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I loiter on her block, phone in hand, one eye on the screen and one on the passers-by, hoping for something I’ve agreed not to pursue.

’nuff said.

I need your mouth on my cock. Give me that, please.

I fear your desire, and I fear your desire for me, and my brand of dominance is a clever end-run around both.

She looked like a porcelain doll — red lips, red hair, pale skin. I thought we’d become friends. Turns out I’d only ever been a customer.

Some questions about Ashley Madison, vigilantism, terrorism, and the particular way my mind works.

A man on the street asked me a question, and I happened to know the answer.

Bras that are the color of skin should not exist.

I wish she’d look up.