N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

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.

May 052017

In May 2012, I weighed 180. That was less than I’ve weighed since I was 17.

In May 2016, I weighed 220.

In December 2016, I weighed 212.

Today, I weigh 189.

I’ve been consistently losing a little over a pound a week since December. I’ve done this by a) restricting my caloric intake generally, to 1500 calories, net of exercise, per day; b) minimizing processed sugar in my diet; and c) busting my ass on an elliptical trainer four or five days a week for half an hour a day, in addition to my normal couple miles of walking a day.

This is my weight over the last three months:

I have a spreadsheet on my phone. It looks like this:

I log every calorie in an app on my phone to keep myself on track.

The foods shown in the bottom screen shot show that while I’m obsessive, I’m not fanatical.

You may think I’m crazy.

But something is working….

May 042017

Somehow, I made it to adulthood starved for touch. In my twenties, I discovered first lap dances and then “happy ending” massages. In my thirties, my consumption of commercially procured female touch accelerated, and soon I was paying for more and more of it, more and more frequently.

In my forties, things shifted.

I turned my attention first to less sexual forms of touch – legitimate massage, bodywork, and assisted stretching in the gym. And, of course, sexual adventures of the non-commercial variety, of the sort you read about here.

Through it all, though, there’s a constant. Somehow, for some reason, I continue, always, to rely heavily on female touch – sexual or otherwise – for help with emotional regulation. I don’t know why. I’m emotionally attuned. I meditate daily. Work out frequently. I continue to develop a more intimate and familiar relationship with my own body, but have quite a long way to go.

On the massage table the other day, in a bodywork session by a Rolf-er with whom I’ve long worked, I noticed that when she asked if the temperature was ok, I replied, reflexively, “It’s fine.”

I don’t know if it was fine, or hot, or cold. As I answered, I realized that I never, ever have – nor would I – ask(ed) for the temperature to be changed. I just wouldn’t. It’s almost as if, in that setting, I don’t have warmth or coldness. (In French, that’s how you say it – j’ai froid, j’ai chaud. In Spanish, too, I think, though I’m less sure.)

I’m not sure how these things relate. On the one hand, my reliance on women’s touch to keep me balanced; on the other, my seeming obliviousness to my bodily experience in the moment. Or at least, in a moment when I’m being touched by a woman.

Got any thoughts?

May 042017

Lately, I’ve been pouring copious amounts of time into podcasts. With nearly every spare moment, I’m listening to some wise person or another explain to me some or other aspect of the current disastrous political situation.

It soothes me, a little. But then it doesn’t. I think it’s soothing to hear the Crooked Media guys explain just how horrifically the Administration is fucking things up. But then I realize it isn’t soothing, it shouldnt be soothing. The opposite, instead: it’s kinda like acting out sexually. It feels good while it’s happening, in that it takes me away from painful realities I’d prefer not to face, but, when it’s over, I’m back where I started, minus the time (and maybe, money).

In any event, I’ve been neglecting this space. Not telling you about my cock. It hasn’t been seeing all that much action lately, and most of my extramarital sexual stimulation of late comes from porn. Kinda hollow.

Here’s hoping I have some good stories to tell you soon. Fwiw, I’ve lost 32 pounds in the last year, and am approaching my adult historical low weight. So I’m looking better…. That should help, right?

May 042017

I see her often.

She always is in black leggings.

Her face is pretty, cute, Midwestern, seemingly innocent. Not that any of those things necessarily go together. But sometimes they do.

She has big breasts, and they always strain at her unchanging black cotton t-shirt. They’re bigger, honestly, than I might prefer. Big for her small frame, they surely are an inconvenience to her at times.

Her hair is brown, verging on black, and always in one of those high ponytails I imagine represent a communication to me about sexual preferences (like bandanas in gay men’s pockets, back in the day).

The thing about her, though, is her ass. It’s just. Fucking. Insane.

Apr 292017

Over the last ten days, I’ve drunk too much, stayed up too late, and reconnected with old friends. Saturday night, I drank and dined with three friends – the most recent of whom I’ve been friends with since I was 14. By which time I’d been friends with the other two for seven years already. Sunday, I drank with a new friend, of just a few months. Thursday, lunch with another friend since I was seven, and drinks with L (whom I first met seven years ago). Tonight, drinks with another friend of similar vintage. Tomorrow, I’ll see dozens of old friends at a birthday party for a friend of thirty years.

Topics, lately, include aging, death, sex, divorce, marriage. Pretty much in that order.

Marriage is complicated, for most people, it seems. Not for me. I’m lucky that way. Though I’ve been through (taken my marriage through) the wars, today, my marriage is pretty easy. I can’t say enough about it, and, in spite of that, I rarely say anything about it.

Here’s the thing: as I sat, tonight, listening to a friend tell me about the dissolving mess that is her marriage, and as I sat the other night, listening to L tell me about hers, and on those other days with those other friends – all of whose marriages are, by all outward appearance, successes – I couldn’t help thinking: I won.

And I did.

Apr 242017

I often write that what I want is your compliance.

But what I need?

It turns out, that’s different.

I need one – or more, but at least one – of the following:

  1. Your mouth in service of my cock.
  2. Your thighs, open for me, pressing against my ears, as my tongue finds your clit.
  3. Your cunt, wet, as my cock slides in and out of it.

Is that so much to ask?

