Musing

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.

Self-appointed moral vigilantes threaten to expose millions, as if adultery were simple and cheaters all deserved the same punishment. It’s a sad story driven by pain, and it’s only going to get worse.

Are there non-sexual parts of women’s bodies? I’m not aware of them.

A catalog of my features, physical and otherwise — offered with appropriate ambivalence.

Some people just ooze sex….

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*.