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Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Jun 232018
 

I tell myself stories. All the time.

Truth be told, I tell myself the same stories, over and over. These are the most common three stories I tell myself:

  1. I’m brilliant, super-competent, an order of magnitude better than those by whom I’m surrounded.
  2. I’m confused: on the one hand, something looks super-clear to me, but the entire rest of the world disagrees. I’m not sure if this means I’m uniquely perceptive and bright, or if it means there’s some fundamental way in which I’m not of this world.
  3. Related to that last clause in #2, above – Everyone else is doing/talking about something, but for whatever set of reasons, I’m excluded. Maybe because I’m not invited. Maybe because I didn’t know. Maybe both.

Of course, I tell myself other stories (I’m curious, open, uniquely receptive; I’m the world’s most desirable man; I’m the world’s least desirable man; and so on.)

The stories themselves don’t seem so interesting to me. An example: this morning, as I showered, I observed myself telling myself one of these stories. I belong to a group that’s struggling with a question. The question feels very straightforward and uncomplicated to me. In fact, I’m certain – not in a grandiose way, but in a simple, clean, confident way – that I could conclusively determine the answer to this question in 1-2 hours, given the opportunity. For reasons having to do with a combination of leadership (and the lack thereof) on the one hand, and ubiquitous anxiety, on the other, the group is paralyzed. Questions are discouraged; action, forbidden.

Now, this story is not a story about the group, or about my role in it. It’s a combination of all three stories above: I’m smarter than everyone else, but somehow I’m operating in a reality different from them.

Never mind the challenges this creates for me interpersonally. The flip side of the story I’ve just told, of course, is that there’s a group of people who can sense that I think I somehow know more than them, that I want to do something/proceed in a way that makes them really anxious, that demands they move away from their far more comfortable stasis. This can make people angry at and scared of me.

For the purposes of this blog, I’m wondering what these stories say about me. On one hand, I know, clearly, what they say, because I’ve spent several decades being me, and I recognize in these stories a recapitulation of many of the central struggles of my childhood. The ease with much that is challenging for others. The exclusion from much, but especially, from knowledge. The sense of simultaneous clarity/knowledge/certainty and utter bafflement/confusion/ignorance.

On the other hand, I’m less certain. Why do I tell these stories? How do I benefit from constructing the world in a way that tells me these stories over and over and over?

I know some theoretical answers to these questions, of course, but they continue to fascinate me.

What are the stories you tell yourself?

Jun 192018
 

People keep saying “this is not who we are,” or variations on that particular theme.

Genocidal sociopaths killed three of my great grandparents hiding behind language terrifyingly similar to the language my president has been using.

I recognize the self-deception in this claim, that this is not “who we are.”

This is, alas, precisely, who we are.

If we don’t want to be this, we need not to be this.

But for the time being, this is who we are.

Jun 192018
 

“I can’t wait to feel you in my mouth,” Tamora wrote, in anticipation of an upcoming date. And that makes two of us: I can’t wait to feel myself in her mouth. I seriously can’t.

But her message got me thinking.

My first impulse – not specific to Tamora, but rather, just to that particular combination of words, was, “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.” Now. That wouldn’t be nice. Particularly not to a woman who just told me she can’t wait to suck my cock. As the old saying goes, a man shouldn’t look a gift cock-sucker in the mouth.

Not my cock. Not Tamora’s mouth.

My second impulse was to wonder why. Not to wonder why Tamora might be excited about the prospect of a cock in her mouth – I get that. No, my question was why me? Not because there’s anything inherently problematic or confusing about desiring me – there’s not. This was more of a generic curiosity: what is it about me that makes Tamora excited for the possibility of my cock in her mouth?

As I said, this is a generic curiosity. It works in every direction, and isn’t, specifically, about me. What is it, I found myself wondering, that makes me particularly excited to have my cock in Tamora’s mouth? There are, of course, the biological and physical specifics of Tamora, her body, her mouth: her mouth is particularly gentle, warm; her body is particularly yielding to my touch, particularly soft. But as with all things sexual, even as I mostly feel desire in the parts of my body below my brain, it arises primarily in my brain. So the question is not, what is it about Tamora’s body that makes my cock hard as I imagine it in her mouth? Instead, the question is, what is it about Tamora – what is it about her, about her voice, her personality, her way of being, our way of being together – that makes my cock snap to attention when I imagine her?

