N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Mar 242017
 

A murder of crows

A flock of seagulls.

A pride of lions.

A school of fish.

What do you call a collection of spectacularly beautiful Brazilian women, all with caramel skin, all with shiny dark hair, all with sensuous full lips?

(Asking for a friend.)

Mar 232017
 

I send you a ticket.

I tell you what to wear.

I tell you what to pack.

You drop everything. Miss a day.

You tell one close friend, and promise to send her a text every two hours you’re with me.

You dress precisely as I instruct, and are met by me on arrival.

We have a meal and get to know one another, before I take you to a hotel room. In that room, you shower and change into another outfit I’ve selected for you. Or maybe you lay out your clothes and I dress you once you’re out of the shower. Or maybe I lay out your clothes and leave your room for a few minutes, so you may dress in privacy.

In any case, once dressed, you sit for me. You stand for me. I admire you, turn you around, perhaps touch you, gently, tentatively.

I kiss you. I have you walk for me. I have you crawl for me. I have you pour me a drink, serve me. You kneel between my legs as I sip the drink you’ve gotten me.

And – did you see that video I posted the other day? You lick my cock, just like that.

For. Fucking. Ever.

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Mar 222017
 

Every day, I confront three or four awkward stretches of time. Fifteen minutes here, thirty there – times I’m between point A and point B. Because reasons, it’s best if I leave point A and not arrive at point B and so, I camp out. Often, in a Starbucks. Today, in a salad place. I pay a couple of bucks for a Pellegrino (actually, a “Hal’s New York Seltzer Water”) and I sit, renting a chair and WiFi. I write. Or work. Or meditate. Or I just watch.

Today, a young woman sits across from me. We share an empty lunch place at eleven o’clock. No other customers intrude on us. She stares at me. She smiles. She’s cute. Slender. Her skin is caramel. Her smile broadens, her mouth opens. I see her braces. And the picture comes into focus: she’s fifteen. Maybe sixteen. Maybe fourteen.

Her smile is too open, too inviting.

I feel danger. I’m not supposed to flirt with this girl. Now I notice that her hips haven’t widened. The way she eats, her lack of self-consciousness: she’s not a young woman. She’s an old girl.

The danger is palpable now. She looks different. She’s not appealing but instead, repulsive. Not inviting but instead, just wrong. I want to say to her, “Don’t smile at men like that. It won’t end well.”

I struggle to look away. She’s a car crash waiting to happen. I open up my Chromebook, fix my eyes on the screen, and I type.

Mar 212017
 

I’ve written before about Viagra. I’ve used it for years, happily.

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Since I began using it, I’ve valued tremendously how it makes my cock tingle, how it brings my attention to it, not so much making it hard as making it ready to be hard.

In recent months, I’ve experienced a bit of a… diminution… in my erections. I’ve written a little about it, glancingly, in my descriptions of a few recent sexual encounters. I’ve wondered if it’s all Trump’s fault (and I think it may well be).

Last week, I met with my physician, an affable, genial guy. We spent ten minutes talking about my health, about erectile dysfunction, and about the options available to me, and then another fifty or so talking politics. That’s kinda how he is. He likes to lecture a bit – he has the “boy voice,” that tendency so many of us men have to imagine that we know things. I write this entire blog, I think, in the boy voice, but of course, it’s my blog.

Anyway – notwithstanding his boy voice, I enjoyed meeting with him, and thought I’d share with you the upshot of our discussion of erectile dysfunction, because I found it interesting.

First, he told me that it’s not unusual for men to experience a diminution in the efficacy of Viagra over time.

Second, he told me that his next preferred option is Cialis, which works similarly, but somewhat differently. Cialis, he told me, can be prescribed in two different ways: on a “PRN” basis – taken “as needed,” half an hour or an hour before sex, in which case you take, say, 20 mg, and then are good to go for something like 36 or more hours. OR, taken in a lower dose, say 5 mg, daily. In this instance, you’re arranging your body to have a steady level of Cialis in your bloodstream, and thus, are ever ready.

“Give me that second option!” I nearly shouted.

It’s only been a few days, but this is what I can say: DAMN. I feel seventeen. It’s not that I’m hard all the time. I’m not. But I do have this nearly constant sense of potentiality in my cock, this awareness that my cock is a place that blood is flowing.

