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A reader asks me to guide her toward sexual self-discovery. I offer something a little different.

Tinder has suspended me again, mid-conversation with a handful of matches, and I hate being the guy who just disappears.

A woman on Tinder appreciates my… specificity.

A Ladino love song, a massage parlor in Soho, and the particular eroticism of a woman in green camouflage pants.

Sometimes three words are all you need.

A beautiful woman’s gaze on a street corner — forward, warm, unreadable.

The first time is always the best time. At least, in my imagination.

She never once tripped the wire of my fragile desire, and now she’s gone.

Consent, legalized.