N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Jun 172017
 

Whenever you visit my Tumblr – not the one with the still pictures, but the one with the GIFs – you end up getting yourself off.

I know this.

You’ve told me.

You think you’ll just look at one screen, for one moment. But that’s not how it goes. Instead, you find your fingers wandering down to your cunt, feeling as you get wet, touching your clit, probing into your pussy.

You’ve told me this. That it’s a surefire path to an orgasm for you to skim through the images I’ve curated, imagining you and me, together, in the ways shown in those GIFs.

Well, tonight, I want to watch. I want you to go to the Tumblr. To page through the images. To rub your clit. To slide a finger or two or three up into your cunt. But I want to sit in front of you, stroking my cock, as I watch you get yourself off to the images I’ve chosen. As you get yourself off for me.

K?

Jun 142017
 

No seriously. I love to eat pussy.

And, I’m good at it.

Like, I can’t count how many women have told me I’m the best ever.

As I’ve written, for me, a measure of good sex is that, generally, when it’s happening, it feels like it’s the best ever. So I don’t take this superlative praise all seriously.

But I am good at it.

It seems wrong to me, then, somehow, that the women aren’t lining up.

 

Jun 132017
 

Her Tinder profile says, “I like to read, play golf and travel. And I also match my red lipstick with my soles. You will be a great husband if you know why.”

I am a great husband, and I won’t be a great one for her. But here are just three reasons why she might match her red lipstick with her soles – reasons I wouldn’t presume to foist upon her without an explicit green light. Which she kindly gave me.

1. So that, when your face is framed by your ankles, as I look up from between your thighs, there is no fashion distraction.

2. So that, as I grip your ankles, as my cock slides deep into you, and I stare into your eyes, my peripheral vision is nicely color coordinated, east, west, and south.

3. So that you don’t mistakenly leave embarrassing lip prints on the soles of your shoes.

Other ideas?

Jun 092017
 

I need it.

I’m not sure why. I have suspicions – I imagine that, as an infant, I cried, unattended, in my crib, longing to be held.

Maybe this happened.

Maybe it didn’t.

Psychic truth may or may not have anything to do with objective, real-world events.

My psychic truth is that this happened, and that, as a result, I find myself, today, both craving and fleeing touch.

Jun 072017
 

This happened to me.

I was riding a train. The doors opened. Four police officers – two white guys, two Latino guys, one of whom had a gold shield – all in plainclothes – stood before me. The gold shield said, “Step off the train, please, sir.”

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked.

“Step off the train please.”

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked, again.

“Step off the train, please, sir.”

I stepped off the train.

“Are you aware that you walked through two cars while the train was in motion?”

[My thought: “Um, yes. That was me.”] “Yes, sir.” [My thought: “Fuck, I just pled guilty. Should’ve fucking lawyered up.”]

“Please have a seat, sir,” the detective said, motioning to a nearby bench. “May we see some ID?”

There ensued a comical conversation about whether I’d ever been in trouble with the law before. (I thought he’d asked, “Have you ever walked between train cars before?” to which I replied, “Of course! I’ve lived here all my life.”) Misunderstanding clarified, the cops commenced using their phones to (attempt to) ascertain whether I had any outstanding warrants. Apparently, the warrant check system was down. Or not reach-able by any of their phones. “Only the best equipment for the NYPD,” one said to another, wryly.

I might well have had sixteen outstanding warrants. They asked me. I said, “No.”

They took me at my word. (I don’t have any outstanding warrants.) Would they have taken me at my word if I were a little more melanin-rich? If I were wearing a turban? A galabya? I doubt it.

Another listened to his earpiece, and said to the others, “Brooklyn-bound F train.”

“Manhattan-bound,” I [helpfully, thought I] corrected.

“No,” he said. “What’s on the radio….”

“Oh, sorry,” I said.

There wasn’t an ounce of warmth, or playfulness, from these dudes. They were very serious. All business. I was in trouble.

They wrote up a summons. Seventy-five dollars.

The detective lectured me. Twice. On the perils of walking between train cars.

As I sat, I pondered the state of my country. The fear I have of the suspensions of civil liberties our president is chomping at the bit to impose. I had lunch the other day with a (new) friend, a Jew, a gay Jew, who both fears the impending rounding-up of the Jews and is rooting for a draconian suspension of civil liberties to “protect us” from “terrorists.”

What I want?

