Mar 042015
 

She lives far away, and couldn’t join my fantasy.

But she wanted me to be able to imagine her joining in. “I want to see you in a black dress, and black boyshorts.” I said this to her a few days before. (Emily wasn’t the only woman I said this to.)

It took some persuading, but finally, finally, she sent me four pictures. Not enough, by a long stretch. And not in a wide variety of poses, as I’d asked.

In the first, she stands against a white wall, her right arm behind her, bracing her, and her left, pressing against the wall with her fingertips. Her left knee is bent, lifted, a little blurry, as if she’s walking – or about to take a step – toward the camera. The dress is plain cotton, scoop-neck. It doesn’t cling, doesn’t show much of her body. It stops mid-thigh.

In the second, she’s bent over, leaning toward the camera, giving me a better view of the strap of the dress over her right shoulder. Straps, really – it’s now clear there are two. The scoop neck, also, in this view is a bit more revealing, not so high, and the space between her pretty little breasts, the curves of them, are visible. As is her sunburn. (She just got back from a very warm place.) In this shot, she’s hiking up her dress with her right hand, showing me the edge of her outer thigh, but not of her inner thigh. As with almost everything she gives me, it’s a tease. A tantalizing tease. A tease that would be much more bearable if she also gave me what I want.

In the third, she’s standing up again, straight. Again, she lifts her dress for me, this time, with her left hand. She’s lifting it higher, showing me her boyshorts, plainly. She’s matter-of-fact in this pose. She’s not saying, “I’m turned on.” She’s not saying, “I hope I’m making your dick hard.” She’s saying, “See? You asked me to wear boyshorts, and I’m wearing boyshorts.”

In the final shot, she’s turned herself sideways, and gathered the dress up around her belly. Her ass fills up the middle of the screen, delicious, pale, round. The boyshorts cling to it, stretched by it, barely reaching 2/3 of the way down from the top.

I can’t see her face, but her posture, this time, is a bit sexier: “I know you want this,” she seems to be saying.

And I do.

Mar 042015
 

“I can’t believe we’re getting eight inches tomorrow,” I overheard one man say to another.

“That’s what she said,” I thought.

Mar 042015
 

At its peak, I imagined that my fantasy night would feature me and eight or ten women. I had candidates. Most of them, I’d been with before, but there were a few who would be new to me. There was Rose, Isabel, the Rockette, Tamora, and Sadie, among women about whom you could have read here. There were others: Blondie, my second SnapChat correspondent (after Emily) and Cricket, a very submissive woman I met through Tinder. There was Chloe, another Tinder woman who sends me scorching photos, but whom I haven’t yet met. There were a few who haven’t yet earned names with me – women whom I hadn’t met, but who were intrigued, who wanted to meet me first, and thought they might join. (There were at least three of these.) Continue reading »

Mar 032015
 

I really like Tinder. It’s gotten me laid a lot – and allowed me to meet some interesting people.

But their business model and behavior is just odious. And ripe for competition.

They’ve just introduced on my phone their new pricing strategy – $20/month (!) if I want to like more than some relatively small number of people per day. I know, from past experience, that less than 1/10 of one percent of women I swipe swipe me back. Literally. So, um, no, I don’t think I’ll be paying $20/month.

Now, if they let me post my smutty moments? I might be willing to pay.

 

And a note: it’s $10/month if you’re under 30. How long before the lawsuit?

Mar 032015
 

When I was a kid, I used to steal glances at the Playboy magazines at the barber shop. The barber shop I went to was Johns’ – it was run by John, and his son, John.

The other day I found myself in a barbershop not unlike Johns’. A different John shaved my head with a straight-edge razor as I glanced in the mirror at the reading rack. The material was similar to that I remember as a kid, with one notable exception. The magazines in the rack were Playboy, Men’s Fitness, Maxim, GQ. And the Advocate, and Out.

This is the acceptance of homosexuality as normative in the most heteronormative redoubt I know.

image

Mar 012015
 

(Well, sort of….)

“I almost never want you inside me because I love the anticipation, wondering, yet I crave it because I know you are me, everything I crave, yet do not have the courage to be.”

