Intimacy

I can’t take my eyes off the tiny blonde at Crunch. Every line I could open with sounds creepy — so I say nothing.

I’m surfing new relationship energy again, and the disappointments are half the thrill.

Gangbangs don’t turn me on. But I’ve been conjuring one for Margot, and I want a very particular seat at it.

Anything I buy for you belongs to me as long as we know each other. I can see you in what I get you when I want, and I’d prefer you not wear them with other men while we’re involved.

I can’t have this fantasy – Margot isn’t available unless I pay. So here are three versions of it anyway.

I reflect on a conversation with Margot about her unrealized fantasy of double penetration and a gangbang, realizing what excites me isn’t the act itself but the trust she’d place in me to keep her safe while curating such an evening — and the gratitude that might follow.

I experience connections as deep and real, but they end not in intentional closure but in disappearance. This is my compulsive repetition of courting and failing to avoid abandonment.

Tina has a voice like catnip and everything else going for her – but I asked her to wear something green, and she said she was busy.

I’m writing about Isabella, one of two women who taught me the most about my sexuality. She showed me my cock could be an object of desire, while the Secretary taught me my desire itself could be desired. I miss them both — not just for sex, but for the intimacy we shared.

I had intense and uneven sex with Saya after one of her parties, shaped by her exhaustion, my desire, and our ambiguous emotional entanglement.