N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Jul 152018
 
– Port my blog to a new web host for me
– Finish the task of printing it
– Download all the porn from 2 or 3 web sites I choose, catalog it, and, perhaps, make me some inspired by the cataloging
– Catch up on my accounting/bookkeeping
– Catalog/organize 20 years worth of digital photos
– Digitize/catalog/organize all analog photos
– Go through my clothes. Recommend deaccession opportunities, as well as suggest new additions
– Clean my office, documenting your cleaning photographically (bending over, scrubbing, etc)
– Recommend OKC, Tinder, or other profiles of women to join us. Pursue them. Procure them.
– Make me various healthy lunches. Serve them to me. On your body.
For starters.
In general, all these tasks would have photographic, audio, and/or video components.
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Jul 112018
 

Once upon a time, I had an assistant. She was college-educated, whip-smart, super-efficient, perfectionistic, dedicated, loyal, and prescient. Sort of like a hyper-professional version of Radar O’Reilly. Because boundaries, I related to her utterly professionally (even though she was, when we met, a super-attractive single woman, and, when we parted, a super-attractive married woman). We worked together for nearly ten years, in multiple contexts – she followed me around a little, and I was grateful. But this assistant, call her M, spoiled me. She took care of anything I needed. When I traveled unexpectedly, she had clothes shipped to me (and did the shopping, well). When I needed flights, or dinner reservations, or to change a dentist’s appointment… she did it all, and expertly.

In recent years, I don’t have an assistant. I sometimes fantasize that I might have a 24/7 submissive assistant who could fulfill some of these functions for me – and at times, V did, L did, Lexy did, and others have done, some or others of them. But none has quite been the assistant M was (although M never sucked my cock, nor did I even allow myself to imagine that)….

Lately, I’ve been wondering about the impending crop of “virtual assistants.” There’s x.ai, a sort of “AI” scheduling bot that I don’t really understand (and that’s irrelevant to me). There’s “Fin,” which has great promotional videos, and looks super-promising, but which isn’t yet functional. And there’s Magic, which I’ve been trying out. I’m gonna tell you a little bit about Magic, the only virtual assistant I’ve tried so far.

It’s fucking magic. So here are some things I’ve had it do for me:

  1. I’ve had it book me a (legitimate) massage. (I texted, “Book me a massage at Spa X at one of the following times – [list of 3 times].” Magic responded by asking me to confirm one of the times, and then, booked the massage. And sent me directions. And added it to my Google calendar.
  2. I’ve had it identify a Pilates studio (I texted, “find me a Pilates studio with a beginners/intro class at roughly [X:00 on Tuesday] in [Neighborhood X]”) and book a class. Which it did, and then put it in my Google calendar.
  3. I’ve had it research how to turn this blog into a chronologically ordered PDF or book. And soon, I’ll have it actually do that for me.
  4. And I’ve had it track down some things that I was having a hard time finding (and that, for reasons, I won’t go into too much detail about here).

The rates are totally reasonable (in fact, I would say, unsustainably reasonable – between $15 and $30/hour, depending on the plan). And the service is just great. I text them, and they acknowledge the text, and tell me when I should expect to hear. And then, I hear when they said. If they get something wrong (which they do, because they’re actually human), they learn, and fix.

And they do the things I’m always saying I want submissive women to do: acknowledge my request, and respond either by satisfying it, telling me when they will satisfy it, or explaining apologetically why they can’t, and proposing an alternative.

If you want to try Magic – if you want to text someone and have them schedule your next dentist appointment, or book you a spa treatment, or give you a chart comparing 3 TVs and 3 vendors, or whatever…. I can’t say enough. Use my code, though, so we each get a free hour!!!

 

Jul 102018
 

For several reasons, unrelated, I’ve been remembering my experiences of camp.

