N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Mar 142017

I listen to a lot of podcasts lately. Mostly, political ones. I wish I could say that they make me feel better, but they don’t. Mostly, they make me not feel. They’re a way of numbing myself out, akin to pornography or commercial sex. I’ve put a list of my most regularly followed podcasts at the bottom of this post, and invite you to share yours with me.

Recently, on one of them, someone (I can’t remember who) described something as being “as hard as describing a sneeze, or an orgasm,” and I remembered writing this post, in which I did my best to describe the physical sensation of a solo orgasm. I think I did a pretty good job. When I wrote that, I was doing a series of writing exercises along those lines – describing memories using all five senses, and things like that. A long time has passed since then. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words. Some here, some elsewhere. I don’t know if I’m a better writer – I think I am. Or really, I think I’m a better editor. As a result of which my writing is better. But you don’t often get to see the fruits of that particular improvement as I don’t really edit what I write here.

Anyway – here are some podcasts I like, in no particular order:

  • The Moth
  • The Ezra Klein Show
  • The Daily (The New York Times)
  • FiveThirtyEight Politics
  • Pod Save America
  • Pod Save the World
  • Vox’s The Weeds
  • Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me
  • Real Time with Bill Maher (I don’t watch this – I listen – same with Sunday morning news TV)
  • Slate’s Trumpcast
  • The Axe Files (David Axelrod)
  • This American Life
  • Mortified

I’ve tried to listen to “The Tim Ferriss Show” and Ana Marie Cox’s “With Friends Like These,” and while I like some episodes, I find them of varying interest. Similarly, I used to listen to Politico’s “Off Message,” when it was hosted by Glenn Thrush, and I loved it. Since Thrush left for the Times, the podcast has been taken over by Isaac Dovere, and nothing against him, but he’s not (yet?) as good an interviewer as Thrush, and the podcast has fallen out of my rotation.

I’d love to find a good, thoughtful podcast on sex, other than Dan Savage’s “Savage Lovecast,” which I used to listen to, but have kinda tired of – nothing against him – I just have listened to literally hundreds of hours of him, and I pretty much know what he’s going to say at this point.

And then there are the ones that have fallen out of production, or are only seasonal. “Serial” is the ur-seasonal podcast, and “The Mystery Show” is my favorite defunct podcast. (I have no idea what happened between Starlee Kine and Gimlet Media, but something did.)


Mar 122017

I’ve been reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. It’s a great book about writing. Not everything in it resonates for me, but much does. (Stuff like “just write,” and “write shitty first drafts.”) I’ve also been doing a bit more writing away from this blog – writing that I actually “edit” before pressing “send” or “publish” on. It’s such a different process, writing for a blog, and writing for more serious/demanding venues. That’s not to say that I’m not demanding of myself here, that you’re not demanding of me. But what I write here, I write primarily for the purpose of expressing myself. The writing (verb) itself is the point, more than the writing (noun). It’s not so much what I have written that matters to me as the experience of having written it. The fact of you, my audience, is a tremendous benefit, but it’s not, ultimately, the point. And you, alas, for the most part get to read my shitty first drafts.

I’ve learned that I don’t really write for you over the years by watching my relationship to my audience. In the beginning, I was obsessed by traffic. How many people were coming to the site? How long were they staying? How many pages were they visiting? Nowadays, I’m still somewhat obsessed, but in a much more… passive, consumptive… way. I monitor my stats. I see when I get more visitors, when fewer. When folks stay longer, when they stay less. I see which pages are consistent draws, which are new draws, and which seem to fall into a void after I press “publish.”

It’s all very interesting to me, but it no longer carries much (if any) weight. In the beginning, I would try to tweet to juice my stats, post on Google+, comment on others’ blogs, participate in memes and contests and the like. I would comment on mainstream news articles, hoping to get readers who didn’t think themselves readers of sex blogs. And so on.

