Post

I hate the word “consent,” even as I wholeheartedly endorse the concept behind it.

Is it just me, or is everyone suddenly carrying their dogs in bags?

A man I met in 1991 — homeless, hustling, gay, disowned — is still alive, still homeless, twenty-two years later. He awes me.

My cock gets hard, and I know I’m alive. There are other ways to remember, but none quite so convincing.

I have things to say. I just can’t figure out how to say them.

A few days late, but Sofia more than makes up for it.

My cock knew I was getting sick before the rest of me did.

Sometimes that’s all there is to say.

Tinder kicked me off, and I’m left with more women than I can handle and less appetite than I’d have predicted.

It’s not what you think. It’s the damned cappuccino.