Musing

On Tinder, I lead with something vaguely suggestive and slightly funny — and I mean every formulaic word of it.

My three approaches to swiping on Tinder, from mindless to attentive — none of which, it turns out, makes much difference.

For me, anger is never primary. It’s always protecting me from something else — usually fear.

Facebook killed my fake identity, and with it, my Tinder life. Won’t you be my friend?

Shame lives in my body — hot, constricting, brutal. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

I ask a lot. I give a lot. It’s not complicated.

I’ve written a lot about being rejected, but what about when I’m the one doing the rejecting? It happens less often than you’d think, and more awkwardly than I’d like.

The things I want from the women in my life are remarkably consistent, and that consistency can feel, to each of them, like a diminishment.

An honest, detailed account of my cock — its size, its curve, its virtues, and what I’ve come to understand about all of the above.

The complicated power of two little words I can type but can barely bring myself to say.