Now, I look at my “GAnalytics” app a couple of times a day, most days (though many days, not at all). I track my stats overall. I notice trends. Like, for instance, a steady upward trend in the “stickiness” of my site over the last few months, as I’ve changed the mobile theme, and made an effort both to write excerpts to tease readers past the front page, and to engage in at least minimal search engine optimization when I post. (To give you a sense – the average viewer used to stick around for three pages per visit; nowadays, it’s up to over six.)

Also, my traffic has been up. And almost all of the increase is due to Google. Which would seem to suggest that search engine optimization works. Not that I’m an expert, but it seems that the combination of creating “focus keywords,” writing “meta descriptions,” and making my front page a little less daunting all have produced results.

To what effect, though? Do I really care? Honestly? No.

I went offline a couple of months ago for a bit, because reasons. That frustrated me, a little, because I had been on a kind of steroid-al trajectory upward in traffic for a few weeks right before that. And it still frustrates me, because I haven’t yet recovered to where I was.

But where, a few years ago, I would have set myself to making it all right, to juicing my stats by hook or by crook, today, I’m much more interested in simply seeing what happens, in inferring what works and what doesn’t. At the end of the day, I really just want to express myself.

And, of course, to get laid. That’s important, too.

On that note: it’s been a long time since I had a threesome. There was an abortive one just under a year ago about which I didn’t write, but from which I have a spectacular photo. But none since then, and neither of the two participants in that last one is likely to participate in the next. One because she seems to have moved on from me as a sexual partner (though not, thankfully, as a friend), and one who sucked my cock quite recently. But who won’t be doing that in the company of others, any time soon.

I think it might be time for me to rectify that.

Speaking of which, I have some dates to write about. One, with Tamora – which I wrote about, but which I wrote about badly, and need to fix my writing about. One, with Gwyneth – a third or fourth date over a period of a few years, I believe, but a woman about whom I’ve not written. And two about which I can’t write, exactly, but about which I want to find a way to write, in spite of not being able to write about them. And, I have some non-dates, a little distant buddy action, about which I’m also eager to write….

That all was a long-winded way of saying, “I’m ready to spend a fun evening with two or more women again. It’s been too long.”

Don’t you think?

I do.

Mar 092017

She’s 5’1”.

She stands, back to me.

Her feet sit in minimal black leather flats.

Her legs are in black tights, not opaque, not transparent. Both revealing and obscuring in that incredibly sexy way tights can do. They’re shapely, toned, muscular. Not slender, but full, curvy, enticing.

Her thighs, meaty but toned, rise until they are interrupted by a very short pleated black skirt – a skirt that suggests, but doesn’t show, the delicious shape of her ass. The skirt rises, and ends at its top in a simple black leather jacket (not too different, actually, from the one I wear).

Her hair, straight, in a bob, is jet black. I can’t see her face but I know – from the shape of her head, from the color and texture of her hair – that she is Asian. Or, perhaps more accurately, that many of her ancestors are/were.

I’m hypnotized by the space between the top of her thighs. It’s inches below her cunt, daring me to stare.

I find myself musing about creep shots. As I’ve described in the past, I’ve settled into a willinness not to grab the image to preserve it for posterity, but I feel sad about the unfairness of it. I’m allowed to stare (within reason), and to burn the image into my brain – which I try to do. But I can’t press a button on my phone and facilitate that.

And of course, if I did press that button, then what? Would I, actually, revisit it? Would I jerk off to the grabbed image? In the period in which I was collecting creep shots, I didn’t do that. I didn’t actually use the pictures as masturbation fodder. Rather, I used the taking of the pictures as a sort of short-term thrill, a jolt of dopamine, making me feel especially alive for just that moment.

Anyway – I don’t take the picture. I just drink in her pretty, pretty shape from behind.

NOT her ass (and wrong shoes), but still….

Mar 092017

The other day, a (brief) potential fling of me asked me if I “cum in someone’s throat every day.” Ironically enough, the day after she asked, I did. I can’t tell you much about it, because reasons, but suffice it to say, it was a shit-ton of fun.

