Sex addiction

I don’t call myself a sex addict, though others seem happy to do it for me. A fellow blogger asks whether her own obsessive thinking about sex makes her one too — and I have some thoughts.

Lust is like TV: it can educate, divert, or rot your soul. The trick is knowing which channel you’re on.

My evolving opinions on a diagnosis that doesn’t actually exist.

The getting feels better than the having — and that realization explains more about me than I’m entirely comfortable with.

The question of whether sex addiction is real is less interesting than what we’re really asking when we ask it.

Michael Fassbender’s soulless, brilliant performance yanks my heart out — it captures so much of what I remember from that time in my life.

A man’s inarticulate defense of rape led me to a more honest reckoning with the frustration of sex scarcity — one that justifies nothing, but that nearly every straight man has felt.

Need help with time management? Hire an addict. We juggle more logistics before breakfast than most people do all week.

A dreaded task, a hard cock, and the rabbit hole between them.

My thinking about sex addiction is evolving — the neuroscience is more interesting, and the sex addiction industrial complex more bankrupt, than I previously understood.