I went to a generic all-boys YMCA camp on a lake, in the woods. It was nominally Christian – we had chapel every Sunday, under the pines, in required green gabardine (stiff, uncomfortable) shirts with the camp’s logo on it. Most of the kids came from the mid-sized city two hours to the south. I didn’t. We shot rifles, did archery, waterskiied. Made lanyards, cut wood, and bullied one another playfully. And mercilessly.

As I remember it, I often was punished. For foul language. For getting in altercations. For having porn. For being obnoxious. Punishment, always, was “buckets.” It would take this form: “N, you have 50 buckets. Two at a time. At 6 feet. And to the flagpole.”

Sometimes it might be one at a time. Sometimes, on the beach. Sometimes, at 3 feet. Sometimes to the beach. Sometimes, to the flagpole. Or the dining hall. Or the riflery range. Once, to the archery range.

The way it worked was this: I would bring an empty bucket (or two) to the beach. Or to a 3-foot depth. Or to a 6-foot depth. I would fill the bucket(s) to the rim with wet sand from the bottom of the lake. And then, would deliver the bucket(s) to the stated destination. Six-foot buckets sucked, because they involved endless breath-holding and diving. No tools were permitted, and a counselor checked each bucket to be sure it was well and truly filled to the rim. Both on emergence from the water and on arrival at its destination.

Now. Buckets of wet sand are heavy. And I was small. I don’t remember how tall I was, but I know my waist and legs were mismatched: I had the waist of a toddler, and the legs of a pre-teen. Throughout my pre-teen and teen years, I wore highwaters – not because my parents couldn’t afford pants that fit, but because we had to choose between pants that fit my waist reasonably and pants that reached my ankles. The former was a functional imperative; the latter, a fashion consideration.

And then there was the one-bucket/two-bucket distinction: permitted to carry one bucket at a time, I could use both hands to bear the weight transmitted to my body by the thin metal handle at the top of the bucket. I could alternate, first bearing more weight with my right, then my left, hand. I could carry the bucket to my side, allowing my shoulder to droop. I could carry it on my head, allowing my back to bear the weight. But a two-bucket punishment was brutal: the metal handles cut deeply into each hand, and the only respite came from stopping. Which, of course, prolonged the punishment.

Camp exists in a foggy haze today, nearly forty years later, but I remember buckets, all too well.

I also remember my prepubescent sexuality. A friend and I somehow had a copy of Playboy. In my memory, it’s the Valerie Perrine issue, but I may be conflating my camp Playboy with one of the issues I treasured at home. In any event…. my friend and I would trade the magazine back and forth. This was before masturbation (at least for me – not for my friend, I suspect, who was, and is, 18 months older than I – and who was precocious). I didn’t need to masturbate, though, to drink in the confusing, but alluring, bodily sensations a Playboy produced in me. We shared the magazine around, generously. Or not just generously: our ownership of it made us into stars, of a sort. Especially when Mike, the senior counselor, confiscated, and took it to his cabin. In some sort of bizarre shaming (or perhaps intended seduction), he told us we were welcome to continue to have access to our magazine – but only in his cabin. I didn’t see the magazine again until he handed it back to us on the last day.

I remember “She waded in the water….” Maybe you know the song. You can read the lyrics here. They’re sung to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Imagine, a room full of boys, finished with lunch, singing at the top of their (our) lungs, “She waded in the water and she got her ankles wet, but she didn’t get her <clap> <clap> wet yet!” The song made me squirm. My cock (or really, my dick) twitched, and ached, and stiffened, as I imagined some unnamed girl (or maybe some specific girl I carried in my memory – Pam? Courtney? Angela???) getting her <clap> <clap> wet!!! In retrospect, it was like a giant circle jerk. Minus the “jerking,” I suppose.

