Memory or fantasy?

My hand lifts you by your crotch; my other hand pushes you down. You hinge forward at the hips, ready for whatever may come next.

A scavenger hunt, of sorts, beginning at Grand Central and ending in Room 1402.

Seven sexual wishes for the new year — some more likely than others.

An infinite line of women, infinite stamina, and not a single act of intercourse. It’s my fantasy — I’m allowed to be selfish.

Sometimes, bossing people around gets exhausting. Sometimes, you just want to kneel.

L concedes our contest, but not without first turning my Twitter feed into porn set in an Applebee’s.

I direct her from across a crowded hotel lobby, texting instructions while businessmen in khakis steal glances at what they can’t have.

A piano player, a dark bar, a plane ticket, and a pair of panties balled up in my pocket.

She sounded too good to be true, and there’s no such thing as that good on Craigslist.