Musing

A taxonomy of sexual commitment — what we promise, what we pretend, and what we actually mean.

Steve Martin’s “The Cruel Shoes,” and why I’d rather see a woman in flats than in heels.

You thought I was talking about oral sex? No — I’m talking about how it feels to have a hot woman shampoo your hair.

My cock is hungry, and there’s no word for the sensation — not quite an ache, not quite an itch, not quite restlessness, but something insistent and entirely its own.

My brain would rather be anywhere but here — planning dinner, rehearsing catastrophes, fantasizing — as if the present moment were the one place it can’t bear to stay.

At the holidays, the marital bed gets crowded — and not in the fun way.

I don’t love the words, but I sure love the act. A meditation on the inadequacy of language.

I eat your pussy because I’m hungry, not because I’m generous.

The massage parlor offers certainty. The bar offers something better, but almost certainly not.

Two principles I try to remember: it’s almost always more useful to ask what *we* did than what *you* did, and more useful to think about what *I* can change than what *you* should.