Musing

In my moments of greatest pain, what I want isn’t sex — it’s sex I’m paying for. What the fuck is that about?

A retraction, a clarification, and an invitation.

Ten reasons, ranging from the noble to the narcissistic.

A manual, of sorts, inspired by Hyacinth, on keeping secrets, not being a dick, and defining success downward.

I used to crave rejection. Now I crave an endless supply of its opposite. Neither, it turns out, is available forever.

I used to hide behind your desires. Now I know what I want.

I know the sting of jealousy well, but I’m shockingly blind to the jealousy I inspire in others.

Tits or ass? Yes.

Club magazine, Playboy, and Color Climax: a prepubescent education in escalation — and the discovery that porn’s real function was never to satisfy hunger, but to activate it.

I struggle with what to do when I admire women’s beauty. Take a picture? Draw a picture? Write a paragraph? Seriously…. what’s a boy to do?