N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Sep 152017

Back in my CPOS days, I often went by the name “Grey.” I wanted to believe – I told myself – my behavior existed in a grey zone, between black and white. Yes, I was betraying my wife. Yes, I was lying, cheating, and stealing. But I told myself I did these things to make myself a better man, a better husband. (And for the record, I stopped going by “Grey” in 2009, long before E.L. James and the piece of crap she wrote.)

Sure, in retrospect, I was insane. And. But….

Grey” is a pretty fundamental concept to me. The most interesting parts of my life, thought, and experience exist between “black” and “white.” When I realized this – and not just conceptually, but viscerally, in my bones – whole worlds opened up to me. Nothing ever is “black” or “white.”

In my CPOS years, “Grey” was a mask I wore. In the years since, “grey” has been the recipe for my salvation.

I’m old enough that tattoos aren’t so common among my peers. For nearly a decade, though, I’ve contemplated a simple, understated tattoo of the word “Grey.” Probably in stencil, somewhere unobtrusive. Though I have no tattoos (yet), I have a tattoo policy: I will not get my (first?) tattoo until one year after I decide to get one, including design and placement.

Today, I the one-year clock starts. I will have this:

tattooed on my left thigh, high enough never to be seen unless I’m nude (or wearing a ridiculous European bathing suit).

Sep 142017

There’s a whole community of sex bloggers out there, but not a lot of male sex bloggers. I’m the only male sex blogger I know (at least who’s anything like I am). Women write the vast majority of sex blogs. Male sex bloggers tend to be either gay or exhibitionists. Or both. There are a few straight ones, and a few good straight ones. I particularly like Guy New York, even as I find myself angered by my envy. And annoyed by what feels to me like a somewhat standoffish, one-note book-promotion effort.

There aren’t really any other blogs like this one out there.

Look what happens if you Google “male sex blogger.” It’s kinda ridiculous. Go ahead. See below. Or do it yourself.

To the best of my knowledge, I’m pretty much the only sensual dominant guy writing a sex blog. The only monogamish guy writing a sex blog. The only navel-gazing recovering “sex addict” writing a sex blog.

I’m not sure why. Sometimes I wonder about it.

I haven’t found anyone else writing as I do about sex clubs, about dominance, about BDSM generally. I haven’t found anyone who writes what Fifty Shades of Grey should have been. About good girls, about telling women to come for me and collecting their orgasms. Let alone about how all this shit works on me (him).

Once upon a time, Jefferson wrote a blog – “One Life Takes Two” – that was similar (and that was, in some ways, an inspiration for this blog). But he went down a kinda disturbing rabbit hole.

Anyway – I haven’t seen very many such blogs, but I’d be interested to read them, if you know of any.

Sep 132017

Health insurance: We Americans are confused. We all believe health care is a right. We think we shouldn’t have to pay to go to the doctor. But we blame insurance companies for every penny we are forced to go out of pocket.

I’m no fan of insurance companies, or of our system. But we all should probably pay a significant sum for our healthcare, whether that’s through taxes, insurance premiums (premia), or payments directly to healthcare providers.

I would prefer to pay taxes, and have the government bear the burden of healthcare for me. And for all of us.

Until then, radical inequality – and mass dissatisfaction – is inevitable.


I like sex. 😉

Sep 132017
  1. My local NPR station is losing me. The way I live my life, I listen to “time-shifted” audio much more often than “real-time” audio. While I’d love to listen to “Morning Edition” and “All Things Considered,” the requirement that I do so on their schedule, rather than on mine, increasingly simply leads to my not listening to those shows, to listening to other shows instead – including those that are NPR-produced competitors (like “Up First,” which is a poor substitute for “Morning Edition,” but is an excellent substitute for “Morning Edition” listened to fragmentarily in the way I can).
  2. I really want the Democrats to articulate a vision of the future that includes radical antitrust enforcement, breaking up Google, regulating Facebook, and imposing stringent requirements of all companies on their “Terms of Service.”
  3. I’ve been thinking a lot about “objectification,” about what it means to admire the curves of a woman I don’t know.
  4. Related: I like looking at women.
  5. I like how it feels when my cock is hard.
  6. I’ve been listening to “Dear Sugars,” at the suggestion of both L and V. I find it alternately excellent and maddening. I listened to the first half of the first episode of their two-part porn consideration, and I found it utterly maddening. The ways they think of sex, intimacy and porn – and sex work – all feel retrograde for me, and I’m offended by the way they portray themselves as open and accepting, even as moralistic judgment and normative prescriptions (and proscriptions) permeate their conversation.
  7. Related: I like porn.
Sep 112017

I was reminded this morning of something I wrote a while ago. It’s still true:

When someone bumps into me on the subway, or cuts me off when I’m driving, because he’s in a hurry, how I react is the best barometer of my mood I know: I’m capable of snarling fury – “That miserable fucker – how selfish and insensitive and obnoxious!” And I’m capable of gentle generosity – “Wow, he’s really in a rush and oblivious to his surroundings. I hope he’s o.k., that nothing terrible is happening in his life.” And, by being capable of both, I’m capable of seeing how projective my judgment generally is.

Sep 092017

To my right, a beautiful woman in her late 20s. Shiny brown hair; smooth, clear, skin; luscious, pouty lips.

To my left, an intrusive early-20s man.

