Musing

Two flavors of shame — and neither is better, neither is harder.

I imagined, for just a nanosecond, outing myself as non-monogamous to a table of straight professionals. The moment passed.

The getting feels better than the having — and that realization explains more about me than I’m entirely comfortable with.

A partial catalog of things I like, and a clue to my name.

A reminder I need, again and again.

The only destruction I hope to do is situational, welcome, perhaps metaphorical.

Fucking has never come naturally to me — it requires an aggression I’ve long kept at bay. Lately, though, something’s shifting.

I keep returning to the same dry well, hoping the people least capable of empathy will somehow deliver it.

When a woman shows interest in me, my body goes into overdrive — and my judgment disappears.

The question of whether sex addiction is real is less interesting than what we’re really asking when we ask it.