Jul 262015
 

For reasons, we’ve been a bit less in touch lately. But the other day, she sent me a scorching video, one I don’t have permission to share with you, but which, nonetheless, I feel compelled to tell you about.

It begins with her in a light green tank top and a pink thong, on her bed, in soft lighting. She kneels, facing the camera, and her pretty nipples poke through the soft fabric of the tank top. FUCK. She starts the camera rolling….

She leans on the bed with her left hand, and with her right, she begins at her thigh, and caresses, slowly, up, over her rib, her breast, and then down to her nipple. Both of her hands start moving now, caressing her thighs, in unison. She leans forward toward the camera, again, using her left hand to stabilize herself, and her right hand starts to move toward her pussy.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

At this point, my hand is on my cock, through my jeans shorts, and it’s getting hard. I stroke, slowly, slowly, but gripping it firmly.

Sofia teases the inside of her thigh a bit, neglecting her cunt (for now?), but coming closer, and closer, to it. I know her pussy, and I know that it’s wet under those pastel pink panties. My cock is throbbing, and I’m stroking harder, faster.

Damn.

Her hand travels up, past her pussy, toward her breast. She briefly pauses at her nipple. Is she going to pinch it? I don’t know. I don’t know that I care. I just want to see what she gives me. At this point, whatever she gives me is just fine with me. My cock aches. Seriously. Aches.

I’m just twenty-five seconds into the video at this point, you should know. It’s six minutes long. At about four minutes, the tank top comes off. At five, she reaches under her panties and starts playing with her pussy. At about five and a half, I come, explosively, all over the place.

I really, really like having Sofia to entertain me.

Jul 262015
 

“When you start to drift into a situation where you might make bad choices, you stop and meditate?  I understand the value of daily, routine prayer or meditation, but I guess I don’t see the connection to things that occur randomly throughout the day.

A very benign example is that commuting to and from work, my mind is free and I think of all sorts of things that need to happen.  But between the garage door opening and walking in the door, or parking in the lot and getting to my desk, I involuntarily purge my brain of everything I was just thinking of, and go off in a frequently completely different direction from what i know needs to be accomplished.

Could you explain how meditation links into that?”

This e-mail has been sitting in my inbox for a week. I generally respond to e-mails much more quickly than that. But this one, I haven’t responded to. I could think about why. It’s been a busy week, sure. I’ve not done much writing this week, sure. But why? Why have I sat on this question?

First, I suppose, is the first line of the e-mail, a statement, but rendered a question by virtue of punctuation. Yes, I suppose, that’s my goal. When I “drift into a situation where [I] might make bad choices,” I hope to stop and meditate. And I often do. Not always, of course. I’m human. I’m not immune to bad choices. But yes, that’s my goal.

When I’m in one of those situations, one in which I might “make bad choices,” inevitably (in my case) what’s happening is that there’s some feeling, some affect, I’m experiencing that I want to escape. “Bad choices” is code for “doing something that lets me not feel what I’m feeling.” Meditation, on the other hand, is “paying attention to what I’m feeling.”

The person who wrote this e-mail gives a great description of dissociation – the act of separating one’s actions in the moment from one’s notion of selfhood. This is at the heart of many of my “bad choices.” Meditation is incompatible with dissociation. It’s the opposite of dissociation. It’s rooting one’s actions deep in the experience of one’s selfhood.

I don’t know if this is comprehensible. (I’m two scotches in as I write this.) But here’s the crux of the issue for me: bad choices = not feeling; meditation = feeling.

Jul 252015
 

I first wrote about New York’s oldest sex club over three years ago, and I’ve returned maybe a dozen times, maybe more, since my first visit. In the time since my first visit, the club hasn’t changed at all, but I have, quite a bit.

When I first went, my mind was filled with fantasies – that it’d be filled with beautiful naked people, that my visits there would be incredibly hot, orgiastic experiences, that dozens of women would suck my cock, that it would be pure, Dionysian ecstasy. That’s not, at all, how it went.

Le Trapeze is dark, it’s skeevy, it’s raunchy, the people are diverse in every way, and, by and large, the sex there is very conventional. Couples have sex there, and sometimes they swap partners. Once in a while, there’s a threesome or a foursome.

The sheets can be wet. The porn sucks. The crowd often features men in their 70s with prostitutes in their 20s.

And still… I keep going back.

Why?

I think, in the end, that I go back for two very different reasons:

1) I like accompanying women to the edge of their comfort zones, and just beyond.

2) I like being in an atmosphere that is all. about. sex.

I don’t find it particularly hot. I often have a hard time getting, keeping, it up while I’m there. I don’t have a craving to be seen when I’m licking your pussy, or when you’re sucking my cock. I don’t particularly get off seeing others have sex.

Mainly, I find it interesting. I like seeing other people have sex. Not in the same way that I like looking at porn. Porn gets me hard. I jerk off to porn. No, I like seeing other people have sex because somewhere, deep in my soul, I have the notion that sex is bad. And in a place like Le Trapeze, sex isn’t bad. It’s everything.

Jul 222015
 

Ashley Madison exists because of people’s problematic relationship to monogamy.

Jul 222015
 

An older man, late sixties, pushing a grocery cart filled with detritus, wearing thick glasses, missing a few teeth, shoddily dressed, stopped me.

“Excuse me, sir?”

