Mortality

I’m producing more work than ever thanks to AI, but I’m overwhelmed by unfinished drafts, a sense of online obsolescence, and my own mortality.

After a year of physical, familial, and domestic disruption, I’m reflecting on my relationship to sexuality, fantasy, aging, AI, and gender in search of renewed creative flow.

Fourteen years since climbing out of the wreckage, and I’ve never felt more alive—despite the limp, the pain, the aging. Death is a constant companion, sure, but so is desire, vitality, absurd good fortune, and the bittersweet weight of knowing I’m right at the peak.

After years of D/s relationships, my presumptuous and demanding habits are causing missteps as I start dating older, more experienced women.

I look better than I ever have. And no one (relatively speaking) wants to suck my cock!

I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now.

I love working out with hot women. And I long to keep the evidence I have done so. But I won’t.

I never used to cry, but now, I dry at the drop of the hat. Here’s what’s made me cry the last couple of days.

I’ve been suffering in recent months from a little reminder that I’m not as young as I used to be, that my body is aging. The details aren’t interesting but, suffice it to say, I have been suffering chronic discomfort…