N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Apr 242017
 

I often write that what I want is your compliance.

But what I need?

It turns out, that’s different.

I need one – or more, but at least one – of the following:

  1. Your mouth in service of my cock.
  2. Your thighs, open for me, pressing against my ears, as my tongue finds your clit.
  3. Your cunt, wet, as my cock slides in and out of it.

Is that so much to ask?

Apr 192017
 

Eight years ago, I had my first mid-life crisis. My life was careening out of control. I made those around me as miserable as I felt.

In the time since, a lot has happened. This blog shows some of that, but not all of it. Not very much, actually. It doesn’t address the revolution in my marriage, the professional changes, the evolution of my friendships. My first mid-life crisis led to a radical reinvention of my self.

Today, I find myself in my second mid-life crisis. The first demanded change in every sphere. Anyone who knew me could see plainly what was happening. And if they couldn’t see WHAT was happening, they certainly saw that SOMETHING dramatic was happening.

This time, friends and family see far less. Blog readers might sense it. I got a note the other day, which I reproduce – edited for clarity and grammar:

What has happened????  My lady and myself have been avid readers of your blogs for many years, being able to review the archives, including wicked wednesday, frisky friday, etc., musing and memory etc. This site was unsurpassed for us, and very well written – it had everything. Now  it’s a mere shadow, the sparkle and the detail have gone. Why?

First, of course, I’m so flattered by the praise here, even if the author lodges it firmly in the past tense. Second, as with any interesting question in life, there isn’t one simple answer. I’ve been writing here for more than six years. The blog has one URL, but thousands of entries, maybe even millions of words. It’s changed. Many times.

From the start, it wasn’t just one blog. It was a sex blog and a meditation blog and a thinking blog and a confession blog and a proselytizing blog and and and….

At the start, I was driven, urgent, writing two or three entries a day. Readers could taste my excitement, my desire, my curiosity. I needed to tell you my story, both so you would know it, and so I could form an understanding of it.

My life facilitated this: at the time, professional and other demands on me left me lots of time to write.

Today, I have less time. I could go into why, but that’s not what this blog is about.

Other things have changed, too. When I started this blog, I had grandiose fantasies. It would change the world, become a phenomenon, lead to book deals. In the event, it did far better things for me. It helped me make sense of myself, of my journey, in a way that was gratifying, fulfilling, and healthy. It introduced me to people. It became a part of me.

For all these reasons, it’s changed over time. And I don’t doubt it’s become less compelling too many, or even most, readers.

That’s ok. I mean, I’m sorry if you’ve lost something, but I’m not apologizing: all along, what I’ve offered is a window into my psyche, not a product defined by your desires. As my psyche has evolved, so has the blog.

But back to my crisis….

In recent months, I’ve become painfully aware of a few realities, all overlapping:

1. I will die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day. Eight years ago, I had that same revelation, and totally altered how I led my life in response. Today, the realization is different, deeper, more philosophical, less action-demanding. Today, I’m mourning my eventual death, whereas eight years ago, I was resisting, raging, and course-correcting.

No regrets here – I’m proud of and grateful for the changes I made. But turns out, life remains finite.

2. I might not die in a flash of light, a single moment of transition from being to not being. More likely, death won’t be so much an event as a process, a deterioration, diminution, transition.

3. Between here and there lies not just change, not just suffering, but insult. Life will get harder and harder, and my vanity will take hit after hit. I’m fortunate in that, notwithstanding some stuff, I’m healthy. Not just healthy, but deceptively fit looking. I’m often told I look five or ten years younger than I am. This confuses me, though: while I LOOK fit, I feel like shit. My body has been through some shit in the last two years, and even if you can’t see it to look at me, there’s no missing it if you ARE me. I don’t have pain-free moments. There’s no activity in which I engage in which I’m not aching. And I know that it’s just a matter of time before my outward appearance catches up to my inner state.

In this sense, I enjoy good fortune. My inner state, though pained, is, mostly, equanimous.

Except not lately. And hence, my crisis.

Yesterday, I understood my inevitable decline and death as theoretical certainties. Today, they’re not theoretical. They’re practical. They’re here. They’re now.

I suspect this informs some of my diminished intensity, both in living and in writing.

Please forgive me.

