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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.

I’ve been hacked, and apparently I’m now in the payday loan business.