I stopped. I thought he was going to ask me for change. I’m generous with my change.

“Yes?”

“Does women get Alzheimer’s?”

This question has been in the news. I heard the same story about it twice last night as I cycled through “All Things Considered.”

“Yes,” I said. “More than men. Two-thirds of people with Alzheimer’s are women. And they get our younger, and deteriorate faster,” I said. I learned this all last night.

“Wow!” he said. “I was just wondering, does women get Alzheimer’s!”

He looked at his stuff.

“Thanks, man!” he said, sounding truly grateful, and pushed his cart away.

Jul 202015
 

So this just happened. Ashley Madison’s servers have been hacked, and some self-appointed moral vigilantes stand poised to embarrass thousands and thousands of people who’ve paid for Ashley Madison memberships.

I don’t have an enormous amount to say here, except to quote from the hackers’ own communications: they write:

Avid Life Media has been instructed to take Ashley Madison and Established Men offline permanently in all forms, or we will release all customer records, including profiles with all the customers’ secret sexual fantasies and matching credit card transactions, real names and addresses, and employee documents and emails. The other websites may stay online…. Too bad for those men, they’re cheating dirtbags and deserve no such discretion. Too bad for ALM, you promised secrecy but didn’t deliver. We’ve got the complete set of profiles in our DB dumps, and we’ll release them soon if Ashley Madison stays online. And with over 37 million members, mostly from the US and Canada, a significant percentage of the population is about to have a very bad day, including many rich and powerful people.

I don’t imagine that my thoughts on this are particularly surprising. I’m not sympathetic to the aims of the hackers, which seem to be to impose their morality on me (and you, and everyone else). I’m not sympathetic to their tactics, which are both illegal and cruel. I am sympathetic to the (presumably significant number of) people who fear being exposed, whether to their spouses, or to their bosses, friends, extended families, and so on.

But let me say this, too: this seems to be an act driven by pain. Whoever did this has felt badly betrayed and seeks redress not from the person or people who betrayed them, but from all of those who might be guilty of the same violation. I feel for the hackers’ pain, even if I deplore their actions. And, their misogynist (and inaccurate) assumption that the only cheaters on AM are (were?) men. I myself have had two or three delightful encounters via AM – one, with a single woman, and one, with a woman pondering whether to leave her relatively un-serious boyfriend.

Even if you believe that all “cheaters” deserve to be exposed (which I don’t), it’s worth remembering that not all who advertise on Ashley Madison are cheaters. And, that there are infinite gradations of “adultery.” There are those of us who do it with our spouses’ full knowledge and approval. There are those who do it with tacit approval. There are those who do it believing they have approval, but who are mistaken. There are those who do it dissociatively, unaware on many levels what they are doing is cheating.

A reductive approach to morality serves no one well, and this is a sad story – one that’s only going to get worse.

Jul 182015
 

She’s 5’6″, only a foot from me. Her cheeks are wide and her cheekbones are high, an improbable striking combination.

Her curly blonde hair is held up by a pair of pink and black cheap plastic sunglasses. A black lacy tank/camisole is strained by her C-cup breasts, and hugs her belly tight beneath them.

Her jeans, tight, begin about a centimeter after the cami ends.

Her eyes are pale green, big, and her lips are pursed in serious thoughts as she writes frantically in a little old-school journal.

I wish she’d look up.

Jul 182015
 

Which do you prefer: restraints or blindfolds?”

Um, both? Each is immeasurably better with the other. Restraints, though, are more work to implement, unless they’re the under-the-bed kind, and you’re in my bed. Which you’re not, and won’t be, unless you’re one person in particular.

Workarounds – like makeshift or portable cuffs – are fun, but they’re entirely different from full-on restraints, which, done right, immobilize you perfectly. And with the right woman? There’s no beating them.

I love fighting a writhing woman with no weapon other than my tongue.

Blindfolds are, definitionally, more of a psychic than a physical tool. They change one’s mental experience dramatically, with only a minimum of physical impact.

Together? Yum. (And add earphones with loud music for full-on sensory deprivation.)

What’s on your sexual bucket list?

People. Most, but not all, of whom I’ve had sex with before.

Jul 162015
 

Today, I want to watch you.

I want you to stand before me. I want to see you turn around, and show me your pretty ass, to bend over a little, placing your hands flat against a wall as you look back over your shoulder at me, as you lick your lips lasciviously. I want you to lift your dress just high enough for me to get the briefest glimpse of your panties, of your thighs as they meet at your cunt.

I want you to turn around to face me, slowly. To lift your dress again, to show me the front view of your thighs and pussy under your panties. (They’re bright white, cotton, today.) I want you to slide your hand under your panties and dip a finger into your cunt for me, to feel whether you’re wet (you are). I want you to touch your clit for just a moment, to bring your finger up to your mouth – no, to my mouth – so I can lick your sweet, salty cunt off of it.

And then, I want you to fix your eyes on mine. I will stroke my hard, hard cock, under my jeans, slowly, determinedly, as you return your finger to your cunt, as you stroke your clit, as you finger yourself while, with your other hand, you keep your dress lifted just high enough to give me a good view of precisely how you touch yourself.

And oh, how you touch yourself!

I want to watch as you bring yourself off for me. Slowly. Slowly. Your eyes never leaving mine, even as your whole body shudders to a climax.

Thank you.