May 192015

Life is short. Don’t wait for tomorrow.

Don’t waste time pretending you don’t want to do the things you do. You do them because, on some level, somewhere in your body, you want to. The question never is “how do I stop?” It’s “what am I getting out of this?”

That hot, interesting-looking chick over there? Go talk to her.

Saying “yes” is almost always better than saying “no.” Not always. But almost always.

Pleasure is great, but it has absolutely nothing to do with happiness. Ditto money.

Kids are the most interesting people in a room. Always.

When in doubt, ask questions.

Smart people ask for help.

Trying to demonstrate how intelligent you are almost always is the most effective way to demonstrate eighteen other things about yourself. But not the thing you’re trying to demonstrate.

May 182015
  1. Desperation is never sexy.
  2. Hunger – particularly specific, particular hunger – is sexy.
  3. Confidence is sexy.
  4. If I feel hot, I am hot.
  5. Women like to hear what you think about them. Especially if what you think is, “I want to fuck you.” As long as you say it politely.
  6. Cock size doesn’t matter (to most women).
  7. The ability to deliver orgasms is a super-power.
  8. Confidence doesn’t require fearlessness. They are different.
  9. Related: one can be afraid and confident. Chicks dig that.
  10. Rejection is ubiquitous, inevitable, and best delivered by humans other than me, when delivered to me.
May 172015


Can you offer any useful expectations for meeting you? Especially wrt to use of time completely for sex, or not?

I like mystery, but I also like being mentally and emotionally prepared. And in this case, it will help me be most fully present and engaged to be a tiny bit more clear on this. 

I don’t have a requirement/need either way (and it may evolve in the moment — which may be part of the answer) but I’m trying to set my gauges (a weird metaphor, but all I got right now).

Whatever the deal there, I am fucking excited about having fun with your having fun with me. Doing precisely what you ask, of course. 


I’m thinking of some possibilities.

1) We start exactly as we did [our first date]. You walk through the market, to the hotel. I join you at, say, the crosswalk leading to the hotel. We check in together. Once in the room, you strip naked (I strip you naked/I tear off every item of your clothes), you kneel, and ask me three questions of your choice before I begin putting you to use.

2) Same as 1, minus the questions. You are not to speak unless in direct response to a question from me.

3) We meet for a drink in a midday bar at 10:30 or 11. We have a drink or two, before finding our way to the hotel.

4) You meet me on a street corner of my choosing. We take a short – ten-minute – cab ride to the hotel, during which we chat, and you play with your pussy for my viewing pleasure. Once at the hotel, well, then it’s (you’re) on me.

You may rule any of these out, if you wish. I may add to this list. I reserve the right to choose, subject to your veto.


I like the way you think! 

Thank you. So far I would enjoy / be comfortable with any of these, Very Much. I know it’s your choice, but I’m going to percolate on which is my favorite, and also wait to see if you have any other brainstorms. Yum.

I’m going to play with my pussy right now — while whispering idle thoughts about yesterday — to practice multi tasking in the event you choose #4. I’m sorry I can’t record it for you; I will, another time, if you would like .…


5) We meet in a coffee shop. Or, rather, we each go to the same coffee shop. We don’t sit together. I give you some instructions by text/e-mail. You follow them for me. We talk on the phone, staring directly at each other, but not next to one another. You ask whatever burning questions you have. Maybe I give you some more instructions. When I can’t bear to wait any longer (which, presumably, will not be long), we adjourn and walk a short distance, together, to a hotel. Where I put you to good and proper use.

6) We make out [in a public place] before adjourning to our hotel.

7) You check into hotel. You strip naked. You stand, ass to the door, waiting. At some point (presumably), I arrive.

8) I check into hotel. When I’m ready, I tell you to proceed to room. When you get there, you find whatever I’ve decided to greet you with.