I then made the mistake of telling this (brief) potential fling that, funnily enough, I had come in someone’s throat on that particular day. That, it turned out, was TMI. The (brief) potential fling seemed to require an exclusive commitment of me. Never mind we’d not yet met, and our few interactions had been… less than perfect.

Anyway – the headline is, I got my cock sucked. 😉


Mar 082017

A (remember conservative A, whom I originally thought Amish?) evidently likes when I write about her. She acceded to my request for front and rear pictures of her in three pairs of panties. And that’s not all: she allowed me to share a few of them with you.

First, the photos she didn’t allow me to share:

  1. A close-up of her ass. Round. Full. Meaty. In a black lacy bikini bottom that you’ll see, down below – in two front views (she sent me a bonus shot). Her brunette hair is visible, just barely, at the top of the frame, where it hangs to the small of her back. She’s angled such that her left thigh and ass-cheek consume nearly half of the frame, and are slightly closer to the viewer than her right thigh and cheek, which are a few inches further from the camera. Her right hand lifts her right cheek slightly, exposing a crease between her thigh and her ass, just before the seam of the panties. Her thighs are separated, but only slightly. If I wanted to slide my hand between her thighs (and I do), I would have to turn it sideways, to slide it up vertically. I couldn’t grab a fistful of cunt*. I can’t really emphasize enough how perfect her ass is. But you’ll see. In just a moment.
  2. In a pair of maroon bikini briefs, she reclines on a paisley-patterned blanket or sheet. She lifts her right thigh slightly, and her thighs are apart wide enough that the puff of her pussy is fully evident in her purple panties. In this instance, while I couldn’t fit my open palm between her thighs, I certainly could slide a few fingers between them. Her belly button is pierced, in the upper right quadrant of the screen, a tiny gold stud just above it. Her flesh is creamy, white, unblemished.
  3. In the last shot she didn’t want me to share, A’s panties are a blue g-string, with a white pattern in the upper corners of it, and a little lacy bow just below her navel. Again, she’s on the paisley patterned fabric, but this time, her thighs are open wide, with her right leg tucked up, nearly touching her left thigh. There’s room not just for my full palm in this shot, but for my head. It’s impossible not to imagine breathing hot breath on her pussy through those panties, to imagine sliding a finger under the fabric, pulling it to the side, so I can kiss her cunt underneath. Her right hand rests lightly on the edge of the panties, and on her thigh.

So she didn’t want you to see those photos. But she did say you could see the others, and so, here they are. First, two in the black lacy panties:


You get a feel, here, for her proportions. In the first shot, you can see – I can see – what my view would be were I ever to feast on her cunt. And in the second shot, you get a sense of the way her legs come together at the top. Deliciously. Spaciously. She’s self-conscious about her thighs. I have no idea why. They look pretty perfect to me.

Next up, her maroon panties:

I know, right? I mean, what can I possibly say about this ass that you can’t think for yourself? Not a fucking word. There are no words.

And finally, as if you needed further convincing, her ass in a g-string.

As I said. There simply are no words.

* You see how I avoided “grabbing her pussy” there?

Mar 072017

Question 1: “How do you actively communicate with so many women at once?”

Answer 1: “I think you might imagine I’m communicating with more at once than I am.”

Question 2: “Perhaps I am. [sic] Do you come in someone’s mouth daily?

Answer 2: “Oh my God no. That would be awesome. But no.”

Mar 052017

We have never met.

I know what you look like. You have a vague sense of what I look like.

We have established that our lives bring us, frequently – daily – in close proximity to one another.

One day, soon, we will take that one step closer to meeting. We will exist in close proximity to one another. Perhaps even touching. But not speaking. Barely acknowledging one another.

You will wear clothes I’ve selected.

You will have my voice playing in your ear. I will give you instructions, perhaps.

If all goes as I hope, your pussy will be wet, your hairs on end, as our eyes lock. As you avoid my gaze. As you stare at the ground, following the instructions in your ears. And by the time we part ways, I will know the smell of your cunt.

