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I want to hand my kid my phone without him stumbling on my OKCupid app, my sexts, or my selfies. Is that so much to ask?

A running index of my thoughts on whether sex addiction is real, and whether I have it.

I like looking at people, and Penn Station gives me a way to do it blatantly, unapologetically.

Your mouth has one purpose. It’s not speaking.

Neighborhood swinging, birthday party gossip, and the rules of the club — explained over grilled chicken, with a two-year-old on someone’s knee.

A woman on the street stops me in my tracks.

Three women, one room, and work I’m not getting done.

Everything you have is mine. Shall we?

Where am I supposed to look when she crosses her legs?

Apologies for all the technical difficulties. Please let me know if anything looks off.