See, now, those are much more interesting questions….

Jun 142018
 

Dissociation is painful.

What do we make of someone who was, apparently, at the same time, a powerful advocate for the interests of women and a serial abuser? We want him to be one or the other, to be either an angel or a monster, an ally or a foe.

Alas, as with just about everything involving sex, the truth lies somewhere in between. Even as Schneiderman accomplished much on the larger stage that helped women, he was, on the smaller stage of his personal life, beating and humiliating women (who apparently didn’t wish to be beaten and humiliated).

I read the New Yorker article, hungrily, and I felt an aching pit in my stomach.

Schneiderman, honestly, isn’t that far from me. He’s kind of like me, seen through a prism. I’ve hit a few women in the face. I’ve choked more. I’ve marked some. But unlike Schneiderman, I have always, always, asked permission first. Generally speaking, when I’m headed down anything like a road with the potential for violence beyond a slap or two on the ass, I am very explicit:

  1. Tell me the word you want to use to communicate that I should slow down, be careful.
  2. Tell me the word you want to use to communicate that I should stop.
  3. Tell me the word you want to use to communicate that, not only should I stop, but I should not do what I just did (ever?) again.
  4. May I leave bruises/marks?
  5. Tell me what, specifically, I may not under any circumstances do with/to you.
  6. (And sometimes: if I want to smack/slap/hit your face, may I?)

I don’t always ask all of these questions in this way. Sometimes, I just establish a safe word. Sometimes, I ask a subset of them. Sometimes, I don’t ask any of them. But if I haven’t asked any of them, if I haven’t gotten permission, it’s a safe bet I won’t be leaving any marks, and I won’t be inflicting any pain. (Except once.)

Schneiderman, though, didn’t ask, apparently. Rather, he told. He exerted control over women’s bodies, directing one to remove a tattoo, telling multiple women what they wanted. This is, precisely, the opposite of my form of dominance: I don’t tell women what they want. I tell women what want, and exert tremendous efforts in identifying women who want me to have what I want, who want to give it to me.

Jun 142018
 

Ezra Klein recently interviewed Jane Mayer about, among other things, her expose of Eric Schneiderman’s history of abuse.

I’m grateful for Jane Mayer’s journalism – she uncovers big stories skillfully. I have awe for her. But on at least one set of questions, she and I think differently.

In her conversation with Klein, Mayer said, at one point, “Life is not a Rashomon. Either Clarence Thomas said those things or he didn’t. Schneiderman had consent or he didn’t.”

This seems wrong to me, in the most fundamental way.

Life is a Rashomon.

Jun 122018
 

Hope and I had what will surely be our last sexual date. It was excellent, fun, hot, as every date has been. She sucked my cock, kneeling until her knees ached, her hands and arms bound behind her back with my belt, nude, as I fucked her face.

I took what I wanted from Hope, and gave her what she thought she needed, in the moment.

When she left, though, I thought I discerned a certain dissociative misery. I’m familiar with this misery. Excruciatingly familiar. That misery defined me for over a decade, that empty, lost, hopeless, sad, lonely, inescapable feeling. I thought I had seen that in her eyes once before, but she had reassured me that all was fine, and I allowed myself to believe her reassurance. Because I wanted her to be ok. I wanted to be a part of a joyful, healthy part of her. Not a collaborator in the murder of her soul.

What we were doing together – as much as I enjoyed it – wasn’t good for her, any more than heroin is good for a junkie. And I’m many things. But I’m not a pusher.

So I’m losing Hope. And I’m sad. Even as I’m grateful, and hopeful, that her perception and wisdom and strength will serve her well as she moves forward through, and out of, her misery.

Jun 012018
 

Do you have Muscle Milk? (A Hasidic Jew wearing a windbreaker identifying him as a volunteer ambulance driver)

What? (Arab grocer)

Muscle Milk.

No.

Ok, thanks. [Returns to phone conversation as he exits.] They stick a camera up the tuches. And they look around.

Exeunt.

May 262018
 

I walk in the room to find Hope as I asked to find her – kneeling, topless, in shorts, her hands behind her back. A nice touch, she has bowed her head, and her eyes face the floor demurely.