The camp had one or two socials a summer. The Y operated a sister camp, across the lake. We mocked it, mocked the girls who went there. Called the camp a “kennel.” But we were 500 boys, approaching, and wending our way through, puberty. Our mockery was an elaborate denial of what we really felt: a sort of desperate, magical yearning. A fantasy that somehow, something might actually happen at these socials, socials at which a bunch of awkward boys found themselves together with a bunch of awkward girls they’d never met, loud music playing. We all knew, from movies, that we were supposed to dance, that the boys were supposed to ask the girls to dance. I’m sure some did. For me, though, the socials consisted of a sort of purgatorial Gravitron, boys on one side, girls on the other, with the ride not stopping for two or three hours. In spite of my desperate, magical yearning that somehow, against all odds, I might… I don’t know, marry? one of the blurry girls 100 feet away on the other side of the ride room.

I recently read a terrific novel about camp, by an old friend of mine. The book isn’t about my camp, but it might as well have been. My friend, though, is gay. His experience of an all-boys Y camp in the woods, though it had much in common with mine, was profoundly different, too. For me, camp was a sort of hothouse terrarium in which growth and expression were limited, structurally. The director’s two daughters and the nurse were the only vagina-possessors we saw for eight weeks (other than the aforementioned sister-camp residents, twice). We attached all sorts of hopes, and dreams, and rumors, to those two poor teenaged girls. I can’t imagine how many boys count Tina and/or Di as their “first love(s),” even to this day.

For my old friend, camp was an entirely different experience. My hothouse terrarium was his… biosphere? Exploratorium? Garden of earthly delights? It was complicated, of course, for him, too, but man…. It’s just remarkable to imagine how different two boys’ experience of the same thing can be.

Jul 082018
 

I really want to talk with you.

You’re making it really hard.

There are lots of ways to reach me. I have none to reach you.

Please. Figure it out.

Jul 082018
 

Here’s a thing I’ve learned about myself over the years: as much as I enjoy finding a beautiful, compliant woman who gets off on dressing as I ask, giving me precisely what I ask…. And I do enjoy that very, very much.

It seems I also like just hunting for such women. I like the back-and-forth that begins with knowing nothing, or next to nothing, and that progresses toward something like anticipation, and, ultimately, toward meeting. And, I like the funnel – the thousand right swipes on Tinder leading to the ten matches to the one conversation. And then, from ten conversations, to the one date…. I like that all. (I might wish it were more efficient. But I might not.)

And along the way, I use various apps.

The way I manage my phone, and my life, some apps live on my “main profile,” apps on which I see messages when they arrive. There are other apps that live exclusively in my “N” profile. Messages that arrive in those apps, I only see when I affirmatively switch over to that profile on my phone. I set up this bifurcated system two or three years ago, mostly to counter my compulsivity, to impose a forced delay between the arrival of a message directed toward the “N” part of me, and my engagement with it. I also did it to facilitate my use of Tinder, which demanded that I use a Facebook profile other than my Facebook profile. You know, the Facebook profile associated with my alter ego.

At the time, my alter ego used Facebook. Today, my alter ego is pretty much over Facebook. But I haven’t changed the configuration of my phone.

The way things stand now, this is where my apps live:

On my regular profile (the one with all of my alter ego’s apps, as well):

E-mail (In my guise as N, I use Gmail to manage my e-mail, using both my blog e-mail account – nlikes at mydissolutelife dot com and a Gmail account that I’ll tell you if you ask, nicely. Gmail – and Google Inbox – allow multiple accounts within the app, so I can manage my N accounts and my alter-ego accounts all from within the same app, on the same profile)

Texts (Google Voice lets me receive texts at a number other than my alter ego’s number)

Snapchat (on my main profile because my alter ego doesn’t use SnapChat, so I don’t need to sequester it)

Kik (see Snapchat for why it’s on my main profile)

Twitter (my alter ego uses Twitter too, but Twitter itself allows multiple profiles/accounts) 

 

On my “N” profile:

Tinder (because, as described above, Tinder requires a Facebook profile of its own, and because its very presence raises questions*)

OKCupid (because its very presence raises questions)

Happ’n (ditto) A note about Happ’n: I’ve been on Happ’n for four or five years. The first woman I matched with on Happ’n sucked my cock. And left, mid-cock-sucking. I never wrote about her. Though I did write about the possibility of writing about her. I’ve met precisely one other woman I matched with on Happ’n, and it was a total bust.

