N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Jul 212017
 

Thanks to a thought-provoking conversation, I’ve been thinking about my relationship to touch.

A woman with whom I’ve had the good fortune to enjoy a lot of fun over the last couple of years wondered if I don’t avoid touch, if I don’t use my form of dominance to minimize touch, other than the very specific forms of sexual touch that I crave.

I don’t see it that way, but her question got me thinking.

I think I use dominance not to much to minimize touch as to ensure that the touch I receive feels good, right to me. For reasons I can only begin to guess at, I’m vulnerable to experiencing certain forms of touch as impinging, as, in some way, violating my sense of self. Any person who suffers from a fundamental avoidance of intimacy is familiar with this. I once had a girlfriend (two or three lifetimes ago), who – though beautiful, and sexual – could cause me to recoil simply by touching my flesh. It didn’t matter where, when, or how she touched me. The simple sensation of our bodies coming into contact with one another became, over the course of our relationship, increasingly intolerable to me.

Today, that’s not me. I do struggle with intimacy. I do struggle with the coincidence of sexual and emotional intimacy, and there’s no doubt I find sexual intimacy in the absence of emotional intimacy easier, compelling even. That’s a big part of how I fell down that rabbit hole, years ago: paying for sex allows me to avoid intimacy (at a cost that’s not just financial). As Charlie Sheen said, he didn’t pay women to fuck him; he paid them to leave.

I crave touch. I crave fingers on my face, my back, my head, my ass, my cock, my legs. Sometimes, as we’re falling asleep, T will simply hold my left calf – a zone of my body that – again, for reasons I can only begin to guess at – holds enormous psychic power over me. There’s little that feels better for me than that particular touch.

Except when it doesn’t. Except when it’s at the wrong moment, or with the wrong pressure, or using the wrong fingers.

I’m a fragile teapot when it comes to touch, and what dominance allows – not by minimizing touch, but, by controlling it, to ensure that I get, precisely, what I need.

Jul 202017
 

I often write that I occasionally head into dates knowing – just knowing – that they’ll be disappointing.

I think of this as a sort of vestige of my more addictive, compulsive, driven behavior. I enter the date hoping against hope I’ll be surprised, that it’ll go differently than I already can tell it will go.

It never does.

And recently, I experienced a first: a date that, it was clear, was headed south, ended not with a goodbye, but with the woman abandoning me, telling me she was going to the ladies’ room, leaving me with her drink, and her umbrella, and disappearing.

Let me be clear: this has never happened to me. I’ve never done this.

I think, generally, I date people of a certain quality – a quality that makes it perfectly reasonable to say, “You know? This was fun. Take care.” Or even, “You know? This sucked. Take care.”

I’m a little baffled by this particular decision, particularly by someone who sent me a number of pictures that simultaneously revealed her face and her body.

But, whatever.

I’m not that guy, and perhaps she correctly judged me.

All I can say is this: it was clear it was a bad date. Mutually. Why make a dick move like that?

Jul 132017
 

Long-time readers know that, once upon a time, I had a policy. Summarized, the policy was, a woman who wants to suck my cock may do so.

Over time, I found myself having to abandon that policy, owing primarily to, well, life.

At this particular moment, though, I find myself revisiting it. I think it may be time, once again, to reinstate it.

What do you think?

Jul 062017
 

I was reading Hy’s recent account of Mr. Young, and was reminded of one of the greatest – and worst – aspects of life for those of us who continually flirt with sex and relationships with others: there are ups and downs. We have connections, and they come apart. The stakes often are low, in reality, but they always, always feel high.

You can read back in this blog and find dozens of examples of my getting overwhelmed with excitement about some woman or other who soon disappeared, never to be heard from again.

On the one hand, this sucks. Abandonment, rejection, loss, all suck.

On the other hand, what a wealth of emotional experience I get to have in these ultimately low-risk ways. I’m constantly relearning just how much of my psychic and sexual experience takes place between my own two ears.

Jul 032017
 

Much has been written recently about the “resting bitch face,” a sort of disdainful pout that pops up candids all the time.

The gender-specific appellation is wrong, and misogynistic. Many of us default to our own personal RBF, and attaching the b-word – even if just acronymically – to that seems doubly wrong, both inaccurate and perpetuating.

All that said….

I love to look at strangers’ faces, at the expressions they port throughout their day. I imagine their expressions tell me lots – not just about their moods, but about their sexualities, about their worldviews, about their histories.

There’s the man in his late fifties, jaw jutting forward, eyes uplifted, arms crossed. He is determined, he’s been through a lot. But the slightest uptick at the edge of his mouth tells me he’s inclined to see the good in people, to be kind. In my mind, he is married, faithful, devoted. Sure, he has fantasies – dark fantasies, of which he’s ashamed. Maybe involving violence, or children. But he is a strong man, and, except for just a few slips, he has tamed them.

The woman in her forties whose lips defy the adage that it’s harder to frown than to smile. Even when she does smile, the smile appears within the confines of her frown. I don’t imagine she actually is unhappy, per se. Rather, I think her reflexes all are negative. I don’t imagine she is a giver, sexually, but neither do I imagine her easily satisfied.

The woman in her fifties who has a sly, almost naughty smile, at all times. She makes eye contact, and her smile opens, broad, wide. I imagine her to have lots of friends, lots of lovers, to be skilled at creating fun in just about any circumstance.

