Musing

A love letter to pubic hair, and a plea for neatness.

Nine nights sharing a room with my son, and I’ve been saving my orgasm like a miser.

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.