My story

It wasn’t the sex I was addicted to — it was the endless, shimmering promise of it, glowing on screen after screen.

I sat in the dark for hours, waiting for a woman to make me come to life again. Then I’d scurry home and pretend I’d never been there.

When you’re paying, you can never quite know what’s real — and neither, it turns out, can she.

Some thoughts about sex addiction.

A granular deconstruction of the ritual of visiting massage parlors — from the craving, to the wave of inevitability, to the Blackberry full of taxonomies.

Bad science, good questions, and the hottest sexual experience I can remember — one I wish I could forget.

T’s ass looks great in denim shorts. But that doesn’t tell you very much about her.

One of the loneliest parts of my secret life was all the interesting shit I couldn’t talk about with T.

This blog creates a distorted picture of me as a hypersexual free agent. The truth is far more complicated, and far more interesting, and it starts with T.

The Craigslist ad that started it all — a little self-knowledge, a lot of squats, and two trainers later, I’m in the best shape of my life.