Musing

Politics, sex, sexting, and the question of just how fond of one’s penis is too fond.

A loyal reader’s compliment sends me down a predictable rabbit hole: am I endlessly self-reflective, or just endlessly self-absorbed?

Sex is my breath: endlessly complex, always with me, and not really about enjoyment.

The best moans are the ones you’re trying to suppress.

Porn gets blowjobs wrong, and I have opinions about how.

Fucking isn’t the point. The sentence is more interesting than the period at the end of it.

What excites me isn’t nudity — it’s the distance between clothed and nude, and the slow, deliberate closing of that distance.

Men have the ability to supercharge a sexual adventure, and they have the ability to shrivel my dick. The psychology of both is more similar than you might think.

I love your breasts the way they are. Please don’t change them.

My cock’s in Mary-Anne’s mouth, but my mind’s on Jeff. What’s that about?