N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Dec 142017
 

See here, for the first part of my first date with Svetlana.

… So this all got me thinking: why do I recoil slightly at the idea of her wanting to please me? I like her. I find her hot. So what’s wrong with her wanting to please me?

I can see two problems with this – one relating to her, and the other to me.

With regard to Svetlana: she wants to please me, but, in a number of moments, she’s unable to. She can’t, or doesn’t, give me what I want. And she handles that in a way that somehow falls flat with me. She fails to assimilate something I’ve said, she resists something that feels trivial. She isn’t the exquisitely tuned steering wheel of the expensive sports car about which I’ve written so many times. Sometimes, when I pushed her head down, she resisted, pushing up; sometimes when I pulled it up, she resisted, pushing down. I know she was trying to please me. That she has a deeply felt sense that opposition, that struggle, is part of the pleasure of sex. It is for many. It might be better for many if it were for me. It might be better for me if it were for me. But it isn’t. (See: “Bratty subs.”)

And with regard to me: all of the “me” part of what I wrote in the previous paragraph, obvs, and…. I don’t want you to want to please me. I’m more infantile, less mature, than such a desire suggests. “Pleasing” me is a sort of abstract, complex concept. I want something simple. I want you to give me what I want. And, I want you to want me to have what I want. There’s a subtle difference between wanting me to have what I want, and wanting to please me. I think. I’ve tortured myself a bit trying to understand that difference, and here’s what I’ve come up with: wanting to please me requires that I be pleased. It’s a demand of me. It requires a specific reaction from me. Wanting me to have what I want makes no demand of me, implicitly or explicitly. It’s a desire that’s satisfied even if I don’t have a particular reaction to getting what I want. Time and again, I’ve confronted this. Not just with Svetlana. Untold numbers of women have found me frustrating because for some reason or other, my reactions to their photographic, or auditory, or verbal, or oral, or vaginal offerings weren’t what they hoped for, what they had in mind.

But see, that’s the thing: if they were hoping for something, that’s a problem for me. If what they had in mind wasn’t me, wasn’t whatever it is that I might be or feel or produce in any given moment, that’s a problem for me.

Once you hope for something from me, I can disappoint you. I can let you down. I can fail you. And that danger is distracting, potentially disastrous, for me. It represents danger. And, as I’ve said before, it’s really hard to stay hard when you’re (I’m) scared.

I’m a confident guy, sure of what I want, of who I am, of what I offer. When that certainty has to contend with uncertainty – can I give you what you want? Will you be satisfied? Then, I’m in trouble. Then, we’re in trouble. And I think that’s the problem with wanting to please me: if you don’t please me, then I’m not pleasing you. I often understand the particular ways in which I crave domination as being all about protecting against fear of this sort.

If Svetlana had said to me, “This feels great, but I’m not going to come again, and I think I want you to stop licking my clit (and fingering my cunt (and fingering my ass (and pressing on my abdomen))),” I would’ve been fine with that. If she’d added, “and may I please suck your cock some more,” I would’ve been even better with that. Instead, she felt like what I wanted was the victory of an orgasm.

Don’t get me wrong: I like the victory of an orgasm. I particularly liked, in her case, that the first (only) orgasm of the evening was the first she’d ever had at a man’s mouth. I’m proud of that, sure. But I’m not simply an orgasm slut. I’m a different kind of slut. What I crave is the complete harmonization of your desire into mine. I want you – with abandon – simply to want what I want. Svetlana thought I wanted her to come when what I really wanted was to lick her clit (and do all that other stuff) until I decided I wanted something else, for whatever reason. And I can imagine two (good) reasons: because I wanted something else (her mouth on my cock, for example). Or because she no longer wanted/could tolerate my mouth on her cunt. Orgasms might well enhance the experience for each of us, but they’re not the point.

Each of those two reasons for stopping works fine for me. Neither feels bad. I know my appetites are infinite. Svetlana wouldn’t be the first woman for whom an hour or more of my head between her legs was actually enough. And that’s a triumph of its own sort for me, regardless of the presence or absence of an orgasm. So I’m good with it.

Svetlana, I apologize for being such a complicated, simple guy.

