Strip clubs

My origin story, retold — how lap dances, fear of rejection, and an endless appetite for contact sent me down a path I’m still mapping.

I like them all — except the silicone ones.

How I got from there to here, in fewer than a thousand words.

Liza asked me about cheating. I wince at the word — it reduces something sprawling and tragic to a single dimension of betrayal, when what I did was something far worse: I led a secret, double life.

L tells me I’m not very sympathetic, and I want to understand why — even as I suspect the answer is staring back at me from every post on this blog.

So many ways to spend an evening together. The hard part is choosing.

Strip clubs are like shrines to a notion of male desire that is almost completely unappealing to me.