Jun 232017
 

It’s not sex, but I thought, as a public service, I might offer translations of Breitbart headlines for those of you unfamiliar with them. 

Every day, the New York Times publishes a roundup of writing on the left and the right, in the guise of helping expose people to views different from their own. Sort of. But what they aren’t doing is covering the propaganda effort being waged effectively by the right, so I thought I’d show you what I wish they would cover, as it seems vital to me to cover the news not as it has been covered, but as an incipient authoritarian be covered.

These are just a few of Breitbart’s headlines from this morning:

Headline: Sex offender allegedly raped seven year old six weeks after his release from prison for another rape.

Translation: Perverts are everywhere, and mushy-headed liberals want to release them all from prison so they can rape your daughters and wives!

Headline: Stevie Wonder: “Can’t say black lives matter when blacks are killing blacks.”

Translation: N…..s are busy killing one another, and Black Lives Matter isn’t just hateful, it’s absurd. And look! A n….r agrees with us!

Headline: Texas heat kills three illegal immigrants in one day.

Translation: Our country is teeming with cockroaches – I mean illegal aliens – I mean “undocumented immigrants” [imagine snide tone]; they are weak and useless.

Headline: Ohio State football recruit wears t-shirt: I hope I don’t get killed for being Black today.

Translation: Fucking stupid n….r. He’s a fucking football player. If he can’t defend himself, he’s a histrionic pussy.

Headline: Elizabeth Warren on McConnell health care bill: these cuts are blood money, people will die.

Translation: Pocohontas doesn’t understand that the threats our country faces are Muslims, and n…..s, and criminals, and pedophiles, and perverts. She’s fucking RIDICULOUS for saying people will die because the government gives a few fewer dollars to worthless welfare queens.

Please understand: I’m translating. These are not my views. But they are what Breitbart wants us to hear.

Jun 232017
 

“Your eyes are piercing,” she said to me.

I was at lunch with a close friend. We were talking about important, difficult things: marriage, children. He’s probably my closest friend. I count myself lucky to have multiple plausible candidates for that role; unlucky, in that the undisputed occupier of it from 1976-2010 no longer is one of those plausible candidates.

“People tell me that,” I stammered. Her accent was pronounced. Italian? Portuguese? Spanish? My friend hadn’t heard what she’d said. I was preoccupied with her perfectly imperfect beauty.

Her eyes are piercing – far more so than mine. She’s tiny – maybe 5’1″ or 5’2″. Her dress, backless, revealed both her lacy black bra and her multiple tattoos – most prominently, a chain of flowers (roses?) hanging down her back, beneath her black hair. Her smile dominates her face, insanely cute. Her complexion: imperfect, and far sexier for that. Had her skin been clear, smooth, I wouldn’t have been so drawn in. I wondered about a woman so sexy, so forward, so confident. What has her life held thus far? What (who) is next in it?

My friend and I continued our conversation. He hadn’t really noticed her. (He’s gay.)

I strained to listen to him, replaying, editing, my response to her compliment.

She refilled my water. I told her what I’d meant to say was, “Thank you!”

She said something about Americans being rude. I explained we’re not rude, we just don’t know how to take a compliment. At least I don’t. (I wanted to say “We just don’t know how to take compliments from stunning women,” but my friend rendered me self-conscious.)

She left. She came back. Refilled my water assiduously. I drank equally assiduously. She seemed intent on keeping my glass full. In a way I chose to take as promising. Or at least, interested.

Maybe I flatter myself. I probably do.

But she kept the flirting going, more than I felt free to, given my companion, given our conversation.

I was left simply to admire her, to plot my return, to deliver this paean to her.

She said something to me about ice melting in my heart, about the warmth inside me.

A thousand responses suggested themselves to me in that moment. Here’s hoping that, one day, I get to share one or two of them with her.

Jun 222017
 

A girl meets me on Tinder. Or rather, she “meets” me.

She’s directed to this blog, and she reads about me. Or rather, she reads what I’ve written. She wonders: “Is this real? Is this guy who he says he is? Is he – the Tinder guy – even the same guy as the guy who writes the blog?” How is she to know? And, if I am that guy, the guy who writes the blog, what’s the relationship between that guy and the guy with whom she interacts, whom she might hope to meet?

Those are impossible questions – much more complicated, and difficult, than the confounding one I get more often – “How can I know who you are if you won’t show me your picture?” That question feels to me in some ways dispositive: if it’s really a deal-breaker, then we’re probably not a great match. Not because chemistry doesn’t matter, not because I’m not hot. But because, in my experience, some of the hottest people I’ve met I’ve had zero chemistry with, and I’ve found a number of women whose photos I might not have resonated with enormously hot, once we met. And, because what I have to offer primarily is a package – a package of personality, thinking, instruction, request, domination, and appreciation. And that’s what’s going to draw a woman to me, more than my looks. (Even if she finds my looks very compelling, which wouldn’t be unprecedented.)

So anyway: the answer to the Tinder woman worried about the first question – is it me? Am I the guy who writes the blog? The answer to that question is…. Yes.

 

Jun 192017
 

I’m feeling passive lately.

Right now, I simply want to look at you. To admire your inner thighs, and your cunt.

Not nude – no, please don’t bare yourself to me. Tease me. Open your thighs in a way that communicates that you’re mine, but cover your pussy for me, in a way that keeps me hungry for more.

Show me yourself like that.

Over.

And.

Over.

Please.