9) We meet at a strip club. We procure the hottest woman there to dance for us for an hour, getting me hard, getting you wet. Maybe I go down on you while she dances in your face. Then, we go to a hotel.

10) I instruct you as to what to bring. We meet [in a public place]. I take several dozen provocative pictures of you in public. Then, we head to the hotel.


So many good choices you have 😉

11) We set tasks for me to complete on the train/cab. We “meet” [in a public place] and you provide phone instructions as to how you would like me to pose for pics; we slowly come into contact as the shoot progresses and make out there before adjourning to the hotel where I wait for your entry in a pose (&clothes) of your choosing.

Do you have thoughts? Preferences? Suggestions?

May 162015

They change remarkably little.

I’ve written about them a bunch over the years, but I think I can summarize thus-ly:

1) I like to see women progress from fully clothed, preferably not in pornstar or stripper garb, and interacting normally, as if not on a porn set, to being fully willing to have and to give sexual pleasure.

2) It is that progression, more than anything else, that I find most compelling. Not the revealing of this or that body part.

Continue reading »

May 152015

Soon, I will fuck Lexy.

A week or so ago, she wrote me, “If I’m trying to read fast to get a sense of a thing that doesn’t need to be too specific, sometimes I read every other line (certain genres this works with best). Doing so in The Ethical Slut, I came across a nice little found poem that seems to sum it up pretty well….

Remember that there are many good ways to

makes you safe from hard feelings – your ability

whatever structure you choose, hold it fairly

you, you are.”


This is the best way to read this book.

Thank you, Lexy, for showing me how best to read it.

May 112015

It seems as if every six months or so, I fall ill. Well, I’m ill. I hope to be back soon. But until then, enjoy these posts from one, two, and three years ago:

2014: Happy Mother’s Day!
2013: Onomatopeia
2012: The Webmaster

May 092015

Skirts, dresses, yoga pants, shorts, what’s not to love?

When I was in college, there was a sort of mini-trend among certain men to wear skirts. Not in an explicitly transvestite way, these were men who purported not to get any particular charge, sexual or otherwise, from wearing “women’s clothes,” but who rather simply rejected gender conformity in favor of comfort.

I’ve never worn a skirt or dress, and have no particular erotic desire to do so, but I confess, they do look far more comfortable, and stimulating, to wear than anything I can wear that conforms to gender expectations. And I do feel a sexual charge on seeing an attractive woman wearing clothes that cover her pussy from my view, but not from the air. As I walk around and see so many women bearing their legs, and thighs, and cunts to the refreshing spring breeze, I can’t help but feel a little tingle in my cock, imagining the sensations they are having, even imagining myself being the breeze. Not in a Prince-Charles-imagining-himself-a-tampon sort of way. But still.

Yoga pants, of course, are a whole ‘nother thing. The pleasure they give me is far less sensual, far more visual. The way in which they simultaneously reveal all and nothing is an astonishing tease to me, both showing me everything I want to see (form, shape) and nothing (flesh). There was a brief kerfuffle recently about an ostensibly (though not actually) proposed law outlawing yoga pants in some state, because of the ways in which they stimulate men’s minds.

I’m not, you surely know, one of those who believes what a woman wears gives men license to conclude anything about a woman’s generic or specific desires. (The idea that a woman was “asking for” anything by deciding to wear anything is repulsive to me.) At the same time, it is hot to me that when an attractive woman decides to go out and about in yoga pants, she does know – she must know – the effect her choices has on passers-by. This is hot to me.

Finally, shorts. Shorts are awesome because – well, because legs are awesome, asses are awesome, pussies are awesome – and I love seeing just that much more of a woman’s flesh, having available to my gaze that much more that’s close to the ultimate objects of my desire.

I’m sensitive to the power of the male gaze, to the danger of objectifying women, of reducing them to their sexuality. I try very hard to avoid those dangers in actual real-life interactions.

But man. I love spring.

