To compensate for my lateness, I make up (she makes up) in quantity:
A week or so ago, I found myself oddly feeling asexual. Like, my cock barely felt there. After a day or so, I began to notice that it felt like… sort of like it feels when I’m sick, when I have a fever, when I’m so distracted by the rest of my body that my cock is irrelevant. And then, bang. The fever hit. My head was reeling, I was sweating, shivering, not eating. It’s been a few days now, and I’m still not better. But it’s worth noting that my cock is, ever-so-slightly, twitching to life. (Thank you, Sofia, for helping with that.)
Feel like shit.
I feel a bit like a novice surfer just back from a trip to Hawaii: exhausted, overwhelmed. I need a break from surfing.
Over the summer, I discovered Tinder, and the wave of women rapidly crested. There was the Amazon, Luna, the Rockette. There was Rose, and Penelope. There were other women, including not a few who stand ready to suck my cock, but whom I haven’t yet been able to make time for.
And then, a few weeks ago, Tinder booted me. There had been a brief booting just a week or two after I joined, but this time, it seems to be for good (unless someone tells me how to get around their phone verification thing, which I simply can’t seem to do).
So Tinder’s gone.
No more swiping right on hundreds and hundreds of beautiful women, no more idly reminding myself of all the women I might fuck. I’m back to life before Tinder, where the only way I met women is through my blog and, to a lesser extent, through OKCupid. I’ve never, as I’ve written, been one to pick women up. Somehow, that’s a skill/aptitude/interest I never really mastered. I’m good at making small talk with women, but the way my respect for women works, it never feels like a good idea for me to attempt to transition from platonic small talk to sexual banter.
So here I am, with an unprecedently long list of women eager to suck my cock, and… and… I feel a bit overwhelmed, like… I need a break.
I never could have predicted, or imagined, that there’d come a moment when I’d suspend my policy, when I’d feel so overwhelmed that I’d be virtually hiding from the women interested in me. But here I am.
I’ll explore more of this in the coming days, but it’s intriguing to me.
I just figured out why I have a recurrent blister on the tip of my tongue. It’s the damned sip hole in the top of the large skim cappuccino (or “venti non-fat cappuccino,” as the baristas want me to call it – I refuse). It directs the piping hot liquid directly to the tip of my tongue.
Public transportation is great. It feeds me, even when I’m not hungry.
Today, I was graced, first, by an olive-skinned, almond-eyed beauty with long, silky, black hair, full c-cup breasts, pouty lips, a form-fitting green cotton minidress, and flat sandals. She kept giggling – very sexy – while reading Douglas Adams – even sexier.
And, at the same time, by another olive-skinned babe, this one middle eastern, not Asian. She wore a tight white cotton v-neck t-shirt, the “v” plunging to about nipple level on her small b-cups, revealing not so much cleavage as a vast and lonely space between the curves of her smallish breasts. Her hair, black, full, was more of a mane than a head of hair: her face – sad – peeked out from the mane, occupying at best a third of the horizontal line drawn from edge to edge of hair. Her jeans – dark, tight – seemed new, and though not at all fat, her belly spilled out just a bit over the top. I hope her day brings her good things, that her sad look disappears.
And then, an elegant, subcontinental woman, angular face, black and white silk dress, hugged her purse while checking me out. I, blinded by the other two, only noticed as I arrived at my destination.
You knew I was a geek, right?
Well, the last couple of weeks, lots has been going on in my life. Little in “N” land, but lots in the life of that other guy, the guy for whom N is an alter ego. Nothing bad, all good.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been a bit… quiescent… as N. I haven’t been on any dates in a bit. I do have a backlog of tales to tell you, including one of a night with Rose on which I restrained her wrists and ankles and made her say her safe word over and over and over and came in her mouth and in her cunt, and one of a night with the Rockette – the first in quite a while – on which I introduced her to the pleasures of Le Trapeze – pleasures by which she was at least slightly underwhelmed (she had, I think, highly specific expectations/hopes which weren’t met).
But backlog notwithstanding, I’ve been, as I said, quiescent. I’ve been neglecting Sofia. I’ve been neglecting my readers here. I’ve just been doing, well, other stuff. Stuff that’s not so dissolute.
And it got me to thinking: I started this blog nearly three years ago, in a frenzy of writing. I wondered, “What has my volume of writing looked like since I started this blog?” And, well, me being me, I thought I’d make a chart.
I have presented the answer to that question – not in words, but in posts per month – below, graphically, without further comment (of mine).
I’m a lucky guy. My summer features lots of family time, lots of vacation, lots of leisure.
I’m traveling for the last time this summer, visiting another country, another culture.
I’m exhausted. Summer’s been phenomenal, but long. My summer ends, structurally, in about nine more days. ‘Til then, I expect I may well be somewhat scarce.
Or not. You never know with me. But for the next few days, for sure….
All of which is to say, just ‘cause I’m not writing here doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you. I hope your (northern hemisphere) summer has been good, and is ending happily.