Apr 192017

Eight years ago, I had my first mid-life crisis. My life was careening out of control. I made those around me as miserable as I felt.

In the time since, a lot has happened. This blog shows some of that, but not all of it. Not very much, actually. It doesn’t address the revolution in my marriage, the professional changes, the evolution of my friendships. My first mid-life crisis led to a radical reinvention of my self.

Today, I find myself in my second mid-life crisis. The first demanded change in every sphere. Anyone who knew me could see plainly what was happening. And if they couldn’t see WHAT was happening, they certainly saw that SOMETHING dramatic was happening.

This time, friends and family see far less. Blog readers might sense it. I got a note the other day, which I reproduce – edited for clarity and grammar:

What has happened????  My lady and myself have been avid readers of your blogs for many years, being able to review the archives, including wicked wednesday, frisky friday, etc., musing and memory etc. This site was unsurpassed for us, and very well written – it had everything. Now  it’s a mere shadow, the sparkle and the detail have gone. Why?

First, of course, I’m so flattered by the praise here, even if the author lodges it firmly in the past tense. Second, as with any interesting question in life, there isn’t one simple answer. I’ve been writing here for more than six years. The blog has one URL, but thousands of entries, maybe even millions of words. It’s changed. Many times.

From the start, it wasn’t just one blog. It was a sex blog and a meditation blog and a thinking blog and a confession blog and a proselytizing blog and and and….

At the start, I was driven, urgent, writing two or three entries a day. Readers could taste my excitement, my desire, my curiosity. I needed to tell you my story, both so you would know it, and so I could form an understanding of it.

My life facilitated this: at the time, professional and other demands on me left me lots of time to write.

Today, I have less time. I could go into why, but that’s not what this blog is about.

Other things have changed, too. When I started this blog, I had grandiose fantasies. It would change the world, become a phenomenon, lead to book deals. In the event, it did far better things for me. It helped me make sense of myself, of my journey, in a way that was gratifying, fulfilling, and healthy. It introduced me to people. It became a part of me.

For all these reasons, it’s changed over time. And I don’t doubt it’s become less compelling too many, or even most, readers.

That’s ok. I mean, I’m sorry if you’ve lost something, but I’m not apologizing: all along, what I’ve offered is a window into my psyche, not a product defined by your desires. As my psyche has evolved, so has the blog.

But back to my crisis….

In recent months, I’ve become painfully aware of a few realities, all overlapping:

1. I will die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day. Eight years ago, I had that same revelation, and totally altered how I led my life in response. Today, the realization is different, deeper, more philosophical, less action-demanding. Today, I’m mourning my eventual death, whereas eight years ago, I was resisting, raging, and course-correcting.

No regrets here – I’m proud of and grateful for the changes I made. But turns out, life remains finite.

2. I might not die in a flash of light, a single moment of transition from being to not being. More likely, death won’t be so much an event as a process, a deterioration, diminution, transition.

3. Between here and there lies not just change, not just suffering, but insult. Life will get harder and harder, and my vanity will take hit after hit. I’m fortunate in that, notwithstanding some stuff, I’m healthy. Not just healthy, but deceptively fit looking. I’m often told I look five or ten years younger than I am. This confuses me, though: while I LOOK fit, I feel like shit. My body has been through some shit in the last two years, and even if you can’t see it to look at me, there’s no missing it if you ARE me. I don’t have pain-free moments. There’s no activity in which I engage in which I’m not aching. And I know that it’s just a matter of time before my outward appearance catches up to my inner state.

In this sense, I enjoy good fortune. My inner state, though pained, is, mostly, equanimous.

Except not lately. And hence, my crisis.

Yesterday, I understood my inevitable decline and death as theoretical certainties. Today, they’re not theoretical. They’re practical. They’re here. They’re now.

I suspect this informs some of my diminished intensity, both in living and in writing.

Please forgive me.

And here’s another thing: I’m filled with regrets. Or not really regrets. It’s not that I wish I’d done x, y, or z differently. I mean, I do, but that’s not the point. If I’d done those things differently, I would be different, and, truth be told, I like me pretty well the way I am. So even if the path that led me to where I am today featured some wrong turns, I’m pretty convinced they only look wrong in isolation; given the totality of everything, in retrospect, I made no mistakes.

And still… I find myself mourning, crying. Not for the wrong turns so much as for the pain and sadness. In the same way I look at my son and feel his pain in a deep, bodily way, when I look back at my own life thus far, I see my own pain, again, in a deep, bodily way, only this time, more intently.

This is a strange phenomenon: as a teenager, I suffered, like any teen. Today, though, when I look at the pain I felt then, it feels more acute, more painful, more sad than I remember. So too, the pain I felt as a toddler. And as a pre-teen. And an adolescent. And a young adult. And an adult. And so on…. Everywhere I look, I see greater sadness in retrospect than I recall feeling in the moment.

More will come on this subject, but I think what I’ve written begins to answer my reader’s question….

Apr 122017

On a warm spring day, her black leather jacket makes me sweat just to look at it. Not to mention her fur-lined black leather boots.

Her black rectangular plastic glasses frame her pretty green eyes. Her blonde hair, still wet from the shower, frames her black glasses in another rectangle.

Her lips, though, dominate the picture: lush, full, expressive, as she types in her phone, they twist and turn, pointing up in a smile, down in puzzlement.

Sexy, sensual, wet, they captivate me.