Nostalgia

I’m writing about Isabella, one of two women who taught me the most about my sexuality. She showed me my cock could be an object of desire, while the Secretary taught me my desire itself could be desired. I miss them both — not just for sex, but for the intimacy we shared.

I biked home from my 40th high school reunion feeling the same alienation I felt in high school — most of my actual friends weren’t there, and the crowd felt like a different world. I had a few genuinely connected conversations and skipped the after-party, choosing to bike in the night air, and my wife, and scotch, instead.

Meeting women has changed dramatically over the last 15 years — from mass-swiping Tinder to the blog attracting partners organically — and now all avenues have dried up.

I’m marking the 15th anniversary of my blog, a few months late. What began as exhibitionistic and therapeutic has become a memoir of my inner life through my fifties.

I’ve known V since 2011. We aren’t in touch, and I haz a sad.

Soon, I will be with Hope. I can’t fucking wait.

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.

Before the internet, there were personal ads — and a horny teenage SWNRJM, 17, spent hours poring over them, hunting for evidence that some woman, somewhere, might want him.