Musing

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.

Illness, recovery, and the slow return of desire — for sex, for writing, for being myself.

Wet hair, rubber boots, and dishevelment, generally.

In which I decide that maybe, just maybe, taking non-consensual photos of people might be problematic. Thanks to the thoughtful comments of readers of this blog.

My first impulse, when I learn I’ve hurt someone, is narcissistic: I’m less upset about the pain I caused than about being perceived as wrong.

What I really missed wasn’t sex — it was seduction.

Acceptance has gotten me further than communication or compromise ever did.

Not the sex tips you’ll find everywhere else — these are for people trapped in shame, not people looking to spice things up in the bedroom.

Letting go of L, and envying her ability to let go of me.