And here’s another thing: I’m filled with regrets. Or not really regrets. It’s not that I wish I’d done x, y, or z differently. I mean, I do, but that’s not the point. If I’d done those things differently, I would be different, and, truth be told, I like me pretty well the way I am. So even if the path that led me to where I am today featured some wrong turns, I’m pretty convinced they only look wrong in isolation; given the totality of everything, in retrospect, I made no mistakes.

And still… I find myself mourning, crying. Not for the wrong turns so much as for the pain and sadness. In the same way I look at my son and feel his pain in a deep, bodily way, when I look back at my own life thus far, I see my own pain, again, in a deep, bodily way, only this time, more intently.

This is a strange phenomenon: as a teenager, I suffered, like any teen. Today, though, when I look at the pain I felt then, it feels more acute, more painful, more sad than I remember. So too, the pain I felt as a toddler. And as a pre-teen. And an adolescent. And a young adult. And an adult. And so on…. Everywhere I look, I see greater sadness in retrospect than I recall feeling in the moment.

More will come on this subject, but I think what I’ve written begins to answer my reader’s question….

Apr 122017
 

On a warm spring day, her black leather jacket makes me sweat just to look at it. Not to mention her fur-lined black leather boots.

Her black rectangular plastic glasses frame her pretty green eyes. Her blonde hair, still wet from the shower, frames her black glasses in another rectangle.

Her lips, though, dominate the picture: lush, full, expressive, as she types in her phone, they twist and turn, pointing up in a smile, down in puzzlement.

Sexy, sensual, wet, they captivate me.

Apr 052017
 

For the second time in about two months, my blog disappeared. This time, for almost exactly twenty-four hours. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but the solution to the problem involved googling “WordPress white screen of death,” and disabling all my “plugins.”

I was joking to a friend today that I have about 85% of the skills I need to run this blog. In a different world, I’d hire someone else to do it. I recently made some improvements to the mobile site – it’s easier to navigate and to read than it used to be. And I’ve changed up the way posts appear on the desktop. I used to show full posts. Now, I show just teasing snippets. I’m torn about this change (and would love to hear your thoughts). On the one hand, I think it’s prettier the new way. Or rather, less ugly. On the other hand, I miss the full posts waiting on the landing page. I feel a little guilty making you click to read any substance.

Anyway: when, earlier today, I thought the blog had disappeared, and realized that I hadn’t backed it up in way too long, I felt nauseated. Like maybe I was missing a limb or something. The thought of having lost all this work just made me feel awful.

But I didn’t. It’s all here.

Phew. Lucky for you. Luckier for me. 😉

I’m back….

Apr 012017
 

I really liked “Serial,” the podcast whose first season was about the mystery surrounding the death of Hae Min Lee, a Baltimore high school girl, and the conviction of Adnan Syed, for her murder, and whose second season was about Bowe Bergdahl. A few weeks ago, the folks at “This American Life” and “Serial” started hyping their next effort – “S-Town.” I consciously avoided reading or hearing anything about it until yesterday. Sarah Koenig, the creator and host of “Serial,” annoys the shit out of me. I loved the show in spite of her, rather than because of her – even as I had nothing but awe for what she’d created.

Yesterday afternoon, I saw an e-mail in my “junk” folder hyping “S-Town,” and I thought to myself, “I’m not listening until, unless, someone I know and respect tells me it’s amazing.” So. I thought that. And literally, as I finished that thought, the following text came through from T: “I started listening to S town. It’s amazeballs.”

That was less than 24 hours prior to my writing this, and I just finished binge-listening. It’s ten times better than “Serial.” In every way. The story, the characters, the telling, the music, the concept. All of it.

You must go listen.

It’s hard to say much of anything about it without spoilers galore – but: it’s moving, heartbreaking, redemptive, maddening, compelling, and, ultimately, an incredibly sensitive portrayal of the complexity of what it is to be human.

When you’re done listening, click past the jump to find some pictures I found on line of characters and scenes in the show.

Continue reading »

Mar 302017
 

Some years ago, I participated in a week-long silent meditation retreat. For seven days, I woke at 5 am. I meditated sitting for 45 minutes. I ate breakfast in silence with about 24 or 25 other retreatants. The rest of the day, I alternated between sitting and walking 45-minute meditations. We ate three meals a day. We listened to one “dharma talk” a day. Every day or two, I had a personal meeting, or “interview,” with a teacher. I did this for seven days. Oh yeah – I also did chores. Dishwashing, sweeping, helping the cook prep. We spoke as needed, but no more, during chores.