Feb 282015
 

Key moments in this video, produced, thoughtfully, by PornHub:

1) Beeta-tester. Sorry, Brits. But to us ‘mericans, it’s funny to hear this.

2) Wanking warriors.

3) Jacking ON.

I will totally buy this.

Feb 282015
 

Hi. Did you see this? I am curious about your view on the desire/arousal distinction…I wonder if… you think women can be categorized as either having hunger or responsive arousal…:)

This question, from a sexy reader who hasn’t yet sucked my cock, but who, I’m fully confident, will. (If you don’t follow the link, it’s a link to an article in the NY Times about “hypoactive sexual desire” in women, and the debates about a) whether it exists, b) whether it’s a disorder, and c) whether drugs can treat it.

Generalizations usually are wrong. The human sexual response cycle is not one thing. Masters and Johnson came up with the idea, but they got it wrong. They described it as linear, progressing from excitement, to “plateau,” to orgasm, to “resolution.” And they omitted “desire” entirely. For many, this sequence surely is (often) true. But for many it never is. For some it occasionally is. For some it mostly is. There are other ways – infinite other ways, I suspect – it can work.

Many people, probably more women than men, experience desire in response to arousal. This is an area where language is especially un-helpful, drawing lines between experiences and sensations arbitrarily, almost like colonial borders drawn on a map of Africa. Desire and arousal aren’t entirely separate phenomena, but neither are they entirely contiguous. Language doesn’t do well with concepts that are related in that way, implying, as it does, that they’re somehow different/separate, and either synonymous, different, or antonymic. But in fact, they can be multiple things at multiple times for multiple people.

For me, arousal barely requires desire to appear. Friction, or physical stimulation, often, is adequate. And desire is rarely predictive of arousal. I’ve written about Viagra, about my use of it, and about the frequency with which “failure to launch” occurs – everywhere, but especially in sex clubs and other group sex situations. I can remember many times my cock has been rock hard in the complete absence of desire, and equally many, alas, when it was limp and flaccid in spite of my raging desire. Incidentally, pretty much the only thing that can make me come without my affirmatively deciding to come is a woman’s orgasm. (It can’t often, but once in a while, it does.) So here’s an example of another person’s arousal affecting mine.

When I was seventeen, “on the bus” was, in my crowd, a euphemism for “having an erection.” That’s all it took. A little bouncing up and down, a little vibration, and poof – I was hard!

Nowadays, there’s a bit more alchemy to it – a mix, perhaps, of stimulation, desire, and arousal – mine, and my partners – all create a sort of synergistic feedback loop, and my cock stiffens.

We’re all ill served by assumptions that desire and arousal “work” in a certain, universal way. Or, in a certain gendered way. I’m much more interested in how your sexual response works tonight, with me, than I am in platitudes, generalizations, or assumptions.

Feb 282015
 

“… It was probably the best oral I have ever received. Your tongue was incredible and I almost squirted for you.” – Blondie (You haven’t read about her. But you will.)

Feb 272015
 

In another corner of my life, I’ve been reminded, recently, how gratifying it is for me when others approve of me, or, better yet, think highly of me. This is especially true of people I find attractive, whether intellectually, professionally, conversationally, romantically, or sexually. But honestly, anyone’s approval will do.

When I receive approval, or praise, it’s like a balm for a wound. I suppose, actually, it’s not like balm for a wound – it is balm for a wound.

And the way I’m wired, when I receive that praise, I want not just to bask in it but, also, to share it. I want the praise to be seen, appreciated. I even want it to be approved of, praised.

In the rest of my life, it’s pretty unseemly to, say, boast of praise I’ve gotten. But here? I can inoculate myself, at least partially, against charges of egotism by issuing a disclaimer such as this, confessing the weak place from which the boast emanates. And then, having so inoculated myself, can go ahead and share/boast.

Toward that end, I’m going to post a series of “testimonials” – things women have said to me, usually in writing, of which I’m proud. These will be quotations from women with whom I’ve had sexual encounters since the inception of this blog. Some will be recent, some from the recesses of the past. Some will be attributed, others, anonymous.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed receiving them. And, as much as I’ll enjoy sharing them with you now.