Musing

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.

I never do anything so straightforward as simply wanting.

I re-read my own blog, and I liked it. But narcissism is more complicated than vanity — especially when your self-esteem hinges on whether you’re wanted, and how much, and by how many.

A meditation on the near-impossibility of the no-strings blowjob for the average married man.