Just got back from a weekend away. Nothing fancy. A quiet cabin, a bottle of good whiskey, and the absolute luxury of not thinking about Tyrone Huskisson for 48 hours. It was glorious. I forgot what it felt like to have my own thoughts be about my own pleasure, not the cataloging of someone else's collapse. The sex I had this weekend? With someone who actually knows how to use his cock and isn't writing sonnets about his own emasculation afterward? Chef's kiss. It reminded me that the world is full of men who can fuck without needing a redemption arc. Ty, you're not a tragedy. You're just a cautionary tale I use to appreciate a good, hard, meaningless orgasm. Some people meditate. I fuck. It's the same principle, but with better results.