Musing

My cock has a mind of its own — and in group settings, it’s especially uncooperative.

Liza asked me about cheating. I wince at the word — it reduces something sprawling and tragic to a single dimension of betrayal, when what I did was something far worse: I led a secret, double life.

I’ve been leaving something out of my writing, and several people have noticed.

I radiate not just pleasure but craving, not just pursuit but drivenness — and that can be a little scary.

L and her husband are finding their way through the complicated terrain of non-monogamy, and I miss her while they do.

It’s not the fear of losing her. It’s the fear of being rendered worthless by whoever I lose her to.

The paradox of paying for what you most want: it delivers the act but destroys the meaning.

L tells me I’m not very sympathetic, and I want to understand why — even as I suspect the answer is staring back at me from every post on this blog.

What would it be like to cede control, to let someone else direct the action? I’m not sure it turns me on, exactly, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

Sometimes not fucking someone is the most dominant thing you can do.