Artie was a fan of my writing before he became my friend, though “friend” isn’t really the right word. He seemed normal enough at the outset, “aspiring internet tastemaker” thing aside. He did it well enough to accumulate followers and bylines at over-hyped web publications. More importantly, he was getting paid for it — though who knows how much. Between whip-smart observations, he served up biting social commentary; I was so intrigued by his brevity and wit. I should’ve known things were going to get weird.

We Tweeted, corresponded by email, G-chatted and, after exchanging a fair number of texts, I agreed to meet up with him one night – I didn’t see any reason not to – I was bored and there wasn’t anything else going on.

He suggested I meet him for a drink in SoHo; a curious offer on his part, given he didn’t know what I looked like. 

Read the rest of The Problem With Being Earnest: The Great White Guilt on ThoughtCatalog.


Flashback Friday: Texts sent to me in the days following Hurricane Sandy.

As freeing as writing about my sex life online can be, sometimes I forget that the internet doesn’t offer much in the way of anonymity anymore. I am reminded of this fact when my lunch break is interrupted by the familiar chirp of my phone, alerting me that I have text message from an unknown number.

So I read your story about mw… it says.

I have to re-read the message a few times before I can make sense of it; I haven’t posted anything new to my blog in a while. Scrolling through my phone, I mentally check off the names of every person I’ve written about. Everyone I can think of is in my contacts list. Still unsure of which story my mystery texter is referring, I fire off the sassiest response I can muster:

How clever of me to write about someone whose # I don’t even know! Who is this? 

A response arrives within seconds: This is Rich.

I know too many people with the same names. Is it Rich, the construction worker I picked up off Craigslist Missed Connections? I doubt he started going by “Rich” instead of Dick—the outdated, old man nickname he told me he preferred—in the time since last we spoke.

 Another text: I said ‘mw’… not me. 

[“When Sexcapades Get Real by me for The Gaggle]


The idea of unintentionally “running across” emails from several years ago is laughable in & of itself… but texting me out of the blue, when you have a girlfriend, to talk about it? 

Your #thirst is too real, babe.


Clearly, I remained unconvinced.