Musing

Psychoanalytic theory, Oban, and the fragility of romance.

Lilly LaFosse got me thinking about what I think while you’re sucking my cock. It turns out, it’s complicated.

The list of those to whom I owe amends is long, and I can’t undo the past — but I can try to improve on it.

T had a date. I stayed home, meditated, and sat with the ugly progression of emotions that followed.

Blood doesn’t bother me. Tampon strings, on the other hand, are a different story entirely.

I was raised in shame, and lived most of my life there. I’m finding my way out, slowly.

When I wrote this discussion of a GQ profile of Deen, we didn’t know him to be a rapist. Or at least, a poor handler of a rape accusation.

Before I tell you about the boat, T and I need to negotiate what our son might one day read — and somehow that leads to the word “Daddy,” Oedipus, and my mother.

People always want to label themselves: swinger, poly, kinkster, slut. I hate labels.

I threw S under the bus, and she called me on it. Now I’m earning her trust back, one picture at a time.