Apr 182014
 

I want to tell you what to do. To tell you what to wear. To insinuate myself into your thoughts, into your speech.

I want you to say “yes” to me.

I want you to feel my eyes burning through the clothes I’ve chosen for you to wear – even when I can’t see you.

I want you to imagine those clothes are me, mine, touching you all over, all day. Your bra softly holds your breasts. Restrained, gentle. For now. As I would.

Your t-shirt rests lightly on your breasts, presses them ever-so-slightly toward your torso. As I would.

Your panties (boyshorts, natch) cup your ass, pressing, gently, into your pussy. Not too far. Not too hard. But constantly. As I would.

Your jeans wrap around your legs, touching every inch of your calves, your thighs, your inner thighs, weightlessly. As I would.

I want you to know, to feel, that soon – so soon – those sensations of fabric will be subsumed by sensations of flesh.

I want your cunt to tingle with anticipation – moist, warm anticipation, as you imagine my tongue teasing your clit, as you imagine my cock first sliding, slowly, into you, then, pounding into you.

I want your lips to glisten with saliva, freshly, repeatedly licked by you, as you imagine them wrapped around my cock, pressed against my lips. Nervously licked by you, as you imagine them devoted to my pleasure, to my use.

Give me this. Give me all of this.

Say “yes” to me.

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Apr 172014
 

She’s cute, early 30s. She has a bright smile, white teeth. Her eyes are big, blue. She’s sweet, funny, flirty. She has a boyfriend, and she’s not the type, at least at first blush, to be open to extracurricular fun. (She gives off an “I’m pretty conventional” vibe.)

Still….

We were talking. She was telling me about the creepy dude she sat next to on the train – he was surfing “milfaholic.com” on the train next to her. He asked her how old she was. She was grossed out, and a little threatened.

Then, we weren’t talking – we were IMing. She had found a review site that, she said, liked the “milfaholic” site. I opened that review site, but it wasn’t SFW, and I was in a bad position, and quickly closed it.

I told her that if I were going to look at NSFW stuff, that wouldn’t be my choice. She agreed. I asked what she’d look at. She replied, “i’m not sure i would look at any sites [right now]. Too close of quarters. And can’t really go anywhere with it.”

Were we seriously talking about masturbation? Did she take me there?

The conversation turned innocent for a while, but then she brought it back to porn. But again, stopped just short of anything other than the gently suggestive.

On to other subjects. “You’ve been married for a while,” she said. And that was pretty much where we ended.

I’ll keep you posted.

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Apr 162014
 

People talk about sex addiction like it’s a thing. Every so often, I offer my opinions – opinions which evolve.

Here is where I stand today.

First, a couple of objective, indisputable facts:

1) “Sex addiction” is not a psychiatric diagnosis. Nor is any other “behavioral addiction,” such as gambling, overeating, spending, or what have you. (I’m not saying that it’s not a real malady – I’m saying that, in the DSM-V, the current guide to psychiatric diagnosis in the United States, it is not an approved diagnosis.)

2) When people speak of “sex addiction,” they are speaking of many different things. There is not any one ailment that is universally agreed to constitute “sex addiction.”

3) A sex addict is someone who disapproves of her or his own desires and behaviors. That same person, freed not of the behaviors but of the judgment, would be no more a sex addict than the same person, freed of the behaviors themselves. And, in the same vein…

4) One person’s healthy sexuality is another’s sex addiction – the range of human sexual desire and behavior is so great as to render almost anything healthy (or pathological) in the eyes of some or other observer. In my time in twelve-step groups, I encountered people who “suffered from same-sex attraction,” and considered themselves addicts. In my time out of those groups/rooms, I have met incredibly promiscuous people who did not experience their sexuality as problematic.

5) There is no “treatment” for “sex addiction” that has demonstrated any significant positive results. Regardless of what anyone tells you. There is no evidentiary basis for the efficacy of 12-step programs, or inpatient programs, or anything….

And now, a couple of opinions:

1) The word “addiction” obscures more than it reveals, conjuring images of junkies, of people ruled by their bodily appetites for poisons.