Sitting meditations began and ended with the ringing of a bell, by the teacher. Or, occasionally, by a privileged retreatant. The bell-ringer would sit facing the rest of us, who would sit, cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed. Except to the extent that we opened them. (A few of us sat not on the floor, but in chairs, if our knees required it. But not I.)

Not only did we not speak; we didn’t make eye contact.

By day five, I’d only spoken with two or three people during a dishwashing or cooking shift. Nonetheless, I’d formed comprehensive mental pictures of everyone. Based on how they sat, how they walked, how they dressed. Some, I imagined I would really like. Some, I imagined I would find boring. Some I imagined I would dislike, some I imagined I would feel contempt for. I don’t remember how self-conscious I was of these imaginings. Did I know they were almost completely projections? Did I trust them implicitly, thinking them accurate? I don’t recall.

Late in the afternoon on the fifth day, an attractive 20-something woman kept time. This woman, I had decided I hated. She thought she was like, the best meditator. She thought herself cool, thought she had an “in” with the meditation teacher. She was privileged, enlightened, snotty. Better than the rest of us. I was sure of it. I could tell by how she poured her tea, by her oh-so-special meditation cushion. So when, as the sitting started, I saw her at the front of the room, sitting, facing us, keeping time, I thought, “Oh, shit.”

That’s right: I’m about to close my eyes for 45 minutes and breathe, and the woman who rings the bell pisses me off. As the meditation began, I felt burning, stinging hatred for this woman. In my nose. In the back of my throat. In the tightness in my chest, the rapidity, shallowness, of my breathing. I couldn’t stop thinking about just how annoying she was. And that was at the start of the meditation. By the end of it, I was furious.

You see, she had one responsibility: to ring the bell at the start of the period, and again, at the end. But as we sat, my knees started hurting. Back then, I couldn’t sit cross-legged for long. At least not comfortably. Today, there’s no more comfortable position for me. I can sit that way for, literally, hours at a time. But not so, then. So as the minutes passed, my knees hurt more, and more, and more. Until I was in sheer agony. Part of the story I told myself that week was that people judged me if I moved too much before the end of a sitting session. They thought me a “poor meditator,” lacking discipline, etc. Especially her.

The nice thing about a retreat like this is that all the action is in your head. No one was judging me. Or rather, some people may well have been judging me. But some people, no doubt, didn’t even notice me. And others probably envied me my evident comfort in moving around, so often did I fidget.

But this bitch at the front of the room, I told myself, she was judging me. And not only was she judging me, she was failing at the one fucking task for which she was responsible: timekeeping. My aching knees told me that far more than 45 minutes had passed. She sat there, serenely, eyes closed. I knew she was malicious. Malevolent. She was subjecting us to extra cross-leggedness in service of the disingenuous, lying proposition that she was so fucking deep in her meditation that she’d lost track of the time.

That wasn’t all, though. As the minutes ticked by, I opened my eyes. Impatiently, I glared at her, willing her to just ring the fucking bell. But she didn’t. So I looked around. I saw other people’s eyes flickering open. I made eye contact with one or two of them. We shared a knowing moment: CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS BITCH???

When, finally, finally, she rang the bell, I shot one last volley of bullets at her with my eyes, pried my legs apart, and stood up. I stumbled into the nearby kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, to soothe my wounded spirit, and glanced up at the clock. (There were no clocks in the meditation room.)

Precisely 45 minutes had passed since the start of the meditation.

Mar 292017
 

I, um, came across this study by three academics named Regnerus, Price, and Gordon, and thought you might find it interesting:

Masturbation and Partnered Sex: Substitutes or Complements?

Abstract

Drawing upon a large, recent probability sample of American adults ages 18-60 (7648 men and 8090 women), we explored the association between sexual frequency and masturbation, evaluating the evidence for whether masturbation compensates for unavailable sex, complements (or augments) existing paired sexual activity, or bears little association with it. We found evidence supporting a compensatory relationship between masturbation and sexual frequency for men, and a complementary one among women, but each association was both modest and contingent on how content participants were with their self-reported frequency of sex. Among men and women, both partnered status and their sexual contentment were more obvious predictors of masturbation than was recent frequency of sex. We conclude that both hypotheses as commonly evaluated suffer from failing to account for the pivotal role of subjective sexual contentment in predicting masturbation.

Ah yes – the pivotal role of subjective sexual contentment….