Musing

James Deen is pretty much my sexual role model. But I have some notes.

What I mean when I write “I fucked her face” is usually a lot more gentle — and a lot more complicated — than it sounds.

I didn’t choose my type, and I can’t will it away — but I wish I could.

The perils of being a slut who writes about it: everyone feels special to me, but the blog makes everyone look the same.

A guy at the gym paid me a compliment, and it made my day.

Guilty as charged: I’m a fetishist of lists. Here are two.

Writing has replaced paying for sex as my compulsive, stolen-moments fix. Shame is my disease; exposure, my antidote.

Her voice undoes me more than her body ever could.

My voice is just too identifiable — and Google’s getting smarter every day.

Violet Blue said what I meant, but much more better.