Instagram (N’s alter ego uses Instagram, and while Instagram might permit multiple accounts, I haven’t figured that out)

WhatsApp (I have, and use, WhatsApp on my “main” profile, but that’s associated with my main phone number, associated with my alter ego, and my real-life friends)

Tumblr (N’s alter ego uses Tumblr, and while it might be possible to do the multiple account thing on Tumblr, I do my porn surfing on my alter ego profile, and my alter ego Tumblr is really for family only, so the risk of fucking up is especially high – only the people I care most about see what I post on my alter ego Tumblr)

The main way I meet people is via Tinder. Occasionally, someone contacts me via the comments on my blog, or via e-mail, or via Tumblr. But I’ve met 75% or more of the women who’ve sucked my cock in the last five years on Tinder.

Mostly, we coordinate our dates via Tinder.

Sometimes, though – if our conversations stretch on, we find another conversational home.

In my next post, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned about the apps people use to communicate with me. In this post, I’m ending here, two scotches in, and just a bit light-headed. Enjoy. I did.

 

* I’m very cautious. My son doesn’t generally have access to my phone. But he occasionally does. If he were to very long, I suppose there’s all sorts of shit he could easily discover, but in general, my principle has been that there shouldn’t be apps the very presence of which raises questions.

Jul 022018
 

I’m moving to NYC, and when I arrive, I am looking forward to engaging in as much casual sex as humanly possible. I’m a single white female, and have spent too much energy on my career in recent years.What is your advice for remaining disease-free as I look for fucks around town?  And, what has been your experience with AFF as a place to find FWB or 3-somes?

P.S.  If you’re available, then I am game…Have been a good girl WAY too long!

Now this is my kind of e-mail.

I’ll tackle the questions in turn. First. Remaining disease-free. Well. My experience is that I’ve remained disease-free through a lifetime of unprotected oral sex with a substantial number of women. I’ve had unprotected vaginal sex with precisely three women in my life, and only one this century. That’s my trick for remaining disease-free. My most recent “clean” test was two weeks ago.

You can read more of my thoughts on this subject here. But, in general, my sense is that people think irrationally about sexually transmitted infections. Not that they’re not a danger, but that our assessment of the danger they represent tends to correlate strongly with the shame we feel about our sexual desires.

Second. AFF as a place to find FWB or 3-somes…. I’ve been meaning to write a piece about some combination of dating sites/apps and messaging services/apps. Maybe I will. The last time I think I did something like that was two years ago, when I wrote this, about the dating services. And I left out the “swinger” services like AFF, FetLife, CollarMe, and so on. My experience of AFF (I was on it for a minute) was that it was for people different than me. Some years ago, I wrote about self-identified “swingers,” and how I distinguish myself from them. Or at least, I think I did. A perusal of posts tagged “swinging” doesn’t turn up the post I remember, though, so here’s the executive summary of my thoughts: swingers are interested in cocks and holes. Me, I’m interested in people. So I’m not a swinger. I like swingers’ parties, but, by and large, I enjoy attending them with people I know, and sticking with them. Which isn’t to say I haven’t enjoyed the occasional adventure in a swingers’ party or club. It’s just that… the intensity is so much less when all that’s happening is friction.

So. In answer to your question? A woman seeking FWB or 3-somes will find her search exactly as difficult as her standards are particular. If what you’re looking for is a cock, or a man and a woman looking for a threesome, AFF will do just fine, and be highly efficient, I expect. If you want a little more connection, I’d suggest OKC and/or Tinder.

And… if I’m available? I’m always available! Apply within! (Seriously – applications always accepted. And I’ll accept this e-mail as your preliminary application. For your more comprehensive application, watch your e-mail….)