2) There are unquestionably people who experience their sexual behaviors as existing beyond their control. I have been one of them.

3) There is a neuro-chemical sense in which it is possible to develop a relationship to the stimulation provided by sex structurally similar to that provided by addictive drugs.

4) The “first step” of the twelve steps – “I am powerless over sex and my life has become unmanageable” – unquestionably describes the experience of many people when it comes to sex. For those of us unfortunate enough for that to be true, we definitely need help. (And for me, simply reading the first step was enormously empowering.)

5) The whole “sex addiction” debate is unfortunate, at best. The bottom line is that when our notion of who we wish we were comes into conflict with who we actually are (what we desire, what we do), we suffer. This is not a suffering unique to (sex) addiction – it is in fact the root of much human suffering.

If you are one of those unlucky people (as I have been) whose sexual desires conflicts with your ideal notion of yourself, if you are someone who has developed the habit of using sex to medicate your emotions, there is hope. The hope doesn’t lie in finding some “cure.”

It lies in understanding yourself, your motivations, your behaviors. And accepting yourself.

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Apr 152014
 

I was rejected today. Not by a woman, but in a completely non-sexual, comprehensive, totalizing – and damning – way.

It’s striking to me – not new(s), but still striking – how powerful is my reflex in an instance like this. Longtime readers can probably guess just what it is that the news made me feel. Can you?

Here’s where my brain went in the micro-seconds after the news of the rejection: I NEED TO HAVE AN ORGASM, AT THE HANDS/MOUTH OF A WOMAN WHOM I DON’T KNOW/WHOM I’M PAYING. AND I NEED A CIGARETTE. PREFERABLY IN THAT ORDER. AND RIGHT NOW.

Thankfully, just because my brain went to those two places doesn’t mean that my body did. I’ve spent a lot of the last few hours just feeling what it is for me to be rejected in this way, and let me tell you, it sucks. My chest is tight. My mouth is dry. My breaths are quick, shallow, unsatisfying. But I’m here. Writing. Feeling. Rather than acting. As they say in 12-step-land, “Thank God.”

In the moments just before I got the news, I was talking with a friend about narcissism, about the causes of the wounds we suffer, and the remedies we seek. She was telling me about her relationship with her father, about his demand that she give him what he seeks from her, and about her confidence that she has, at least in terms of her own organization of herself, escaped her father’s narcissism.

I was telling her how far from that conclusion I am when it comes to myself, how I believe myself to be 100% of the narcissist my father is, even as I look to entirely different strategies for the regulation of my self-esteem than did/does he.

As we finished this conversation, I glanced at my phone, and saw this narcissistic wound, this soul-crushing rejection that activated all of my most narcissistic vulnerabilities.

It comes at a difficult moment. Rejection abounds in my life right now – it’s all over the place. Alas.

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Apr 102014
 

Today, I had something happen that took me back.

There are these two women I see weekly, one blonde, one brunette. They’re twenty years my junior, but they’ve each got a certain… je ne sais quoi. The high point of March was when, together, they beckoned me over: “What color are each of our eyes?” they asked me. I had to stare in each of their beautiful eyes for a moment, and diagnose them. (Both of their eyes are green. One’s have orange flecks.) I don’t know why they were discussing this question, nor do I know how or why they asked me to resolve it for them.

Each is tiny. Each wears leggings. Not for me, I suspect, but I like them, and am grateful for them. Their legs are slender. Their breasts are pert, round. Their faces are pretty. The blonde has the most insanely sexy gravelly voice. The brunette, the cutest smile.

I have crushes on each of them, on both of them. I find it hard not to imagine them on my cock (both of them, together) when I’m with them.

Today, there came a break in our time together. The brunette turned to a guy – call him “Eric.” “Coffee?” she said to him. Every week, at about this time, several of us go to the same place to get coffee. She had to know I was on my way there. As were several other people. But she was asking him.

I was so jealous.

