Williamsburg, Virginia: 1981 I see the man’s eyes light up from the park’s far end, as my feet kick up whorls of dust from runnels of wheat...

I was a slut in college. I admit it up front. There’s no shame in slutting. The undergraduate years are ripe for experimentation, and if we...

I think I’ve mentioned before in these pages that during my college career I managed to have sex with the entire faculty of the French depar...

One morning last week I was in a terrible mood. Oh, it doesn’t matter why. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure I really remember. But it was...

(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part Three .)  After that trip in the early spring of 1983 which his car broke down outside a histo...

(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part Two .) Over the several months I was seeing M. J. , the professor I’d picked up in the cam...

(This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part One .) The first thing I found out from Professor Washington—M.J.—on our date was that he and ...

His name sounded like a weighty bludgeon of patriotic shout-outs: Franklin Madison Jefferson Washington. To me, he was always M.J. I met h...