Wicked Wednesday

She refused to name herself. I refused to let her off the hook. I named her Tamora, and she can take it up with me while my cock’s in her mouth.

A twelve-year-old boy, a closet, a cousin with breasts, and the indelible shame of getting caught — plus some thoughts on what we owe the teenage boys who do creepy things.

Three rejections in one day, and I went to a coffee shop instead of a massage parlor.

I didn’t give the Rockette what she expected — I smiled, I asked questions, I insisted on consent — and then I left her bruised, sore, and a little scared of me.

A brief meeting, a direct question, and an unsurprising disappointment.

A woman at a conference, chewing gum, selling to dentists’ offices, in linen pants that hug her slightly big but unquestionably delicious ass.

The question isn’t whether the orgasms are real, but whether the sounds are performed — and whether that distinction even matters.

Designed by addiction researchers, populated by women whose clits throb at lunch — Tinder may be my dream app.

A fan letter to a porn star I admire — for her work, yes, but even more for her words.

A half-baked, possibly quarter-baked, idea about crowdsourcing accountability for rapists.