He’s a good-looking guy, ten years my junior. He’s not as smart as I am, not as confident. I don’t, honestly, see what anyone would see in him over me (other than his ten years juniority). No question, she was flirting with him. And worse, worse than that she was flirting with him, was that I was invisible to her. She was oblivious to me as a potential flirting partner.

Here’s the funny thing: there’s nothing about her other than the visual that appeals. She’s not particularly interesting to me, not particularly intelligent. I suspect that, if we were to spend more than five minutes together, I’d want to shoot myself.

But her interest in Eric? FUCK.

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Apr 092014
 

One antonym of monogamy is infidelity. A spouse who is well and truly monogamous is said to be “faithful”; one who steps out, who cheats, is “unfaithful.”

These linguistic choices, with their implicit religiosity, elide and obfuscate as much as they describe and reveal. And much of what they describe and reveal is unintentional.

When we mean to describe the phenomenon of one spouse’s “cheating” on another, we resort to religious language, the language of faith. The sin in infidelity isn’t the sin of the act (adultery). No, it’s the sin of the underlying mental state – faithlessness – that is presumed (proven) to exist by virtue of the act.

But what if one doesn’t believe, but doesn’t act on one’s unbelief? Or worse, if one believes, but acts nonetheless?

Surely many physically monogamous marriages lack faith, and likely, many non-monogamous marriages possess it.

But as the language makes clear, non-monogamy is heresy, faithlessness, atheism, idolatry.

What could possibly be worse?

* Hat tip to Adam Phillips, whose Monogamy is a brilliant, eminently accessible disquisition on the subject. This post is an elaboration of his thoughts on this particular subject. I expect to write more about what he writes in coming days.

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Apr 092014
 

If you know how to, please don’t contact my friend. If you have a soul, or a heart, please don’t.

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Apr 082014
 

Angela pointed out that while I described some things I like about blowjobs in this post, I didn’t, to her mind, answer her question: “N, what do you like so much about having your cock sucked?”

Having written at length on some really great things about blowjobs, here is my second attempt to answer.

I like having my cock sucked so much for two reasons: first, in terms of physical sensation, nothing feels better than a great blowjob. Not. A. Fucking. Thing. A good blowjob is a symphony of sensations, than which there simply is nothing better. I wrote about those sensations in my earlier post, but here, let me say simply, I love the sensations, the variety, the contrasts, of a good blowjob.

And second, the power dynamics of blowjobs are unbeatable. In a good blowjob, each partner is 100% in control, and 100% vulnerable. The giver can be choked, suffocated. The recipient bitten, castrated. Each holds the other’s well-being in his or her hands (or mouth). This shared power and vulnerability is magical, powerful, compelling, unbeatable.

That’s what I like so much about having my cock sucked.

(Did I answer your question, Angela? Now, would you please suck my cock again? Winking smile)

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Apr 072014
 

Each month, Hyacinth and I highlight two blogs we find interesting, compelling, funny, hot, whatever. We tell you our reactions – what we like, what we don’t like. We hope you enjoy.

N’s pick:

The Amsterdam Diaries

N’s thoughts:

I’m interested in reading men write about sex. Oddly, I’ve found precious little of it on the internet, and most of what I’ve found that’s been interesting to me has been by men who have sex with men (for example, I’m a big fan of this blog). Thanks to L, I recently discovered this series of accounts by a British man of his adventures with the women who work in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. I’m not linking to a specific post, but rather, to the whole blog. It’s fascinating to me.

Mostly, I have to say, because it is so unappealing to me. The model of prostitution – and of sex with prostitutes – documented by this man seems holds no appeal for me. He comes acruss as unsentimental, something of a tender sociopath. He’s not a sadist, he’s not cruel, but the women he describes hardly come across as anything other than the possessors of holes – holes which, for fifty euros he can do various things with/to. I’m not really sure what to do with his writing. He writes well, he recounts his sexual encounters, but the unapologetically transactional nature of everything about which he writes is singularly off-putting to me. The blog ends up being compelling at the same time that it’s neither hot nor particularly thoughtful or thought-provoking.

