Jul 082013
 

I like women. A lot. Maybe too much.

I like seeing them, discovering them, talking to them, getting to know them, looking at them, touching them, feeling them touch me, using them sexually, giving them pleasure, taking pleasure from them. I like objectifying them, appreciating them, worshipping them. Licking them, fingering them, tasting them, fucking them

I like how they feel, how they look, how they smell, how they taste.

This blog is, in a sense, all about my relationship with, and seemingly endlessly appetite for, women.

But lately, I’ve noticed (and V corroborated) that men feature… interestingly… in this blog.

Look at this post, in which a hot evening with V was made infinitely hotter for me by the fact that it featured a sort of vanquishment of a couple of guys. Or one of these posts, in which my sexual enjoyment is marred by the offensive (to me) presence of a man.

Without overly psychoanalyzing myself, it’s fair to say that my relationships with men are as neurotic as are my relationships with women. Only differently so.

This blog is filed with tales of my infinite appetites for female approval, acceptance, desire, touch.

Similarly, with men, I crave appreciation, respect, admiration, and envy. If a man has something I covet, no matter how little I covet it, I experience what envy I feel as an existential threat. Similarly, if a man shows me disrespect, I feel a sort of annihilation at his hands.

This isn’t to say I’m scared of (such) men. I’m not.

No, it’s worse. The threat such men pose is internal to me. The way my sense of worth works, it doesn’t feel to me as if I can withstand the experience of envy or shame or smallness. When I feel those things, they become all-encompassing, and they dwarf any other experience.

(Obviously, this is an illusion, a sort of hangover from infancy or childhood. I’ve survived all those things enough times as an adult to train even the most recalcitrant Pavlovian dog. But not me.)

So at that recent party, while my cock was being expertly sucked by Mary-Anne, my mind was elsewhere, on the slights and offenses I was suffering from the odious Jeff.

This is intriguing to me. I spend so much time seeking fulfilling sexual encounters with women, and yet, I seem also to seek (or at least to put myself in situations where I’m likely to find) frustrating, annoying, unpleasant, dick-shriveling experiences with men.

Why?

(Your thoughts welcome; mine will follow in a subsequent post.)

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