice I wish I’d had, or taken, years ago.

Things I wish I’d known earlier about desperation, hunger, confidence, and rejection.