May 082015

I asked Sofia to send me something she knew would turn me on to prompt me to write about how intensely I need to fuck her, how tragic it is that I can’t.

Sofia knows me well.

It’s been years now, literally, that she’s been feeding my insatiable hunger for her pretty body. She knows what gets me hard, what turns me on, about as well as is possible.

She sent me this:

Sofia knows that, generically, this features many of the attributes I simply can’t resist, that I ask for over and over. She knows, to her occasional annoyance (or worse) that I love seeing ANY woman in leggings, that I love seeing ANY woman spread her legs for me, that I love seeing ANY woman tease her pussy, tease her breasts for me.

But she also knows that I have a highly specific, highly particular need to see HER this way. That seeing her make herself vulnerable like this, dressing for me, touching herself for me, making her pussy wet for me, and NOT coming, displaying herself – her cunt, her ass, her breasts – as she would be seen by me on the street, only more so, sexually available for me, sexually available TO me, is certain to turn me on in all the parts of my brain and body at once.

She knows that simply putting her pretty body in form-fitting leggings, in a tight tank top, gets me hard. That even though I’ve seen her like this literally dozens, and maybe even hundreds, of times has done nothing to diminish the intensity of my need for her, the potency of the reaction seeing her do it one more time, NOW, has for me.

She can picture me, sitting, watching, on my phone, or on my computer, stroking my cock, furtively, in a coffee shop, or openly, on my own, through my jeans. She can picture (because she’s seen it) what my cock looks like as I stroke it, first slowly, then more feverishly, as I tease a load of cum out of me, as I shoot my cum all over the place, imagining she’s right before me, inches from me, swallowing me, taking me in. Imagining it’s not her hand gently sliding up her thigh toward her pussy, but mine. Imagining I could tip her back, pin her hands at her side, as I breathe in the moist, hot, sweet scent of her wet cunt.

She’s imagining those same things as she does this in this video. And now, she’s imagining not just those things, but she’s imagining me typing these words, preparing to upload this text, this video, to share with you. She knows she’s not the only woman who’s done this for me, but she knows she’s unique to me, special, if you will, because – well, not just because of our history, a history that spans not just years, but emotions. Happiness and sadness, arousal and numbness. She knows that, when I see her like this, for me, for you, I am, just for a few moments, transported, to a realm that consists of nothing but me and my fantasies of her.

How fucking lucky am I?

May 072015

I’m not a big fan of writing challenges, but one of Cammie’s recent posts inspired me. She wrote about what makes her sexy.

I like the idea, and I thought I’d steal it shamelessly. First, though, I thought I’d tell you what doesn’t make me sexy.

Having led with my weakness, here, please find what I think makes me sexy:


I’m smart. Not in an “I know a lot” way. In an, “I have interesting and thoughtful responses to things” way. I don’t imagine I’m off the charts smart. In fact, I often imagine that it’s (statistically, probabilistically) unlikely I’m any real distance from the mean, intellectually. But even that thought, held by someone with multiple advanced degrees from prestigious universities and a relatively successful professional history, marks me as thinking differently than many others in my cohort, who often mistake privilege for merit, income for “earnings,” and wealth for worth.

Related, I’m open-minded. I rarely imagine that even my most strongly held opinions are anything other than that – strongly held opinions. Someone near and dear to me in my family – a very smart, accomplished person, constantly disappoints me – and antagonizes others – by imagining that she is enlightened, in possession of the truth, about any number of subjects about which I would say she could be described more accurately as being “convinced.” I like to think I don’t make this error.

And also related, I’m curious. I rarely feel I’m done learning about anything. I want to know more. About everything, everyone. I never graduated from the constant asking of “why” so typical of toddlers.


I’m kind. Though I’m quite capable of selfish, inconsiderate behavior, this is never willful, never intentional, rarely even conscious. When I’m paying attention, I’m thinking about the effect of my actions on others, and my intentions and motivations – when I’m paying attention – flow primarily from this wellspring.

