Musing

Septuagenarians, sexting, and the things women ask for that make me feel so hot to comply.

A wise man once told me that dominance and sadism are the same thing. I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but he’s smart enough that I can’t just dismiss him.

I call myself a slut, but the truth is more complicated — and more Groucho Marx than easy lay.

Guilt is narcissistic; shame is empathetic. And apologizing more than once is just enlisting you in my self-medication.

How does an otherwise honorable person lie, daily, to the person he loves most?

Dear Dan: you’re almost always right, except when you tell people to leave — because they’ll just find the same person again.

I’m supposed to like burlesque, but I don’t — it’s silly where it should be dirty, and clever where it should be transgressive.

I can’t get hard reading erotica by someone I can’t imagine fucking.

Jealousy, for me, boils down to the fear that I don’t exist — and that a woman holds the power to confirm it.

I seem to have a gift for giving offense where none was intended — and I’m not done yet.