Apr 242014
 

I’ve never thought of myself as arrogant.

I’ve thought that, like far too many men, I have the distasteful habit of speaking authoritatively, of ending sentences with downward intonation, of implying certainty, knowledge, when curiosity and openness might be more… appropriate.

I’ve always understood this as almost vestigial, a sort of leftover bit of detritus from my father’s particular form of grandiose narcissism. I think it disconnected from my essence, which IS open and curious.

For years – at least ten, maybe twenty – I existed primarily in spheres in which some hybrid of confidence and arrogance wasn’t just tolerated, it was expected, demanded. And rewarded. And in those spheres, no one, ever, thought me arrogant.

Suddenly, I find myself confronting an awkward, painful even, reality: a number of people I need to see me as otherwise see me as arrogant. Cocky.

This affects me on multiple levels.

First, practically: I’ve missed out on opportunities I hoped to have as a result.

Second, cognitively: it’s genuinely confusing, disequilibrating, for me to be seen as other than I see myself. I pride myself on my ability to empathize, to see the world – and myself – through others’ eyes. When I learn that what I imagine people see when they look at me is different from what they actually see, it leaves me adrift, unmoored. And worse, I find myself questioning myself: are they right? Could it be that this image of myself I’ve so carefully tended – introspective, thoughtful, open, curious, receptive – is, simply, wrong?

And third, emotionally: in the wake of this realization – that I’m seen by some (many?) by whom I might wish to be seen otherwise in this way – I feel empty, alone, worthless.

On some level, I know I always feel those particular things. All I do here, and elsewhere, can be understood, through one lens, as an elaborate attempt to defend myself against that loneliness, that worthlessness. Both to refute it and to defeat it.

But it sure stings to be reminded of that lens, and to see that, at least when it comes to a current audience, I’m nowhere near as successful as I imagined myself to be.

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Apr 222014
 

Today, it’s mine.

I asked and received her permission to post both these sexy sexy photos and to share with you her agenda for the thirty minutes she has to give to me.

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Yesterday, she told me I could have thirty minutes of her time today. Asked if that would work.

I replied:

“Whatever you have to offer will work.

If I have thirty minutes, this is what I want.

Play with yourself for five minutes in whatever you’re wearing when you start.

Take off your top, and play with your breasts for five minutes.

Tease your pussy, over, through your panties, for ten minutes.

Turn around slowly for me, showing me all of your body.

Then, still wearing your panties, at least, come for me as many times as you can in your remaining eight or nine minutes.”

I want more, of course. (Wouldn’t you?)

And I will get more.

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Apr 222014
 

I just want to tell you, I think you’re doing a kick-ass job.

I’m really impressed by you – yes, sure, by your porn. Which is insanely hot – especially that really long sensual blowjob you gave in “Tip of the Tongue” on Nubile Films – I’m much more partial to watching that kind of blowjob than to the one you gave on that rough facial web site. That’s not really my thing.

But more than that, by the way in which you’re taking the opportunity presented by your uninvited “outing” to promote yourself and speak truth to power simultaneously in a way that’s both good business and good smarts. I collected a bunch of your best quotes (so far) and published them on my blog.

As a “nonsexist male blogger” (I recently was called that in PlayboySFW) who’s also a bit of a dom, I love it when a woman articulates intelligently the argument for submission as a (potentially, but not necessarily) feminist act.

As a lover of porn, and of women, I love it when a woman articulates intelligently just how and why porn can be empowering and liberating – for men and for women.

And as a formerly compulsive consumer of the labor of sex workers more directly – one who always liked and respected the women with whom I was transacting – I love it when a woman articulates intelligently the costs of the shame in which we collectively shroud sex work. Over here, on my blog, I’ve been attempting to do that a bit from the consumer side of the transaction; I’m grateful for your doing it over on the provider side, and doing it from such a highly visible platform.

And congrats to you for making those two endeavors – marketing yourself and speaking intelligently – synergistic.

Not since Sasha Grey has a porn actress done the two so visibly, so loudly.

May your career continue to take off. May you succeed in all your endeavors, in and out of the field of sex work. And may you continue to make my dick really hard.

N.

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Apr 222014
 

The other day, my post on gangbangs (or “handbags,” as my phone really wants me to say) was mentioned in passing in this article by Zhana Vrangalova. Seriously, it was in passing. Like, in an aside, two-thirds of the way (three-quarters of the way) through a long article.

She was nice to me. She quoted me well, and described me as a “nonsexist male blogger.” (And went on to characterize my masculinity as “fragile” and “precarious.” But whatever.)

And she sent a shocking amount of traffic my way.

I suppose it’s information both about this blog and about the power of Playboy that in just a few days, Playboy became the largest referrer to this blog in the last month.

But what intrigues me is this: the average person who came here via Playboy clicked five more times. The rest of you? You folks average just under three clicks per visit. That may seem small, but over hundreds of visitors, it’s actually kinda shocking. That “rest of you” number is skewed by a few enthusiastic readers who show up here and read everything I’ve ever written. But the Playboy number is, oddly, much less skewed. Most of you stuck around and read a lot.

In other words, it seems that people arrived here from Playboy and said, “Hey! This is interesting!” In far greater numbers than generally happens.

Because I’m me, that makes me happy.

Thanks, Zhana. Thanks, Playboy.

And welcome, new readers!

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Apr 212014
 

Have you heard of her?

She’s a Duke University undergrad, who was pursuing a career in porn while in college – what could possibly go wrong? – when a classmate (it turns out some Duke undergrads watch porn) recognized her getting her face fucked on a rough sex site. He outed her (why? not clear, but let’s just say, in a world in which there is justice, this guy will come to understand the consequences of his unkindness).

Since then, there’s been a firestorm of attention to her, mainstream and otherwise. And she’s written a fair amount.

The chick is rapidly winning my heart. She’s smart, confident, and she says shit that reveals that she thinks – unlike a lot of the people who have criticized her.

Continue reading »

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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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