Maggie McNeill

Hy and I swap blog recommendations again — this month, I’m drawn to the cold, almost sociopathic detachment of a john in Amsterdam, and to the sharp voices of sex workers writing about their own lives.

Even the name is smug — and wrong.

We men are like a kid running with scissors: irresponsible and dangerous.

I keep circling back to this one, because smart people I admire keep getting it wrong in the same way.

Yes, it was prostitution. I just don’t find that word particularly useful.

Hot, transgressive erotic fiction, and smart writing about writing about sex.

A raw, first-person account of life in a happy ending massage parlor — the polar opposite of yesterday’s recommendation.

A retired prostitute takes on Nick Kristof, and wins.