Love is a deception and a trap. Love is as big a myth that God sits with his flowing white beard in a throne and looks at us.

Married life is an existence with bars around it.

Married sex is like being awake during your own autopsy. It is root canal work without anesthetic.

Our photographs are filthier and our stories are more disgusting. We make no effort to be artistic.

Our stock in trade is raw, flailing sex.

I am not a prisoner of my sexuality like men younger than myself although I write about being a prisoner.

When every piece of furniture and your underwear are taken by the bank, when you lose your house in Florida, in New York, in Amsterdam and L.A., when your wife is dying and your son abandons you, you don't feel very good.

You need fighters like me to battle, because frankly The New York Times and the Washington Post are not going to fight the fights that I do.