Even as no one else knows.

Mar 042017


Drinks with Tamora

I joined Tamora in a nearby hotel bar. We had two drinks – she, a full-bodied wine, me, my customary scotch. “Are you still not smoking?” she asked. Tamora was dressed casually. She stresses about my preferences, about pleasing me, about disappointing me. She’s not particularly submissive (to me), and finds the intensity of my desires in this vein somewhat vexing. She looked sexy, though, and felt sexy. I can’t say enough good things about how her ass feels, through denim, through cotton, through just about any fabric.

“Yes,” I answered, perhaps not entirely helpfully answering her not entirely clearly posed question.

“I’m not smoking,” I said, “but I’d like it if you had a cigarette,” I said. “I could kiss you, and inhale the smoke from you. And I’d like that.”

Tamora had raised the possibility of another woman’s joining us this evening, but there was no one handy. (I had tried, briefly, with a woman I don’t believe I’ve written about, but it wasn’t going to work.

We discussed Rachel – Rachel and I hadn’t yet been together intimately, for one, and she doesn’t have sex with women – and doesn’t seem particularly interested – for another. The night before, it turns out, Tamora had gotten her pussy fix, if not entirely satisfyingly, with a friend. “Why didn’t you bring her tonight?” I asked.

“She left town today,” Tamora said.

Tamora was curious to hear about Rachel. We talked. My hand grabbed her ass. Her hand grabbed mine. We rubbed each other’s thighs, in the bar. The heat was ratcheting up slowly. Tamora’s body is, as I’ve written, spectacular, even as it’s not my “type.” She’s my height. Maybe an inch shorter. She’s broad. She’s soft. Not at all fat, but soft, in the most delicious, fun, way – with firm strength in the softness, as well. Her flesh just feels spectacular to the touch. And the touching was just beginning, when I said, “Let’s go have that cigarette.”


Tamora headed outside while I stopped at the men’s room. She texted me, “I’m out and to the right.” Just a few moments later, I joined her. Her cigarette was halfway done. I grabbed it and took a grab – it’s been almost a year since I smoked, and I was feeling secure in my not smoking. “I like you a lot,” I said, “but I like cigarettes more.” (This is true, honestly, of all but two or three humans.) I do, however, like Tamora a lot. We have easy, fun conversation, and share much in common. We might well be friends in real life if we weren’t friends in this funny, odd way. Facebook has suggested her to me as a friend more than once.

So anyway – we were standing there on the street, she smoking her cigarette, when we became aware of a couple arguing, just a few feet away, on the sidewalk. The woman was crying, yelling, the man, pleading. “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Don’t touch me!” They were doing a sort of back-and-forth dance. Tamora thought they were drunk – I didn’t see it that way. But back and forth they went, her, trying to get past him, him blocking her way, approaching her, as she backed away. I briefly told Tamora of a night a year or two ago – one I thought I’d written about here, but that I can’t find evidence of now – when I’d, on my way home from a date (with Isabel, if I recall correctly), chanced on a man beating his wife on the street. My cabbie and I had intervened, the police had come, and the wife thanked me profusely by e-mail weeks later, telling me she’d left the fucker. So I was about halfway through this story when it became apparent that the scene we were watching was crossing from a benign spousal argument to something darker. I don’t think I excused myself, don’t think I made a conscious decision, but in a flash, I was between the man and the woman.

“Back off, guy,” I said to him. I’m not a huge guy. I’m about 5’8″. My shoulders are broad, though, so I’m a big 5’8″. But I’m not huge. He wasn’t either. On some level, I’m sure I did some calculus that I could take him, even though I haven’t been in a fight since seventh grade, other than being sucker-punched once by an unstable coworker about twenty years ago. But I didn’t consciously think. I was just in there. Now the three of us – the husband, the wife, and I – were doing a sort of dance around the street. She was trying to get past him, he was blocking her, and I was blocking him from getting to her.

