Musing

There’s really very little in life that doesn’t involve my actually touching a woman that turns me on more than my words arousing.

An elaborate fantasy involving oral sex, a dinner party, and Craigslist — and the humbling discovery that almost no one else wants what I want.

A review of last year’s sexual resolutions, and some new ones — sexual and not.

My confidence is a surprisingly reliable barometer of my mental health — and my proximity to old, dark habits.

Fragile male ego, professional hierarchies, and the long slide from smartest-person-in-the-room to peon at the base of a smaller hill.

Apparently, I underestimated how people would react if I questioned their monogamy. I won’t make that mistake again.

I think that if we compare the risks associated with sex to the rewards it brings us, we’ll find that we do a really poor job of decision-making.

In which I foolhardily attack other people’s monogamy. And their “monogamy.” By wondering just how many people who think themselves monogamous really are.

Am I a “sex addict”? Is there such a thing? Is it a meaningful term? One reader delights in calling me a sex addict. What do I have to say about it?

I have a casual attitude toward sexually transmitted infections. And, with one exception, during Bill Clinton’s first term, I’ve never had one.