I found myself wondering (in a bit of terror) as I read, “Is this how I sound? Am I this oblivious, indifferent, to the women I have sex with?” I sure hope not. I like women. I really like the women I have sex with. Not just because they have sex with me, because they “let” me finger them, or fuck them. But because they conspire with me to invent a super-hot reality that gets us both off.

But if you want to get a comprehensive, if highly specific, take on the Amsterdam red light district, this is a great place to do it.

Hy’s thoughts:

Man… I don’t even know what to say.  I am totally turned off by this writing and only mildly interested from a psychological stand point, like, what the fuck?  His writing is unapologetic, not at all introspective, and his callousness towards the act of sex is basically uninteresting to me.  But, apparently he has an audience.

My feelings about the blog are also unrelated to prostitution.  I’m generally ambivalent about the whole thing (prostitution, I mean) and so long as everyone consents, I really don’t give a fuck.  My hopes for it are for the sex workers’ safety, satisfaction (work-wise, not necessarily sexually, though that’d be awesome, too), and autonomy (whatever that means or looks like to her).

Obviously, I haven’t read the entire blog, but I think it was him writing “Whatever, in the interests of research she will do,” in regards to having sex with a “plump girl” (who also might as well be fat because his preference is strictly for toned women), that made me feel like I was done.  It’s all too manual-like for me.  I prefer to know and feel the human interest in someone’s writing, not just learn about a human’s interest.

If I ever decide to fuck a Dutch prostitute I know whose blog I’ll read, but until then…

N’s postscript:

I don’t disagree with anything Hy says. Except. I think glimpses of unfamiliar worlds, particular those having to do with sex, generally are interesting to me, especially to the extent that they portray those worlds not so much naturalistically as through the eyes and mind of the viewer. This is what I like, what I find compelling about this blog. It exposes me to a world, a way of thinking, I’d otherwise never know.

Hy’s pick:

Girl on the Net’s On Extreme Porn Close-ups.

Hy’s thoughts:

I couldn’t have said it better than Carina did herself: it becomes gynecological.  I’ve always figured that I like to see what I might normally see during an encounter, and even though I occasionally fuck chicks, I have never spent much time looking directly up into her vagina.  It’s more of a glance to see the lay of the land and then I get down to business.  Those close up shots in porn make me distinctly uneasy and ruin any kind of “moment” for me.

So there’s that.

But then the comments of this particular post take the whole conversation of porn somewhere entirely else.  Some reader decides to say that all porn is anti-feminist and openly misogynistic.  Girl on the Net responds succinctly and directly, politely.

It’s exactly this about her, her openness and clarity — which allows her to claim disagreement in an intelligent, thoughtful way — that brings me back around again and again.

In general, she also writes about sexy, real, provoking themes and experiences and her honesty is unmistakeable.  She doesn’t write erotica, per se, she writes about sex, sexuality, and herself from a self-deprecating feminist voice that I thoroughly delight in.

I feel smarter after I’ve read her.  Plus, she and I feel similarly about lots of other things, too.

N’s thoughts:

Yup. I agree totally. I love GOtN. She’s in my sidebar, and I read her every post. I remember when she wrote this, and I agreed then. I just re-read the comments and was struck by some of the claptrap that’s been written there.

She is a truly great writer. Unapologetic, smart, funny, iconoclastic. Read her.

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Apr 072014
 

I’ve been to well over a dozen Ddevious Delights parties over the years, but it seems they are no more. Saul and Cat, the couple who run DD, have refocused their efforts on a Monday and Friday night club – Club Oasis, and “midweek midday playgroups.”

Club Oasis describes itself as “New York City’s newest and most intimate swing club.” I haven’t been. I can’t opine. But their web site suggests they admit single men, so I’m skeptical.

These playgroups are no longer the early evening, couples-only affairs that I came to love (with L, primarily, but with others as well). Now, they’re midday gatherings of single men and, I infer, women paid to attend.

I miss the playgroup, and they won’t be seeing me at the midday gatherings. Not really my thing. Sorry, guys.

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