Jan 292015

I’ve been quiet, because I’ve been busy. Sometimes life demands that I put a slightly lower priority on feeding this particular beast, and the last stretch of time has been like that.

Here are a few tidbits of what’s been occupying the parts of my mind I most often write about here:

  1. How amazing my wife is. That is all. (Well, not all, but all for now.)

  2. Different types of women in my life, and the different things that motivate them in their interactions with me. (Attention from me, exhibitionism, visibility here on this blog, feeling special, feeling NOT special, orgasms, the sense of submission, and more.)

  3. The way sex and desire function in my life as a sort of counterweight to/denial of death.

  4. The ebb and flow of desire in my brain, in my cock.

  5. Tinder tropes – things that happen over and over there.

  6. And lots more.

I’ll write more soon. I promise. And to those of you who’ve expressed concern (it’s kinda nice that just a few days of silence elicits concern), thank you. I assure you – life is good. Busy. Complicated. Challenging. Interesting. But good.

Jan 252015

I’ve written about it.

I want it to happen.

A sea of women sucking my cock, me, licking their pussies. Playing with themselves, licking one another. Fingering, licking, sucking all over the place. Everyone, dressed (and undressed) as I instruct.

Are you in?

(No, seriously. Are you in?)

Continue reading »

Jan 242015

Direct talk:

If you want something from me, please ask me.

If you’re annoyed with me, please tell me.

If you want me to stop doing something, please tell me.

If you want me to keep doing something, please tell me.

Honestly: I respond really, really well to direct communication.


(And conversely? There is no surer way to lose me than with indirection.)

Jan 242015

to feel your throat yield as my thumb and forefinger – and the webbing between them – press into it.

I want to hear that lovely combination of moan and gasp as your breath is momentarily, just a little shockingly, constrained.

I want to know that, though we remain dressed, your pussy has just gotten much wetter.

I want to lift you just a little bit taller, using my thumb and my forefinger – and the webbing between them – yes, but also lifting you up by the expanse between your throat – your soft, yielding throat – and your chin. I want to use your jawbone to lift you up, just a little.

I want to scare you. Well, not exactly to scare you. But I want to surprise you, and to trigger the rush of adrenaline that you’ll feel throughout your body, but, especially, in your chest, and in your cunt, as you wonder – will I stop in time? Will I choke you too hard? Too much? Too long?

You trust me. You know the answers to all these questions, and it’s that – the fact that even as you know the answers to the questions, they’re still pulsing through you, dripping out of you – it’s that that makes you want, no, need, to give me precisely what I want.

May I have it, please?

Jan 242015

Her hair is reddish orange. Her eyes are brown, with enough flecks of orange to match her hair. Her face is pale, and has fewer freckles than you might expect, given just how red her hair is.

Her lips – thin – are perpetually lifted on her right side, just a little pursed.

She’s very pretty.

She wears dangling earrings with orange in them, and a beaded bracelet with lots of orange. Her cotton sweater, her nails, her lip gloss, her iPhone cover, and her Mac are all lavender.

She’s studying hard, stealing glances at me. She may have them.

Jan 242015

I’ve said it before: I don’t really like writing sex. The truth is, the actual sensual part of sex, the part where you suck my cock, where I lick your cunt, where I s-l-i-d-e my cock slowly into you, where I pound it into you, isn’t, at all, the most interesting part to me. The most interesting part is all the stuff that happens before-hand, and in our heads.

Recently, I had a date with Isabel. It was much-anticipated. We had had two previous abortive dates. We both were, um, ready. I had told her that I wanted her not to speak, when we met. That she was welcome to bring a note to me, and/or a notepad, and paper. She was, she told me later, concerned that this had been my attempt to shut her up, not to hear from her, to put distance between me and her. It wasn’t. At all. I thought it would be hot for her to be silent. (She likes to talk – whenever a woman does something she might not otherwise do, or doesn’t do something she might otherwise do, for me, that’s hot. So restricting her talking is hot – not because I don’t want to hear what she has to say, but because she wants to say much.)

I could tell you about the time we spent naked together, about the fucking, the licking, the sucking, the spanking, the fingering, the rubbing. But that’s never the best part of reading about my dates. (Not to say it’s not important. Here are the main, important things about the sex part: we spent about four hours together, of which 3 1/2 were spent naked, the first thirty minutes or so teasing, and the last thirty minutes or so talking. She came a bunch, I’m pretty sure. I came once.)

But instead of telling you about all that, I thought I’d share with you (most of) the notes she passed to me in the bar before we adjourned:

Thank you N.