Jun 292018
 

She’s hot, in a 1990s Drew Barrymore kind of way. She keeps brushing against me, in a flirty kind of way. I’m listening to her yap with her friends. They’re bonding by dissing an absent human. Ick.

Jun 282018
 

But we are establishing concentration camps, and dehumanizing immigrants.

According to the Times, “An Immigration and Customs Enforcement spokeswoman said Thursday that ‘even one criminal alien on the street can put public safety at risk.'”

For the record, I’m a native born American, and immigrants don’t scare me. But white nationalist sociopaths? They terrify me.

Criminal alien? Public safety? I thought ICE was charged with immigration enforcement, not demonization.

Fuck me, I’m so over this shit.

Jun 272018
 

As I thought about my cock in V‘s mouth (I still think about V, and her mouth, from time to time) this morning, I wondered a bit about the whole sex thing.

[And a note: I objectify in some ways, and not in others. I find it difficult to degrade, to abuse verbally, because I find it impossible to reduce a woman to just a mouth in the situation I’m describing. I’ve written this post specifically, with respect to V, and/but much of it could/can apply to any particular woman in a similar position vis-a-vis me. And/but… as much of a slut as I am – and I am quite the slut – by the time a woman finds my cock in her mouth, she is a woman to me. I have gotten to know her as more than just a pretty mouth. That feels important to me to clarify. Much of what I’m writing here is specific to my relationship with V; much of it is generic. In general, I can say that V has helped me reach the highest levels with regard to what I write here, but it all exists on a spectrum of fantastical realization.]

Now.

About how my mind and my body interact.

On the one hand….

When I fuck(ed) V’s face, when I fe(e)d her my cock, I felt the warmth, the wetness of her mouth, its motion. I felt her tongue, her lips, her saliva. I felt the back of her head, her hair, with my hand (or hands) as I gripped it. I felt the interplay between the forces I exerted, forward, onto my cock, backward, away from my cock, and the forces she exerted with her neck, with her head. I’ve often used the metaphor of the finely tuned sports car: V’s head, her mouth, anticipated my guidance, so what guidance I gave was (at least in my memory) almost an acknowledgement of something we both knew intuitively, even more than direction.

You know. Except when it wasn’t. Except when I was forcing her down, choking her. Which also was fun.

But I digress.

I felt the sensations in my hamstrings, in my calves, as I stood, as she kneeled. I’ve described the purely local sensations in my cock during an expert blowjob elsewhere. Here, I’m talking about a more holistic, comprehensive, full-body circumstance.

But of course, none of what I’m describing is what makes a blowjob, what made V’s blowjobs, unimaginably, mind-blowingly, awesome. What makes them haunt me even today, years later.

What lingers is not the physical, but the mental aspect, the part that happens in my brain. And I find this far more elusive, far more ineffable. Because blog, I’ll try to eff it here for you.

First, foremost, there’s a question of meaning: when V knelt before me and begged me for my cock, she was giving me a gift. She was allowing me to imagine* that I am desirable. Of course, it’s more specific than this, and less general, in reality: in reality, when she knelt before me and begged, she gave me her desire. And a healthy man might well content himself with that, because, after all, being the object of V’s desire marks one as, truly, fortunate. (Not because of its scarcity; I’m agnostic on that question. Because of the magnitude of what she has to offer.)

But (and maybe this has something to do with my complete insanity – or maybe it’s just the way sex works) whether she offers it or not, I’m taking a much bigger gift than just her desire for me. V – and, truth be told, all women, have this power over me.

When V kneels before me, when she begs for my cock, in that moment, she undoes my pathogenic belief that, in a fundamental way, I am flawed, undesirable, detestable. That my cock is unworthy, that I am unworthy. That my desires are grotesque, shameful, inappropriate. She absolves me of my original sin, she saves me, and I am, quite literally, risen.