Musing

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.

There’s generous, open, compliant submission. There’s freely given, but somewhat reluctant, submission. And then there are bratty subs.

The Google searches I wish would lead you to me.

My wife worried I’d get sued. I did some reading. I’m pretty sure I’m fine—but I’d love a first-amendment lawyer to tell me I’m wrong.

Bear with me while I sort out the commenting situation.

The real turn-on isn’t the picture, the movie, the voicemail. It’s knowing you did as I asked.

I’m not submissive, but lately I’ve been curious. A Twitter spat with a right-wing operative got me thinking — and writing — things I’ll never post.