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I’m getting two new knees in my 50s, and I’m terrified.

Three small scotches in, sad and tipsy at the bar, cataloguing the women on either side of me.

I can’t find a trace of sex in how she dresses – and that itself has my full attention.

P emailed again, and my heart leapt again – like it always does, like an idiot.

Kelly green bike shorts, a high braid, and suddenly I’m riding faster than I meant to.

I hate shopping – so I built myself a scotch price-checker and a lingerie aggregator instead.

I used to check my answering machine ten times a day. It was never about being important.

Every time a woman sends me a photo, my heart leaps – and I stop believing there’s something wrong with me.

You still owe me a blowjob. I’ve decided a summons suits me better than a collection notice.

I can’t take my eyes off the tiny blonde at Crunch. Every line I could open with sounds creepy — so I say nothing.