Writing

I seem to have a gift for giving offense where none was intended — and I’m not done yet.

Illness, recovery, and the slow return of desire — for sex, for writing, for being myself.

I want to know what you want to read.

I direct her from across a crowded hotel lobby, texting instructions while businessmen in khakis steal glances at what they can’t have.

The Historian sent me her journal entries from our weekend in Miami. The fucking was hot, but the feelings were hotter.