Musing

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.

The women in my life come and go, and my mood rises and falls with them.

I always want more. That’s just how I roll.

For most of us, sex is neither a sacrament nor a handshake. It’s something more interesting than either.

My desire baffles me. E wants me, she doesn’t want me. My brain says run — but something deeper wants to convert her ambivalence into enthusiasm, even as I suspect I’m really just teeing myself up, again, for the crashing disappointment I secretly crave.

Sometimes sex is everything; sometimes it’s nothing. And sometimes I’m just wondering about everyone else’s.

A husband, a father, a slut, a blogger — but who am I, really, and does “always” ever mean what we think it does?

I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back to it from different angles — exhibitionism, pride, shame, sunlight, and the intellectual hard-on I get when something I write actually lands.

I like legs.