She’s white, “upper middle class,” familiar to me. He’s caramel-colored, man-spreads aggressively, and glares at me, at my phone, un-self-consciously.

I’m trying to displace the theme to “Bojack Horseman” (“Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV show….“) from my ears, listening to “Lovett or Leave It.

He seems angry, annoyed with me. I’m not sure why. I’m taking up less than my allotted space, my headphones aren’t radiating sound, I don’t smell. I’m annoyed with him – his eyes, his legs, are invading my space. After a few minutes, he taps me, and motions with his hands – “Switch places with me?” He has a north London accent.

I’m annoyed, but whatever. I slide over as he stands up and then sits where I’d been, next to the babe to my right. He taps her and starts talking. I assume she’s going to be put off by him. I see nothing redeeming, nothing compelling. He’s not well dressed, not especially attractive, and violating subway rules left and right.

But I’m wrong. They start talking, first about the main de Fatima ring she’s wearing (he wants to know where she got it – again, intrusively, not accepting her vague answers, pushing further), and then, about her work (she teaches) and about where she went to university. She uses the word college. He explains, patronizingly (it sounds to me) the different British meaning of “college.” She knows, but she tolerates it. We pull into a busy station, and she says, “I get off here.” They’ve been talking for a minute. Maybe less.

“You have to give me your Instagram,” he says.

“I do?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says.

I’m sure she’s about to tell him to go fuck himself.

“Ok,” she says. “Can you remember it?”

“I’m sure I can,” he says.

She says the handle to him – it’s her first name and then some numbers. I don’t hear them.

She and I both get off, and I find myself seething, furious, envious, and curious. This just is not something I’ve ever done, ever would do. And yet….

Sep 082017

I wrote the other day about a recent date with Sheila, a new plaything from far away. She, and I, thought you might enjoy reading her version of our first date.


There is just too much to say about our virtual foreplay. I will say this though, the weeks of picture taking, directive dressing, tutored touching, writing about your cock in my mouth, orgasm recording, orgasm describing (orgasms that YOU gave me, orgasms that were yours) left me very excited for Tuesday 22 September.

You were fun and hot before I met you. Then we met, and you got better.

I was lost when you found me on the street. Yes I was excited, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also extremely nervous. My nerves, at this exact moment, were now compounded by the awkward anxiousness I felt about not being able to find the joint! Great. I’ll be late…I hate being late.

I texted you. Told you I was lost. No reply. Then I heard a voice and turned. “Can’t find it?” You. It’s you! You were walking up to me and smiling. You made me smile. You came right up to me with the confidence I would expect from N, and put your hand around my waist and kissed me; chastely, because I think you could sense my hesitation. My hesitation was only due to said nerves and anxiety (both in rapid decline at this point luckily). You looked me up and down before you directed us to the “oh so hipster” bar. Hipster nonsense.

I felt over dressed, but I reminded myself I dressed for you. “This is what he wants.” I calmed down. You stared some more. I averted my eyes some more. You have lovely skin. Is that odd to say? Well you do. I noticed the color and I wanted to touch your face and forearm. I didn’t have the courage or permission yet to do either so I coveted silently. You told me I was hot. You said it matter-of-factly after another peruse of my figure. I did something that I do, but hate, and said, “No I’m not” and shirked my shoulders. You called me on that. “Don’t do that”, you said. Thank you. Then you told me to go to the bathroom and take off my panties.

I was wet before I arrived. Following your directions, I had been touching myself the entire time I was dressing. You brought my hand up to your lips and nose before I went to the bathroom, but you couldn’t smell my cunt. Pity.

We sat at the bar and talked. Our conversation was easy, fun, and hot. You started to touch my stocking covered thigh. You went right up to the spot where the thigh turns into pelvis. You found that small patch of skin real estate that exists just before you reach the plump of my pussy lip. Your finger stayed there for a while barely touching me. You kept the conversation going and I think you wanted me to do the same, but honestly all coherent thought left me at that point so you’re lucky I didn’t fall off the stool.

You were watching my face. You were watching my lips. I like when you stare. Whatever you saw on my face gave you the green light to touch my cunt (do you wait for a green light?). I watched your face this time when you touched me. Your resolve cracked just a smidge when you felt how wet I was. You dipped your head a bit and looked up at me with hooded eyes. We both sipped our drink. You played with my wet pussy and clit for a while before you slid a finger into me. When you did, we both moved into the motion. I had my knee pressed up against your crotch and I could feel your hard cock. I asked if I could kiss you. You didn’t seem to want to kiss me and I couldn’t wait any longer.

You started to play with me with more determination, rubbing me harder and faster, fingering me deeper and deeper. You almost made me come. I would have, if I wasn’t so aware of all the people literally elbow length away from me. You took your finger out of me and tasted it. You said I tasted delicious. You brought my face to your lips and we tasted your finger together. You said, “See?” I said, “I guess so” and you slapped my face (lightly) and said, “no”. You don’t seem to like it when either a) I don’t agree with you b) put myself down c) don’t say exactly what I mean d) all of the above.

We took a break from the lust and went to have a cigarette. You told me to stand in the corner and pushed me up against the wall a bit. Crowding me. You told me that the booze must be hitting you because you were very close to dropping to your knees so you could taste my clit. When we went back to the bar, and after you put your hand back in me, you told me I was ready to go to the hotel. I was.