I tried to calm the guy down, but was getting nowhere. Another guy – a doorman for the hotel – joined the fray – and I pulled back to call 911. Even while trying to be helpful in the fracas, I was navigating a difficult 911 call (it seems 911 operators can’t dispatch the cops to a hotel without knowing the street address of said hotel – the name, at least for this operator, wasn’t enough). Soon enough, the cops arrived, and Tamora and I melted back into the hotel.

“Do you want to get another drink?” she asked.

“No,” I said. Unwisely. “I want my cock in your mouth.”

And we got in the elevator, and headed upstairs.


The rest of the evening is, as my sexual interactions often are, mostly a haze. It was all oral, and very linear. I went down on Tamora; she went down on me. I collected more orgasms than either of us could count. We managed to offend our neighbors, who, at one point, banged on the wall. High praise, I say, even as I feel just a little guilty. Tamora’s insanely fun to eat out, because her pussy, her body, is so tremendously responsive. As I told her, some women have a “trick,” one way they absolutely must be touched in order to come. Some women are highly sensitive – not too fast, or too slow, or too hard, or too soft, please. Tamora’s none of these things. She just fucking loves it all. My tongue on her clit, fingers in her cunt, thumb in her ass, palm on her abdomen, hand grabbing, twisting, kneading, squeezing her tits, all of it – it’s all good for her, and she came over and over and over. I would have liked to go until she begged me to stop, but I grew self-conscious following the neighbors’ complaints.

And then, my cock was in her mouth. Tamora’s mouth is expert, soft, warm, wet. Mouths vary widely in feel, independent of technique. Tamora’s mouth is a fine, fine place for my cock to spend an hour or two, and I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more, even as I wasn’t quite as hard as I often am, as I might have preferred to be – mostly for her, not for me. Was this because of the adrenaline from the events on the street? Maybe. Because Trump? Most likely. I haven’t, actually, been all that hard in a sexual encounter since the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.

I don’t know. My semi-tumescence didn’t detract from my enjoyment in the slightest, and as she sucked my cock, we talked about possible threesomes we might have soon.

At length, I came deep in her throat, and we lay back on the bed, talking Trump. We continued to connect as well as we always do, and, eventually, I was on my way.

That night, I only got about 3.5 hours of sleep. But it was well worth it.

Well worth it.

Mar 032017

This is a double.

They sit at the end of the bar, drinking gins and tonic. They are in their early 30s, talking animatedly. About work.

On the right, a caramel-colored woman – Latina, I would guess. Her jet black hair is pulled taut into a ponytail, not high on her head, but not low. It’s straightened, but not quite straight, parted precisely down the middle. Her lips are crimson, the precise same shade as her clinging, form fitting turtleneck dress. Her skin is clear. Cheekbones high. B-cup breasts. She’s easy on the eyes, but somehow asexual.

On the left, in an aquamarine crushed silk thigh-high dress, is her companion, South Asian/Indian. Her hair is wavy, curly, two toned, black and gold (!). Her dress isn’t nearly as flattering, her body not nearly as perfect as her companion’s, but she’s veritably dripping sex. I can’t peel my eyes off of her.

Mar 022017

I’m not in the mood to talk tonight.

I want to watch you. To see you shift, uncomfortably, in your chair, on your stool, as I direct you. Cross your legs. Uncross your legs. I want to imagine the sensations in your cunt as your thighs touch, come apart, touch, squeezing your parts together as your cunt grows slippery with anticipation.

As you grow wet, I want to grow hard, as I anticipate the service you are about to provide me, the time my cock is about to spend in your mouth as you swirl your tongue around it, pressing up against the shaft gently, firmly, sliding your lips up and down it, alongside it. As you cradle my balls gently, gently, as you lick, delicately, as you devour hungrily.

You remember how I like my cock sucked, don’t you? Have you read up? Reminded yourself? I’ve made it easy, you know. All you have to do is click here.