There that is again, from Babycakes by Armistead Maupin. And it’s about? I’m working through what it is not to have someone I cared for — very much and still do but don’t understand where that will land me — as a part of my life, when that life included things like going to orgies, having strangers tell us how beautiful and in love with another we were as we made love right next to them, and then talking about that on the internet. (And under our real names. And in an audience of our other lovers.)

I don’t know. There’s no dating column answer for that and there never should be. So until then I’ll pitch a book, still read Gawker as a guilty pleasure, and fuck around and cry like always when I write about dicks.