Musing

What turns me on isn’t what she wants — it’s that she leaves the wanting to me.

Amnesty International moves toward supporting decriminalization, and the opponents tell you everything you need to know about why it’s the right call.

I loiter on her block, phone in hand, one eye on the screen and one on the passers-by, hoping for something I’ve agreed not to pursue.

I used to wear a suit every day, and I never once felt sexy in one — just a fraud in nice wool. Now I only wear them to weddings, funerals, and bar mitzvahs, and I’m happier for it.

Rejection stings worst when it echoes old wounds. My readers let me know I had my head up my ass, and they weren’t wrong.

Bill Cosby was a childhood hero of mine. I’m trying to figure out what to do with that now.

My body is reminding me I’m mortal, and my brain is responding in predictable, if unsettling, ways.

Bad choices equal not feeling. Meditation equals feeling. I’m two scotches in.

I keep going back to New York’s oldest sex club — not because it’s hot, but because somewhere deep in my soul I think sex is bad, and at Le Trapeze, sex is everything.

Monogamy is hard. Ashley Madison is easy.