One of the loneliest parts of my secret life was all the interesting shit I couldn’t talk about with T.

This blog creates a distorted picture of me as a hypersexual free agent. The truth is far more complicated, and far more interesting, and it starts with T.

Of course the sex party was in a synagogue. For this secular Jew, it felt like coming home.

Love is hard when four people are involved and only three of them are fine with it.

T and I find ourselves with rare, kid-free hours, and spend them in a tangle of laptops, oral sex, emailed fantasies, and the complicated arithmetic of compersion.

She wanted the offer, not the items on offer.

Checking the “bi-curious” box on a swingers site: half the men think you’re going to rape them, the other half wish you would.

The elaborate fictions I constructed to make sense of behavior that made no sense — brave explorer and pathetic loser, coexisting without reconciliation.

A night out with a new couple gets off to an inauspicious start.

The demimonde of pseudonymous sex blogging: simultaneous radical honesty and complete secrecy, and the strange discomfort of living as two authentic selves.