by Rick Hogart The first time I noticed how hard I was working during sex, it wasn’t because my partner complained. It was because my brain sounded like a sweaty stage manager with a headset. Okay, okay, we’re doing great. Keep tempo. Keep pressure. Don’t lose the thread. Make sure she thinks you’re a god. What’s your face doing? Why is your face doing that. Meanwhile, my body was there, technically present, like a guy who showed up to help a friend move but keeps checking his phone and...

I was thirteen when my dad sat me down and told me how to get laid. Well, not in those exact words. He said something like: “Son, one day your nuts are gonna feel like they’re on fire. And when that day comes, I want you to have the tools to put ‘em out properly.” We were in the garage. He had that big yellow fan running, the one that sounded like a helicopter stuck in traffic. I was pretending to change a bike tire. He was drinking something, leaning back in a lawn chair like he was about to...

By Rick Hogart I once walked out of a hookup mid-makeout because someone tried to show me where her clit was. That’s it. That’s the opening. I wish I were joking. It was a few years ago. Her name was Tania, grew up in Portland, lived in Silver Lake, wore oversized sweaters even in summer. The first time I saw her, she was rolling a cigarette with one hand and balancing a Topo Chico in the other, arguing with a DJ about Kate Bush. We met at a rooftop birthday in Echo Park. She had this low,...