N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Sep 062017
 

Acceptance
Admiration
Appreciation
Compliance
Connection
Control
Distraction
Domination
Inspiration
Pleasure
Predictability
Pressure
Release
Relief
Safety
Smell
Soothing
Stimulation
Submission
Taste
Touch
Validation
Visual gratification
Yielding

Sep 012017
 

Sometimes, I sit. Sometimes, I lie. Sometimes, I walk.

Today, I lay on a couch. The bell on my phone marked the end of my ten-second “preparation,” and I began to focus on my breath, counting. “One, two, three….”

Sometimes, I can barely count to “one” before I lose track of my breath and am chasing my thoughts. Other times, I make it as high as five or ten before I notice that I’m thinking, before I notice what it is that I’m thinking. In those circumstances, generally, I try to label my thoughts. This might be as simple as labeling them “thinking.” Or it might be more specific, like, “Planning,” or “Fantasizing,” or “Fear.” Then, I (try to) turn my attention back to my breath. I resume counting. And maybe, maybe, I get to “one” or “two” before I’m off chasing my thoughts again.

Other times, as today, I engage in a different exercise: I try, really hard, to count. That’s my task. I don’t relax, simply observing what happens when I count. Instead, I concentrate. Meditation teachers say there are different kinds of meditation, and this describes two of them. In the first, insight or “Vipassana” meditation, I focus loosely on my breathing, trying to keep my attention there, noticing when it drifts elsewhere, and gently guiding it back. In the second, concentration meditation, my goal (such as it is) isn’t to notice where my thoughts go as to hold them, firmly, to a specific object (my breath, say).

In general, I favor insight meditation. Sometimes, though, I get a little… lax… and what I tell myself is “insight meditation” starts to feel a little too much like “resting with my eyes closed.” And it’s then, usually, that I turn to concentration meditation. Lately, I’ve been a bit lax.

As I concentrated, as I counted, I managed to keep track of my counting. Well, at least until I got to 77. I take 10-14 breaths per minute, depending on how relaxed I am, whether or not I’m currently smoking, and so on. Currently, it’s 12-13, so I was around six minutes in. At 77, I lost track for about two breaths. I was thinking about… I’m not sure. The gym? About whether or not I’ll go today? I probably won’t. About writing this post? I noticed all this, imagined it had been two, or maybe three breaths, and resumed: 80, 81, 82….

At about 136, the ten-minute interval bell on my meditation timer gonged. I don’t usually use “interval bells” – I usually just set the timer for 20, or 30, or 45 (or sometimes 5, or 10) minutes, and meditate. But when I’m struggling, I sometimes find the interval bells helpful to reinforce my attempts to concentrate, in particular. So the bell sounded, I noted “Hmm – 13.6 breaths/minute or so,” and kept counting.

I continued, approaching, and then passing, 200. At that point, my thoughts began intruding more regularly. I would miss a breath to fantasize (Lexy, Sheila, Tamora, Anya, Sophia, V, among others, featured) and then I would resume counting. I would miss one to think about work, and then I’d resume. The gym, again. Dinner. The weekend. Other things. But I was on track at about 260, when the second interval bell rang.

At that point, because I’m not sure why, I started my count again at 1. One, two, three…. This time, though, my monkey mind was a mess. Concentrate though I could, I kept losing two, four, seven breaths, and then trying to estimate how many I’d missed, and not being able to remember where I’d been when the lacuna had begun.

At a number I thought was 160, I knew something was way off. I couldn’t have taken 160 breaths in the remaining ten minutes. So I reset myself to 1 again. 1, 2, 3….

Somewhere at around twenty, that time, the final bell rang, and I sat up, feeling focused, concentrated, and good.

Aug 312017
 

Homecoming – 12 episodes of an old-fashioned radio play about PTSD and paranoia, featuring an all-star cast, including Catherine Keener, Oscar Isaac, David Schwimmer, Amy Sedaris, and more.

Ear Hustle – an ongoing exploration of life inside San Quentin, recorded by inmates, in the prison.

The Daily – a daily deep dive into one or two stories in the New York Times. It’s how I start my day every day, and it’s awesome.

And a YouTube series called “Numberphile,” about… numbers.

Aug 312017
 

Sheila and I matched on Tinder in spite of thousands and thousands of miles of ocean between us. We instantly got on well, messaging first in Tinder, then in Kik, and, finally, in e-mail. It happened that she was planning a trip to my city in the relatively near future.

As the date approached, the excitement ratcheted. She sent me pictures of her pretty self, including her face, and her body. She’s a bit self-conscious, but – as often is the case – her self-consciousness about her body is the only flaw I could see. She had worried that she’s not “my type.” I’m not sure what she meant by that – she’s not tiny, true, but she’s proportional, and once her heels came off, an inch or two shorter than I. Her hair is straight, hangs to her nipples. Her face, a perfect oval. Her lips are full. Her eyes are hard to see, because they’re almost always facing down. An admirable trait in a woman, I say.

This isn’t her, but it’s not a terrible approximation of her. As you’ll see, she’s quite pretty:

I chose the clothes she would wear (a black dress, black panties, black bra, stockings) and picked out a quiet speakeasy.

I arrived to find her lost on the street outside, incongruously formal, incongruously hot, for a semi-grungy back street. As befits a speakeasy, the door was unmarked, and the buzzer obscure. A bearded hipster opened the door and beckoned us in. She was prettier than her pictures had communicated. Her photos – she seemed casually to send photos of her face – always showed her a little… anxious. But in person, she smiled, wide, and her mouth looked delightful. Delicious. Welcoming. I couldn’t wait to feed her my cock.