Damn.

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I’ll keep you posted….

 

Mar 162017
 

I don’t deserve Tamora’s mouth on my cock. She’s experienced just about all of the worst I have to offer. In spite of our having had a number of really fun, hot dates, in spite of her being kind, funny, interesting, smart, in spite of my enjoying her company regardless of whether my cock is in her mouth or not, I’ve failed her.

I haven’t written as much about her as I might, which doesn’t really distinguish her. But it does hurt her. Which also, sadly, doesn’t distinguish her. It’s the nature of my muse that I wrote most about the women who are most complicated for me. I write about problems. So most of the sex she and I have had – fun, urgent, powerful, uncomplicated sex – hasn’t appeared on this blog.

Tamora has, on occasion, been a problem: she flakes on me, more often than not. But flakiness doesn’t get me writing.

In our most recent encounter, though, not only didn’t she flake on me, but I almost flaked on her. I didn’t. But I almost did. Which she didn’t know. Until I told her.

Which was unnecessary. What I told her, how I told her, was just dumb. Cruel.

The details aren’t important. What’s important is that I was a dick.

I’ve actually encountered Tamora many times outside of the context of her sucking my cock. Often, on the street. Once, in her place of employment. As a customer. We’ve talked about our families, about politics, about the world. She’s not particularly submissive, to me.

This isn’t remotely a problem. Though I write about dominance and submission, though most of the sex you read about here features me in a dominant role, I like pretty much all sex.

Tamora feels a magnetic pull to suck my cock. When such a pull materializes in a woman so attractive, and so skilled, I consider myself powerfully lucky. I can’t believe I managed to sabotage the good thing I had going with her. I hope, soon, her hunger for my cock drowns out the bitter taste I left in her mouth.

And, of course, I’m sorry.

Mar 162017
 

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Photo courtesy of Steeled Snake

Welcome to Elust 92

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #93 Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Feeling Forced

NEEDY – a black obsession

Monogamish

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

“One Man Is Not Enough For You.”
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~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Safewords in Kink Life and in Kink Fiction

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
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Mar 152017
 

… that you are beautiful.

… that you will suck my cock.

… that I will lick your clit.

… that commando is overrated.

… that nudity is overrated.

… that the highest form of flattery is compliance.

… that ass men – and leg men, and breast men – all are missing out on what the others see. Which is why I’m just a woman man.

Mar 142017
 

I spent much of my twenties in bars. I never had a drinking problem, but I spent many late nights drinking, mostly with the same crew. There were a few bars we frequented. The dive bar with $4 pitchers of bud, where I tried valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to bed the red-headed waitress from Cincinatti. And whose owner once tried – and failed – to punch me. The beautiful bar with the ironwork out front and the spectacular wooden mirrored bar. With the buxom waitress whose apartment (I heard from my childhood best friend, who characteristically bedded her) was filled floor-to-ceiling with newspapers. The jazz joint, where one of my friends – taller than us, bearded – was once told by a server, “I can serve you, but not your children.” The less-good jazz joint, smaller, with the sisters who tended bar, one stocky and busty, one slender and tiny. The dive bar with the pool table in the back and the bikers who monopolized it. And the one in which I found myself just the other night – a tiny little hole-in-the-wall on a residential block, incongruously sandwiched between a quiet restaurant and some unfortunate people’s homes.

So the other night, I was there, in this bar where, twenty-five years ago, I drank far too much. On this evening, I drank just the right amount. I’ve learned some things in twenty-five years, among them, pacing. As I peed in the tiny, freezing bathroom, I remembered a sloppy fuck in the disgusting bathroom. Making out on the street in front. The pungent smoke that used to permeate the place. The wannabe fireman who always, always was there.

This time, I was there with two good friends from the neighborhood. Not friends from my 20s, but grown-up friends. The sort I made as an adult. We talked politics while two women tried unconvincingly to bed us. One of my friends – married, not open – was just drunk enough to take a number. The other – also married, also not open – fled home, terrified. I – the one of the three of us who plausibly could make out with either of them – simply watched. I sipped my scotch. I chatted with the affable, bemused bartender. And, at the end of the evening, I walked the ten-minute walk home, crawled into bed, and passed out.

All bartenders are sexy