Musing

On the evolution of my fucking technique, from passive to aggressive — and the semicolons along the way.

Checking into an hourly hotel is a strange act of mutual acknowledgment.

Some things are best worked out in private, even by a guy with a sex blog.

The line between privacy and secrecy is thinner than any of us would like to believe, especially when you’re a parent.

Life isn’t fair, my grandmother reminded me. In this dissolute life, I’d rather it be interesting.

Not looking at beauty made me think about it far more than looking at it ever did.

Recovery got me sober, but sobriety wasn’t quite the point.

A testament to just how straight I am.

My problem was never sex. It was the elaborate edifice of deceit I constructed around it.

Two words that will pretty much guarantee I don’t want to fuck you.