Dec 132017
 

I had a date recently with a lovely brunette with a very fetching downwardly pointing face, Svetlana. I wrote an account of our date which I’ve discarded. This is my second attempt, and I’m coming at it from a different angle, with the benefit of some reflection, and back-and-forth with her. First, foremost: the evening ended with her mouth filled with my cum, and my face irredeemably soaked in her cunt’s juices. So, a good evening, to be sure. Regular (or at least, diligent) readers of this blog know two things about me: first, fucking isn’t so much my thing. And second, as much as I love to write about sex, I don’t really like writing sex. So I’m gonna skip that. Except inasmuch as sex is part of what I’m writing about. The Roy Moore stuff lately has made me realize that my “half-his-age-plus-seven” number is one I routinely violate. It’s older than I would have guessed, if I didn’t know math. When I saw that graph floating around, showing Roy Moore’s victims (and wife) plotted against that line, I was a little mortified to see the frequency with which I violate it. It’s not the case, btw, that this is necessarily by choice. If I were to describe my optimal sexual connection, she’d be in her forties or early fifties. MAYBE her thirties, if she were extraordinary. But in reality, most of the women I date are younger. I think this reflects the intersection of two facts: first, most of the women I meet, I meet through Tinder, and my blog. And second, what I have to offer appeals more to women exploring their sexuality than to those settled in it. Anyway, Svetlana lies below that line for me. Not far below it. Two years below it. And she’s definitely exploring her sexuality. Our flirtation was hot, but not easy, for either of us. What I wanted from her stretched her comfort zone. Exceeded it, in many instances. She wasn’t resistant, at all: she wanted to give me what I wanted (which is hot) but she found herself unable to, in multiple instances. More challengingly for me, she found it hard to say “no” as I wanted to hear it. Again – not because she didn’t want to, but because it felt somehow unnatural to her. Coursing beneath all of this, she wanted to please me. Very much. She was very eager to please me. She seemed to have decided that I had a lot to offer her, based on my blog, and our interactions, before we met. When we did meet, she was raring to go. I was too. I approach most dates from one of three perspectives:

  1. I. Can’t. Fucking. Wait.
  2. I have a tingly feeling that it will be fun, but there are a number of concerns I have.
  3. I’m dreading it, but for whatever reason(s), I’m going through with it.

That third case has two permutations: she’s going to reject me, or we’re going to hook up, and I’m going to feel icky afterward. Svetlana was the second case. I was excited, eager, but also on an unconscious (or maybe conscious, but not condensed into verbal form yet) level, I had concerns. As we drank and talked, the talk wasn’t, for the most part, hot. It wasn’t un-hot – we had interesting conversation, about topics other than sex, for the most part. Or at least, other than how I was going to use her pretty body, for the most part. There were exceptions. I smelled her cunt on her finger (delicious). I admired her ass (round, full, delightful, eminently spankable) as she walked to the bathroom, at my request. And after we left, it got hotter. We kissed on the street. I drank in the taste of cigarette smoke from her lips. (I had quit (stopped?) (again) ten days earlier.) I bent her over a parked car and felt her body while we waited for a car to take us to a hotel. My cock was stiff, ready. In the cab, I had her play with her pussy for me. She found this challenging. Her legs wanted to be closed. Her hand wanted to be still. I wanted her legs wide apart. I wanted her hand to be moving. Still, she wanted to please me, so she did as I asked. Sort of. She kept closing her legs. She kept resting her hand. Two, three hours later, when I came in her mouth, I used my hand to bring myself to orgasm. Somehow, her mouth on me – which felt, I must say, phenomenal – didn’t make me come. Not just didn’t make me come. Didn’t let me come. I left the evening under the impression that my mouth had made her come twice. After the fact (when she read my first pass at writing up our date), she corrected me: she had come once. The second time, she had faked it. “Ick,” I wrote. “Why’d you do that?” “I wanted to please you,” she wrote. I believe her. I think she did.

Dec 092017
 

Recently, I found myself imagining, for the better part of two hours, your mouth on my cock. The perfect way your head responds to my guidance – whether gentle or firm. The way your tongue swirls and presses on all the most sensitive bits. The way your lips fit – preternaturally perfectly – on my shaft, and how they glide softly up and down. The way your hands touch me, gently, firmly (if they’re not behind your back, or tied, or cuffed). The way your mouth elicits, and catches, my cum.

The way your pretty eyes stare up at me, hungrily.

And especially, the remarkably fetching way in which you beg for my cock.

It was a remarkable two hours.

Not V. Obvs.

Nov 282017
 

Some men are ass men.

Some, leg men. Some, breast men.

Not me.

Don’t get me wrong.

I like asses. And legs. And breasts. And eyes, thighs, lips, hair. Cheeks, hands, feet. Hips, backs, necks, shoulders.

For all of my objectification, though, what turns me on, what makes my cock hard, what makes it ache, isn’t what you look like. As hot as you are.

What makes me need you is what you do for me, how you interact with me. How you give me what I want, how it affects you for me to ask things of you.

Nov 262017
 

It’s complicated with Iris. For lots of reasons.

But obstacles are essential to (my) arousal. The more there are, the harder is my cock. It’s best when these obstacles arise from circumstances, as do these, rather than from ambivalence. Iris has no ambivalence.

But the circumstantial obstacles are many.

Shortly, Iris will show herself to me. I expect we won’t touch one another. I may get a whiff, a glimpse, of her cunt.

She tells herself that what she wants of me is that I fuck her, hard. She knows, full well, that this is not my métier. That if – and it’s a big if – I am to fuck her as she hopes, she will have to give me quite a lot of what I want first. She tells me, she tells herself, that what I want is not what she wants.

