Mortality

I’m not old, but I’m definitely getting older.

My surprising strategy to fend off fears of death – mine or others – is to feel my cock grow hard.

Bill Cosby was a childhood hero of mine. I’m trying to figure out what to do with that now.

My body is reminding me I’m mortal, and my brain is responding in predictable, if unsettling, ways.

Sometimes all I want is to be hard — not to connect, not to come, but to counter a deadness deep within me with the undeniable sensation of being alive.

My body responds before my mind does, but thankfully, my mind wins every time — and it’s not virtue, it’s something deeper and darker that keeps me honest.

If my cock isn’t hard, I start to wonder if I’m still alive.

Life is good. Busy. Complicated. Challenging. Interesting. But good.

I don’t think people deserve to be killed for what they say. But I think people have a responsibility when they open their mouths, or pick up their pens.

Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death, and what I know about not being able to not.