Musing

The season of skirts, yoga pants, and bare legs — and a meditation on the pleasures of the male gaze that tries, at least, to be honest about itself.

I stole this idea shamelessly from Cammie: what makes me sexy. I led with my weaknesses, because that felt right. Then I got to the good stuff.

What gets me hard isn’t your body — it’s knowing you need me to do what I’m about to do to it.

I’m told I’m intimidating. This always amuses me. What’s intimidating you isn’t me — it’s what’s inside of you that I touch.

Your voice matters more than your face, your body, any of it. I keep trying to articulate why, and I’ll keep failing, and I’ll keep trying.

My superpowers include orgasmic control, cunnilingus, and doing anything other than what I probably should be doing.

At a party, I posed a question about double penetration to my namesake. He walked away. An old friend, though, was happy to debate the point.

Before the internet, there were personal ads — and a horny teenage SWNRJM, 17, spent hours poring over them, hunting for evidence that some woman, somewhere, might want him.

I have no idea if I have herpes. I’ve never had an outbreak. But I assume I’ve been exposed. You should assume the same, I imagine….

Can it really be that polyamory sits exactly halfway between cowboy and missionary on the religiousness scale?