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Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

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.





Jun 172017

Whenever you visit my Tumblr – not the one with the still pictures, but the one with the GIFs – you end up getting yourself off.

I know this.

You’ve told me.

You think you’ll just look at one screen, for one moment. But that’s not how it goes. Instead, you find your fingers wandering down to your cunt, feeling as you get wet, touching your clit, probing into your pussy.

You’ve told me this. That it’s a surefire path to an orgasm for you to skim through the images I’ve curated, imagining you and me, together, in the ways shown in those GIFs.

Well, tonight, I want to watch. I want you to go to the Tumblr. To page through the images. To rub your clit. To slide a finger or two or three up into your cunt. But I want to sit in front of you, stroking my cock, as I watch you get yourself off to the images I’ve chosen. As you get yourself off for me.


Jun 142017

No seriously. I love to eat pussy.

And, I’m good at it.

Like, I can’t count how many women have told me I’m the best ever.

As I’ve written, for me, a measure of good sex is that, generally, when it’s happening, it feels like it’s the best ever. So I don’t take this superlative praise all seriously.

But I am good at it.

It seems wrong to me, then, somehow, that the women aren’t lining up.


Jun 132017

Her Tinder profile says, “I like to read, play golf and travel. And I also match my red lipstick with my soles. You will be a great husband if you know why.”

I am a great husband, and I won’t be a great one for her. But here are just three reasons why she might match her red lipstick with her soles – reasons I wouldn’t presume to foist upon her without an explicit green light. Which she kindly gave me.

1. So that, when your face is framed by your ankles, as I look up from between your thighs, there is no fashion distraction.

2. So that, as I grip your ankles, as my cock slides deep into you, and I stare into your eyes, my peripheral vision is nicely color coordinated, east, west, and south.

3. So that you don’t mistakenly leave embarrassing lip prints on the soles of your shoes.

Other ideas?

Jun 092017

I need it.

I’m not sure why. I have suspicions – I imagine that, as an infant, I cried, unattended, in my crib, longing to be held.

Maybe this happened.

Maybe it didn’t.

Psychic truth may or may not have anything to do with objective, real-world events.

My psychic truth is that this happened, and that, as a result, I find myself, today, both craving and fleeing touch.

Jun 072017

This happened to me.

I was riding a train. The doors opened. Four police officers – two white guys, two Latino guys, one of whom had a gold shield – all in plainclothes – stood before me. The gold shield said, “Step off the train, please, sir.”

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked.

“Step off the train please.”

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked, again.

“Step off the train, please, sir.”

I stepped off the train.

“Are you aware that you walked through two cars while the train was in motion?”

[My thought: “Um, yes. That was me.”] “Yes, sir.” [My thought: “Fuck, I just pled guilty. Should’ve fucking lawyered up.”]

“Please have a seat, sir,” the detective said, motioning to a nearby bench. “May we see some ID?”

There ensued a comical conversation about whether I’d ever been in trouble with the law before. (I thought he’d asked, “Have you ever walked between train cars before?” to which I replied, “Of course! I’ve lived here all my life.”) Misunderstanding clarified, the cops commenced using their phones to (attempt to) ascertain whether I had any outstanding warrants. Apparently, the warrant check system was down. Or not reach-able by any of their phones. “Only the best equipment for the NYPD,” one said to another, wryly.

I might well have had sixteen outstanding warrants. They asked me. I said, “No.”

They took me at my word. (I don’t have any outstanding warrants.) Would they have taken me at my word if I were a little more melanin-rich? If I were wearing a turban? A galabya? I doubt it.

Another listened to his earpiece, and said to the others, “Brooklyn-bound F train.”

“Manhattan-bound,” I [helpfully, thought I] corrected.

“No,” he said. “What’s on the radio….”

“Oh, sorry,” I said.

There wasn’t an ounce of warmth, or playfulness, from these dudes. They were very serious. All business. I was in trouble.

They wrote up a summons. Seventy-five dollars.

The detective lectured me. Twice. On the perils of walking between train cars.

As I sat, I pondered the state of my country. The fear I have of the suspensions of civil liberties our president is chomping at the bit to impose. I had lunch the other day with a (new) friend, a Jew, a gay Jew, who both fears the impending rounding-up of the Jews and is rooting for a draconian suspension of civil liberties to “protect us” from “terrorists.”

What I want?

A draconian crackdown on driving. Drunk driving. Any kind of driving. If we got rid of it, imagine how many lives we’d save? If we’d prevented every fucking terrorist attack in the US over the last twenty years, we’d save what, 5,000 lives?

Not to trivialize those lives, but….

Anyway. I sat there. I thought about these four guys, guys who chose to be cops, to protect and to serve, and instead, found themselves issuing a $75 summons for a crime (a “violation,” actually) called “unsafe riding.”

I thought about how, just days ago, in London, people were being mowed down and stabbed.

I thought about how, in my city, right then, surely, within a mile of where we were, a woman was being beaten by her husband, a gay man was being harassed, a child was being beaten.

Never mind the tens of thousands of people the fucking insane embarrassment of a president would have us believe are lying in wait, plotting, plotting, plotting.


As I sat there, politely awaiting my summons, I thought, “How lucky I am, a white, upper-middle-class man, to be having the fifth involuntary encounter interaction of my life with the cops.”

First, age 12, for lighting fires. Guilty as charged.

Second, age 19, speeding. Guilty as charged.

Third, age 21, speeding. Sort of guilty. Mostly guilty for having out-of-state plates in a state where that matters.

Fourth, age 39, really speeding (60 in a 35). Guilty AF. (But, honestly, the 35 should be 50.)

Fifth, unsafe riding.

How fucking lucky am I? Seriously.

But Jesus Christ, what’s ahead of us….