N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

May 142017

If you don’t want to read what I have to say about Kellyanne Conway, please don’t. I don’t know why you would, but at least one reader does, and she asked me to write about her. Because I’m an obliging sort, I have done so. But there’s no reason you should necessarily want to know what I have to say about her.

When I was asked to write about her, I asked my interlocutor why she was asking me to do this little writing assignment, what she was looking for. She explained that she really was just curious as to what I might have to say, and invited me to freewrite.

I like freewriting.

So forthwith, an unedited, unexpurgated freewrite on Kellyanne Conway. Continue reading »

May 122017

I wrote about a version of this fantasy long ago, when I wrote about my core fantasy. But some years on, I thought I would revisit one element of that fantasy. If I were to understand it, I imagine I would go a long way toward understanding my motivations, my excitement, my wounds, and my desires.

The fantasy is this: I want a woman who enjoys giving me what I want – who gets off on giving me what I want – to do something for me. (Let’s call this woman “you,” for the purposes of this post.)

I want you to find a woman for me. To pander to me.

I don’t care, honestly, if you find her on OkCupid, or Tinder, or Blendr, or J-Date. Or in a bar, or on Craigslist, or on Backpage.com or Eros.com or SeekingArrangement.com. I don’t care if she’s with me on her own steam or if you’ve paid her out of your own pocket. But I don’t want to pay her. And if you pay her, I want her to want to be with me nonetheless. Or at least, to be a damned good actress.

I want her to be skilled in the ways of pleasing me – I want her body to yield to my touch, I want her to say yes – or no, respectfully – to any and all of my requests.

And I want her to be hot.

In an earlier iteration of this fantasy, I imagined a lengthy process of proposal and winnowing and selection. You would propose a hundred, I would narrow it down to twenty. You narrow it down to ten, I narrow it down to five. And then, perhaps, you would surprise me with one or two final selections.

Right now, I’m just curious about what it is about you subordinating your desire so completely to mine in this fantasy that I find so hot. This is not a fantasy about my not having sex with you. Or, about my having sex with this other woman. What matters is that you provide her to me. Which is, to me, like the greatest blowjob I can imagine. Times ten.

Some men enjoy being cuckolded. I don’t. I recognize the sense in which this fantasy has some structural similarities to cuckolding (in reverse). And yet, it’s different. Maybe I’ll think more about this in coming days….

Do you have thoughts? Wanna get me laid? 😉

May 112017







She’s not submissive. Or so she says.



And she likes big dicks. Dicks bigger than mine.

But you know what? She wants my dick. My 6″ dick – on a good day – in her mouth.

She does.

She doesn’t even necessarily understand why she does. But she does.

I’m a white guy. Not her type.

And yet….

May 082017

The subway thrills me. Like a mountain range or waterfall or ocean, it confronts me with my smallness, my insignificance, my simultaneous uniqueness and banality.

It infuses me with energy and wonder, and overwhelms me with its complexity and beauty, and with the complex beauty of those with whom I am grateful to share it.

May 062017

I’ve never been hungry. Not in any meaningful sense. And yet, I’m very much a hungry ghost.

Lately, I’ve been experiencing hunger in a new way. As I restrict my daily diet intake to 1500 calories or so, I have hunger nearly constantly. My stomach growls. I feel a little… tickle. It has a coolness to it. As if there were a little fan in my belly, constantly whirring, blowing gently, clamoring for me to find an “off” switch.

It won’t kill me, this hunger. Instead, it’s just a new companion.

May 062017

I love when you suck my cock. My cock needs to be in your mouth. I crave the warmth, the wetness, the softness. The friction, the movement, the pressure. The swirling of your tongue, the sounds of your saliva. All of it.

When I see a woman*, before I see anything else, I see her mouth. I see her lips – are they slender, thin? Are they thick, luscious? Do they turn up at the edges? Down? Does the top one extend straight across? Or does it turn down, and up again, in the middle? How far apart are the lips? Do they open wide? Or just a little? Do the lips turn inward? Outward? This morning, I found myself cataloging the lips of the women I passed.

I take all this in, instantly, when I see a woman. I can’t help myself.

I’m not a big fan of the Met-Art porn site – their aesthetic is not mine, and their models are almost uniformly too young. But their front page, showing all their models, is designed for me. Here’s one row – five out of 3,341 models (according to the web site).

You would think, to look at this presentation, that the models’ mouths, and faces, would figure prominently. Alas, they don’t. The web site is all about vaginas. And, to a lesser extent, breasts. There’s no subtlety, no nuance. And too much too-young-ness.

Oh well.

You can’t always get what you want.

* This is not, strictly speaking, true. I do not objectify all women. I only objectify women with whom I’m contemplating having sex. And because I have boundaries, I don’t, actually, contemplate having sex with all women. Many? Yes. Most? Probably. All? No.