Marriage

Three questions, no simple answers, and the honest admission that hanging a flag doesn’t summon a gazillion great sex partners.

Snap judgments, Birkenstocks, and ostrich burgers: a date that was over before it started.

Psychoanalytic theory, Oban, and the fragility of romance.

T had a date. I stayed home, meditated, and sat with the ugly progression of emotions that followed.

White clothes, a river breeze, and twelve couples stripping down at a landmark.

Before I tell you about the boat, T and I need to negotiate what our son might one day read — and somehow that leads to the word “Daddy,” Oedipus, and my mother.

T’s ass looks great in denim shorts. But that doesn’t tell you very much about her.

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.