Do you prefer I call you N or Nick? [I think I said, “N.”]

Thank you.

Why is that?


I was curious to know if you ever played this game before…. [Not per se. I’ve played with silence, and I did have one date with a woman whom I didn’t want to listen to, and so I forced her not to speak, just to write, but that wasn’t so much “hot” as “damage control.” In retrospect, I should have simply ended the date.]

It’s tough to be silent. Won’t you get bored w/ one-sided conversation?

Can I say “Thank you”?

I can’t write as fast as I think.


U told me. Ahh, ok. Really? I can’t correct you?

No comment.

Please N?

Is that ok to say? (Write, rather?)

Vedic. It’s like TM. Mantra.

I trust you.


That’s “we” in Italian. You’re close, by the way.

The last time we were here & I went home. I NEVER lost it. And I can’t fucking remember why my handwriting got so messy or when – what a waste of a sentence, and paper, and NOW I remember what I wanted to ask…. But maybe it’s not appropriate. So. I will put the cap on my pen and drink my drink and be ready to go….

And with that, she was ready to go. A few minutes later, my cock was in her mouth, and it didn’t leave for some time….

Jan 232015

There are devotees of The Ethical Slut who are militantly opposed to dishonesty anywhere in or among relationships among the poly world. There’s often a judginess that accompanies this that rubs me wrong.

I wrote, almost three years ago, about a date I’d gone on with a woman who wouldn’t fuck me because, at the time, my wife and I had an explicit “Don’t ask, don’t tell” agreement. Oddly, while she wouldn’t fuck me, she did want to kiss me (even though kissing a person in my situation was also, per her agreement with her husband, verboten, for moral/ethical reasons).

I’ve been thinking a bit recently about various women with whom I’ve got pasts. One is in a committed monogamous relationship. She and I recently engaged in a brief flirtation that was excruciating for both of us because, in the end, we couldn’t (she wouldn’t) consummate it. Initially, I told her I wouldn’t go to bed with her if she wasn’t being open and honest about me with her partner. Then, I revised my position. Admittedly, self-servingly. I said, basically, “Only if you’re deliberate and mindful.” I wanted her to be choosing to engage with me, rather than simply falling into my arms (to her knees) after a few drinks. We flirted a bit, and it became clear that neither was she prepared to fall to her knees nor was it tolerable for her to engage with me if that wasn’t her (near-term) destination. Continue reading »

Jan 232015

Meticulously dressed. Black leather heel boots – four inches, with silver buckles and clasps, and waxy, firm laces, tight around the toes, enticingly loose at the ankles. Opaque black tights over shapely calves. They stretch up, high. I never learn if she’s wearing a skirt, or dress. But I see the very tops of her thighs in these tights.

And then, a brown, suede coat, immaculate. No lint, no stains. Improbably pristine. A Native American shawl – black, blue, green, and red, with quarter-inch fringes at the end.

A plain black wool winter hat, perched atop her head, inconsistent with the rest of her outfit.

She’s Asian, or her parents were. Her black hair, dyed brown and, at the back, toward the bottom, blonde. Her fingernails are bright orange, her manicure, perfect.

Her face is severe. She doesn’t smile. She plays solitaire on her iPhone. Her index finger sports a nut-and-bolt ring. Most of her fingers have rings – some silver, some gold.

It’s the end of a long day for her, and she looks as if she just put herself together. Perfectly.

Jan 222015


I’m so psyched.

I’m not sure it’s all for good reasons, but who am I to look a gift pussy in the mouth. Winking smile


Sofia 2

Jan 212015

Google now mostly masks the terms people are searching for when they come to this site, but there’s still (there are still) some good data available, and it’s (they’re) interesting.

Here’s what’s most interesting to me: if you Google “Hasidic pussy” – or “Hasidic porn” – or “Hasid porn” I’m the first result. If you google “Hasidic nude” I’m #2. This is intriguing, because, best I can tell, I’ve written exactly two posts on the subject of Hasidim at a swing party (and none about pussy, or porn, or nudes).

This Google fact drives a shocking amount of traffic to my web site. Including, recently, a chick who recently e-mailed me some unsolicited nudes and then disappeared, after confessing her desire for Hasidic and other “abnormal” men, denying (unaccused) that she was a trans man (“I AM NOT TRANS,” she wrote, a propos of nothing, “im just a hairy small tittied punk rock naturally born female” [sic].)

Maybe I’ll come up with some other interesting nuggets in the coming days. But I liked this one.