And yet – she keeps giving me what I want. And she seems to be enjoying herself.

Nov 242017
 

I’ve often written about my anger that I understand it, almost always, as a sort of second-order feeling, one I produce to avoid some other, less welcome, more vulnerable feeling.

There’s been a lot written about “primary (or basic) emotions,” analogizing certain emotions to primary colors, as if all emotions could be constituted from a palette of the primary ones. This metaphor rings true for me, even if I’ve never read a list of primary emotions that resonates with my experience. Here’s a list of lists – none of which seems right to me, and here’s an article that comes closer to my sense that, at least for me, all emotions are built out of a combination of happiness, fear, sadness, and disgust. The article suggests that fear and surprise constitute one single emotion, and that anger and disgust constitute another. But, for me, surprise isn’t something I experience as an emotion, and anger, as I’ve said, almost always can be reduced further, like a fraction.

When I’m most at peace, my anger, when it arises, dissipates quickly into its constitutive elements.

Currently, that’s not what’s happening.

I can see some of those primary emotions: I’m sad about growing older, both grieving the pasts I didn’t live and the disappointments of my present and, inevitably, my future. And I have fear: fear of mortality, of course, but also, of something more ineffable, more obscure. I fear failing, in ways I don’t quite understand.

I don’t fear failing professionally, economically, intellectually. I don’t feel conscious guilt over the manifold ethical, moral, relational failures of my past: I forgive myself quite liberally all of those.

No, I fear something more abstract. I fear failing others – and I’m sad about those failures for which I just told you I forgive myself, and fearful of the very long-term ramifications of those failures.

This is the worst combination: it’s as if, long ago, I set in motion an awful chain of events, one that was, at the time, the best, the only, chain of events possible. But now, like some Greek mythical figure I can’t think of, I’m condemned to watch the inevitable sequelae for the remainder of my days.

This sounds more morose, more catastrophic, than I mean. I mean something pedestrian, banal, universal even: my parents – good, loving, flawed, narcissistic, wounded – did their best with me, and I’m condemned to work through how far from ideal their best was for the rest of my days, relying heavily on all the good they did for me as I do so.

And, as much as I’ve done my best, as I continue to do my best, I see with increasing clarity just how flawed that best is. In a way that’s true, if uniquely different, for all of us.

Melanie Klein, a psychoanalytic theorist of the previous century, described two ways of relating to the world, calling them “positions.” Her terminology was obscure, off-putting – the first position, of infants, she called the “paranoid-schizoid position.” And the second, more mature, she called the “depressive position.” I’ll radically over-simplify: when in the paranoid-schizoid position, we can’t hold mutually contradictory feelings toward a person in our mind simultaneously. People are all good or all bad, and what’s worse, when someone we previously thought good does something bad, we lose the memory and knowledge of their goodness, and only their badness is real to us. And vice versa.

When we attain the depressive position, we are freed from this brutal back-and-forth, able to understand that those we love might fail is. That they have failed us. And that, if they still live, they will fail us again.

This “position,” the apotheosis of emotional maturity, Klein depressingly calls “depressive.” It’s a lot like the 12-step slogan, “Recovery is learning that life is pedaling uphill. And learning to enjoy it.”

The reality, of course, is that if Klein was onto something, it was less absolute than she claimed. We all inhabit each position to varying degrees at different times, in different circumstances, with respect to different people.

I long ago attained Klein’s depressive position with respect to my parents. I demonstrated what that looks like a few paragraphs above, expressing both gratitude for and disappointment in them.

Alas, I’m not sure I’m quite as evolved in my relationship to others in my life. And perhaps most crucially, in my relationship to life itself.

Nov 232017
 

Every year since I started this blog, I’ve written a Thanksgiving post. Except last year.

Last year, I was in a particularly difficult moment at Thanksgiving. Of course, those moments are the most important moments to remember to be grateful, but, evidently, I failed.

This year, things are difficult, but I’m thankful, nonetheless.

For my family. Which just rules the school. My family of origin, and my family of choice, the family I’ve created. With a ton of help.

For my friends, who are just remarkable.

For my health, which has been spotty over the last few years, but which is as good as it’s been in a few years.

For my material comfort, which, thankfully, has never really been a problem.

For my privilege. As a man. As a straight man. As a straight white man. I’d rather do without it, but given that I have it, I might as well be grateful, in addition to guilty.

For this blog, for my readers, for the women who’ve seen fit to give me what I want, to help me give them what they need, over the years.

For my mind, which is the source of 99% of my joy and 99% of my suffering.

For porn, on which, lately, I’ve relied somewhat excessively.

For podcasts and my e-reader, and my phone, all of which now constitute an effective extension of myself.

For Trump’s incompetence and narcissism, which – even as they’ve consigned us to much suffering, have saved us from much more, I suspect.

And, for November 2018. God help us all.

Happy Thanksgiving. I’ve listened to this twice today. Here’s hoping I hear it two or three more times before the day is out: