“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes. It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures

“Omnivore,” you ask, “where do you find all these kinky people to hurt and order around and do other perverted things with?” I laugh carelessly, lean back in my smoking jacket, and say, “Why, the Internets, of course!” Internet dating has been good to me. Craigslist played an instrumental part in my reclamation of my sexuality at

He was wearing the collar I bought him at the pet store, the one with the chain lead. I’d decided on chain at the last minute instead of leather. I hadn’t realized at the time how good the slick metal links would feel against the lips of my cunt, against my swollen clit as we

I was on my back and he was above me. I like to be on my back. It’s the way I masturbate most of the time, and it’s comfortable and suits me when I want to be a pillow queen. I reached up to lower the blinds, but he stopped me. “You don’t want your neighbors

It was even hotter in Boston than it had been in New York. My apartment was an oven, and the cat’s water bowl was empty. “Would you fill it up?” I asked, and leaned over the couch to open the window. “Just a sec,” he said, and pushed up my skirt. His hands were on my ass,

My head is still in a daze as I’m writing this. My houseboy came over and did some tidying for me. We really didn’t have enough time — ideally I like a good two to three hours of service and discipline at a time. The fault was all mine. I had a meeting downtown that

“What’s your safe word?” I asked him. I’d wrestled one of his hands in the cuffs but not the other. “I think you know when I don’t like it,” he replied. It’s true. I do. It’s just more work. It requires me to pay extra attention, to check in more often, to hold back… hmm, all

So there I am in bed, my arms drawn out to the sides cruciformly while my back rests on a pile of pillows which have been placed there by my wife. She’s carefully laid out a row of implements — a knife, alcohol swabs, cotton cleanup pads, and a Band-Aid or two. She

And so now the blog slides into disuse, growing dustier and more threadbare with each passing day. Why? Because we’re no longer two people having a passionate love affair while living a thousand miles apart. We’re two people living together, in cramped quarters with no privacy and a child about. Which means there’s

There was a time when my wife and I had a very codependent relationship. She did all of the work around the house and cooked and cleaned and I entertained my friends and played videogames and kvetched and complained whenever I’d get asked to do anything. I was the model slacker husband, the