Writing

A manual, of sorts, inspired by Hyacinth, on keeping secrets, not being a dick, and defining success downward.

I used to hide behind your desires. Now I know what I want.

An open letter to Hyacinth, on the surprising difficulty—and arousal—of trying to write someone wet from 1,500 miles away.

A blog crush, a challenge, and the promise of more.

A friend challenges me to stop using words of seven letters or more. I’m already failing.

You know what I choose to show you, and almost nothing else.

I’m not the only one at the public library with sex on my mind.

Just like a toddler, what I want isn’t to have — it’s to get.

Tell me what you like. Tell me what you don’t. Just hit the stars — no interaction required.

The encounters all read the same, but they don’t feel the same. That’s a writing problem, not a living problem.