I’m compassionate. I care about suffering, and am eager not so much to alleviate it (I’m humble enough not to imagine there’s much to be done about suffering) as to be present for it. I like to give the gift of attention, and I believe it to be the single greatest gift I can give.

I’m empathetic. I often find myself knowing (or at least imagining I know), in an embodied, deep, and powerful way, about the experience of others. And – and perhaps this is more important – I respect others’ experience, don’t feel a need to change it.

I’m polite. Unfailingly, excessively, but genuinely polite. I say “please” and “thank you.” And I mean it.

I’m funny. Nuff said.


I have piercing, intense, and interesting eyes. They’re green. Or blue. Or in between. They change. They have orange flecks. They don’t dance – or stray – when I’m listening.

I am strong. My shoulders are broad, my arms strong, my chest, strong. I look like I can toss you around because I likely can, even though I’m not tall.

My cock (I’ve been told, often enough to believe it) is beautiful. It’s not big. It’s not thick. But it’s perfectly proportioned, and it has a nice shape. It’s circumcised and curved, and fits nicely in just about any mouth. When fucking, it presses up against most women’s g-spot (if there is such a thing), and its underside is exquisitely sensitive, making it fun to do all sorts of oral experiments with, other than simple up-and-down plunger sucking.

I have a deep, resonant voice. Just as I value voice in women, I’m often told my voice is hot.


Well, here, I think I’ll just let this blog speak for itself, other than to say that I’m creative and fun.

What makes you sexy? I want to know.

May 062015

It doesn’t feel right to toot my horn. I’m working on a post, inspired by Cammies on the Floor, about what it is that makes me sexy. But I learned a valuable lesson in 12-step land: lead with your weakness.

So, before I tell you, explicitly, all the things that make me sexy, let me start by telling you some of my less sexy attributes.


I can be arrogant. My voice often belies my stated humility, telegraphing that, even though I say I’m humble, modest, open, in fact, in my heart of hearts, I generally believe not just that I’m right, but that I’m better. This is, surely, born of insecurity and fear.

Related, I can be smug. Try though I might, I can’t wipe a smirk off my face.

I can be narcissistically myopic. I often find it difficult to imagine that things I see clearly aren’t clear to all. Sometimes, this is a question of perspective. Others, a question of delusion. It’s never charming. (See the discussion of creep shots a few years ago.)


I can be unimaginably selfish. My years as a CPOS serve as irrefutable evidence of this. And, would that my selfishness had died. It hasn’t.

I can be excruciatingly stubborn. I can be deeply unpleasant to argue with.

I’m manipulative. I try to organize the world to serve my desires. And I’m shockingly successful.

I’m weak. I’m a creature of my desires, far more than I’d like to be.


I weigh ten or fifteen pounds more than I’d like. I have a little belly. Not huge, but I’m not as trim as I’d like. A few years ago, I was pretty cut. Not so much right now.

I’m shorter than I’d like. Average height, to be sure. But I wish I were taller.

I’m bald. I shave my head, but not a day goes by that I don’t long for the days I had long curly hair.

Like 90% of men, I wish my cock were bigger. Unlike most of those, I know, definitively, that mine is smaller than average.

I’m in poor aerobic shape. Though I’m fit enough, my stamina (not sexual, aerobic) is poor.


I’m kinda monotonous. I mean, read the blog. If I had a nickel for every time a woman had complained that I’d done something with her she’d read about my doing with someone else, and that made her feel bad, I’d have a LOT of nickels.

I’m just not that into fucking. I mean, I like it fine and all, but not infrequently, I lose my erection, and I’d almost always prefer more oral.

When I do fuck, I really prefer that you ride me/I drive you while you ride me to a good old-fashioned pounding from the rear, or what have you.

This blog, surely, is a testament to my weaknesses. I’m sure I left many out. If you feel inclined to point them out to me, please do so gently.

Wicked Wednesday