We placed ourselves at the front of the bar, near the door, while we waited for bar stools to open up, and we had our first drink. At this bar, one doesn’t order a drink. One tells the bartender the sorts of drinks one likes, and she comes up with some pretentious concoction, specially conjured just for you.

After our first drink, we made our way to the two stools at the back of the bar, and made ourselves comfortable. Conversation was easy, fun, hot. Soon enough, my fingers were deep in her pussy, even as we sat at the bar. Could anyone tell? I don’t think so…. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a hungry, plaintive, desperate longing. She tells me that I “almost made [her] cum [sic] at that bar.” She adds, “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. Having so many people around me, close to me and your fingers in me while you were staring at me was almost too much.”

I sent her along to her hotel. I’d asked her to give me a key, and to wait for me on her balcony, arms, legs, spread. I found her, precisely as I’d asked, just a few minutes later.

It was raining, and the balcony wasn’t immune. We took in the lightning, the thunder, and I drank her in. We kissed, hard. I stripped her panties and dress off [no I didn’t, she reminds me; she had lost her panties in the bar], and I devoured her cunt. She came, hard. She devoured my cock. I came, hard. (Note: as has happened not infrequently in the last year or so, I wasn’t as hard as I’d have liked, notwithstanding Cialis. This is not in any way a knock on her. I was oh-so-turned on, and, as I said, came extremely hard. I apologized, and she seemed to take it in stride.)

We debriefed a little. Talked about her family, about her visit to the States. And agreed that there would be more.

And there will.

Aug 242017
 

Traveling through Europe with my father at thirteen or fourteen: our itinerary took us to Hungary, among other places, and on a day-long bus tour in the hills of Buda. We watched some sort of “authentic” folkloric performance – for the benefit of those of us on the bus – in some tiny village. I was indifferent.

But across the square, during the performance, I noticed a beautiful Hungarian villager, my age. My eyes never left hers, and her eyes didn’t leave mine, for the entire performance. I had elaborate fantasies: I would approach her, tell her… I don’t know what, something. As was my wont, I did nothing. I just pined. We drank some disgusting raspberry brandy. And, after a while, it was time to board the bus. I climbed the stairs, feeling acutely I had lost something, I had failed, profoundly, to bring about some life-changing relationship.

I eased myself into my seat, looked out the window, and saw the girl one last time, as the bus backed out. She stood next to a dusty old Soviet car, her fingers dusty as she finished writing, “I love you” in the dust on the car’s rear window. She looked up at me, and waved.

I couldn’t bring myself to wave back.

Aug 222017
 

Her lips are as if drawn by a fine, sharpened pencil. They curve elaborately, into just a hint of a frown as she takes in yet another day’s worth of horrifying news.

Her eyelashes, too, could well be the strokes of a sharp, thin pencil – thirty or forty tiny narrow lines stretching out from below long, smooth lids.

And her nose: it’s delicately curved, approximating a bracket: {.

Her eyes are bright green, with a hint of yellow.

Her neck is long, and opens into her creamy chest, which ends, just at the top of her full breasts, in a black and white patterned minidress.

Her feet sit in black suede flats, and she wears a crocheted green sweater, the holes large enough to give thousands of glimpses of the flesh of her shoulders and arms.

I can’t look away.

Aug 212017
 

I sit in a bar.

I drink my scotch.

I match with a cute, not hot, Indian woman. Verging on girl. She’s 23.

“Can you suck?” she messages me.

Conversation ensues. Against my better judgement. I explain that, if we are to meet, she’ll need to understand she’s there to please me, not the other way round. That she’ll certainly get what she wants, but that she needs to know her role.

She’s desperate. Horny. Some guy surely will fuck her before the night is through. But not this one. I bow out. As she protests.

And this, right here, is, in some ways, the crux of me: I want what I want. I’m simply uninterested in not getting it.

Aug 202017
 

So as I meditated, my thoughts turned to you, to our date.

I had a fantasy. (Well, more than one, but this is the one I’m sharing here.)

We face some constraints, you and I, not least the current circumstances that make it impermissible for us to touch in any way other than incidental. I thought of two possible ways of addressing this circumstance. Not saying either is what we’ll do (or that either is what I want for us to do). But I did enjoy the fantasy, and I’m eager to hear your response to it.

So the first, ideal, fantasy, is this: you arrive, dressed as I have asked. With a friend, dressed as you have asked her to dress. Because you are not able to touch me, but she is, she will be your tool (and, to the extent you wish, your plaything) for the evening. You will use her to please me. You will instruct her, direct her, position her, move her. She will do precisely as you ask. And you will ask her to do precisely what you know will please me. Or rather, what you know would please me if you were to do it.

This fantasy has a lot going for it, for me. Unfortunately, what it lacks is verisimilitude. It just seems manifestly unlikely.

Which is how I found myself in fantasy #2. In this fantasy, you arrive, dressed as I’ve asked. We drink, talk, tease. And then, we adjourn to a nearby strip club. In this strip club, we spend our first, oh, say, hour, continuing our conversation, but with you recruiting various women to dance for us. For you, for me. When an hour or so has passed, you select the woman who you think is best suited to serve our needs, to please me. Or rather, to do what you know would please me if you were to do it.

As the fantasy continues, I procure a private room, and an hour (or maybe two) with the lovely lady you’ve selected, and we move ourselves there. The hosts, no doubt, ply us with some exorbitantly overpriced liquor. And we get down to business. This woman is, as in fantasy #1, your plaything, and your tool. You do exactly as in fantasy #1, subject, of course, to her limits, and to the limits imposed by the establishment, using her to approximate with me the pleasure you might provide me in that particular setting, were you free to.

As I said, I’m not saying this is how we’ll spend our time together. But I’m eager to hear your response.