A draconian crackdown on driving. Drunk driving. Any kind of driving. If we got rid of it, imagine how many lives we’d save? If we’d prevented every fucking terrorist attack in the US over the last twenty years, we’d save what, 5,000 lives?

Not to trivialize those lives, but….

Anyway. I sat there. I thought about these four guys, guys who chose to be cops, to protect and to serve, and instead, found themselves issuing a $75 summons for a crime (a “violation,” actually) called “unsafe riding.”

I thought about how, just days ago, in London, people were being mowed down and stabbed.

I thought about how, in my city, right then, surely, within a mile of where we were, a woman was being beaten by her husband, a gay man was being harassed, a child was being beaten.

Never mind the tens of thousands of people the fucking insane embarrassment of a president would have us believe are lying in wait, plotting, plotting, plotting.

Anyway.

As I sat there, politely awaiting my summons, I thought, “How lucky I am, a white, upper-middle-class man, to be having the fifth involuntary encounter interaction of my life with the cops.”

First, age 12, for lighting fires. Guilty as charged.

Second, age 19, speeding. Guilty as charged.

Third, age 21, speeding. Sort of guilty. Mostly guilty for having out-of-state plates in a state where that matters.

Fourth, age 39, really speeding (60 in a 35). Guilty AF. (But, honestly, the 35 should be 50.)

Fifth, unsafe riding.

How fucking lucky am I? Seriously.

But Jesus Christ, what’s ahead of us….

Jun 052017
 

I haven’t been writing much. I haven’t been having sex much. All my energy has been going into some combination of work, writing elsewhere, unhelpful political reading and podcast-listening, and vaguely helpful escapist reading (The Plot Against America, haunting, prescient).

My cock has been neglected. have been neglecting my cock. I haven’t been masturbating, haven’t been having much sex.

There are all sorts of reasons – physical pain, political pain, the pressures of life. I was talking the other night with a friend, wondering about how much of it is, just, well, age.

I don’t know. I don’t, honestly, care.

What I care about is this: my cock has that aching hungry feeling right now. It’s non-specific. And it’s not, exactly, horny. It’s more like… hungry to be horny.

Because reasons, I found myself reading, recently, about the phenomenon of desire. I didn’t like any of the definitions I came across. Here’s Merriam Webster’s first definition of the verb form:

1:  to long or hope for :  exhibit or feel desire for desire success knew that men still desired her.

And here’s their first definition of the noun form (recursively present in the verb definition):

1:  conscious impulse (see 2impulse 3) toward something that promises enjoyment or satisfaction in its attainment ridding oneself of all desires how humans process desire.

The second definition of the noun form is “longing, craving.” This starts to feel more helpful.

Desire isn’t a positive thing, an active thing. “Want,” it feels to me, is a richer word, meaning both “to long for” and “to lack.” It has, embedded within, the impossibility of its fulfillment: if I want something, I can’t have it; if I have something, I don’t want it.

“Desire” and “want” feature lack as an essential element. All those “keep it new” advice columns for married couples gesture toward this reality: for “want” to be powerful, there must be lack.

I think the Stones got it ever-so-slightly wrong: you can’t ever get what you want.

And right now, I’m feeling me some need. 😉

May 302017
 

When I was fifteen, I went on a trip to Israel in a group of about fifteen other teenaged Jews. Several of the boys among us (thought we?) coined the expression “on the bus,” to describe the nearly constant phenomenon of vibration-induced erections. Urban Dictionary supports the notion both that we coined the expression, and that it’s a ubiquitous experience, with the expression “bus boner.”

Cialis has brought the sensation of being “on the bus” back to me. For the first time in decades, I find my cock stiffening in response to vibrations, jostling, bouncing. It’s pretty fucking nice.

I wonder, sometimes, about the internal sense of “deadness” that I contend with – whether it dates to my infancy, to my toddler-hood, or to my late adolescence. I’m not sure. But I do know that nothing counters my sense of deadness more effectively than a good old stiffy. That, and the sensation of touch, particularly, but not exclusively, from a woman.

I’m pretty sure that’s how so many of my troubles began: with a combined sense of internal lifelessness and a vitality that flows through flesh.

May 252017
 

It’s not lost on me that I haven’t been writing all that much lately. Not because my mind hasn’t been active. My cock hasn’t been that active – though I did have a really fun time earlier this week about which I can’t tell you.

Anyway – I plan to write more, soon, but I think it might be time for me to admit that I’m writing less…. Ok. I admit it.