On the bed she has laid out a variety of clothes: a dress, a skirt, a t-shirt, a blouse, a pair of stockings, and some shorts she had sent me a tantalizing photo of a few nights ago.

Hope is pretty. A grown-up. Each time I see her, she looks a bit different to me, as a different aspect of her face comes into focus: her luscious, thick lips; her high cheekbones; her big, bright eyes. Her shiny, flouncy hair. The only thing that stays the same each time is the chopstick arrangement she uses to hold the bun atop her pretty head.

On this occasion, what I notice most is what I wanted to notice most: her full, shapely C-cup breasts, unconfined, waiting for me.

I approach her, take in the scene, and say, softly, as I unbutton my slacks and unzip my fly, “Good girl.”

My cock, hard, touches her lips. I press it forward, holding the back of her head as I slowly, gently, fuck her face.

I have her suck my cock for some time before I start cycling her through the clothes on the bed. I want them all off the bed, so I can, finally, fuck her. But I also want to see her body press against the fabric of each item, to touch her flesh through that fabric. So we spend some time working our way through the various items she’d brought. She sucks my cock; I squeeze, cup, fondle her breasts; I press against, into her cunt with my hands. And, eventually, I devour her.

I lower my head to her clit and delight, for some time, in the simultaneous responsiveness and resistance of her pussy. Hope bucks and moans, sighs and groans as I provide a variety of sensations with my tongue, my hands, my head. She approaches orgasm slowly, protractedly. And I pause as she gets closer, allowing us both to spend some time in that needing-to-come space.

I can’t recall where, exactly, fucking fits into the sequence, whether the first time she felt my cock slide up into her was after her hard-fought orgasm (her words – “Why do you fight them?” I asked – “I fight for them,” she explained), or before it. But she did, finally, feel my cock in her. First, as she sat on me, my hands gripping, slightly choking, her delicate, long neck, as I drove her back and forth, up and down, by her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, and her throat. And then, later, as I drove my cock down into her from above.

I hadn’t thought about where I wanted to come. In the end, I did as I have every time with her, as I almost always do with every partner: I came in her mouth. In her throat. I have a deep, primal appreciation for the sensation of feeding a beautiful, hungry woman my cock, my cum, and Hope is a beautiful, hungry woman.

Whom I fed my cum.

We lay around for a bit, discussing the things we discuss. Our families. Our work. The sex we just had. I dressed and returned to my day – it was about 11 in the morning. The smell of her pussy – mild, salty, musky – wafted from my beard upward all day, until my shower at the gym, a reminder of how my day had begun.

May 252018
 

Once upon a time, I spent a big chunk of my time engaged in high-stakes negotiations. (High-stakes, at least, for the parties engaged in the negotiations.)

I’ve read a lot of analysis of the state of play between Trump and North Korea. I’ve read nothing that comes close to my understanding of what’s happening. I’m not a North Korea expert. I’m not really an expert in much of anything (other than how I like my cock sucked). But with that caveat….

I believe the summit is likely to happen. Maybe on June 12. Maybe on July 12. Maybe on September 12. But I believe it will happen. And regardless of whether it ultimately happens, the negotiation over whether it happens is nowhere near over. Trump’s declaration calling it off was a move in a chess game. That’s all. Every successful deal dies a thousand deaths first.

Evil defines Trump. Not even evil, really, as evil requires a compass. Sociopathy defines him. I mourn the damage he’s done. I fear the damage he’ll do. But I believe he knows how to negotiate in 1-on-1 situations extremely well. What I see watching him impresses me. It scares the shit out of me, but it impresses me.

It impresses me because I think he’s not unlikely to reach an agreement, of some sort, with Kim. If it happens, my gut tells me it’ll be really big, and really small. Big, in that it will feature a flashy, showy agreement on principles that really do matter. It’ll be a great show, and it’ll be worth 10 approval points in the polls.

It’ll be really small because it won’t change much of anything. On either side. (And, because his dick is really small. Or it was, until he had penile enhancement surgery. Many people are saying that.)

It scares the shit out of me because I feel confident that Trump feels confident that he (candidate for reelection) would emerge stronger from a North Korean nuclear attack.

Given what we know about Donald Trump, it seems reasonable to imagine that might actually be his best outcome. So he sees this all as win-win for him. And I’m not sure he’s wrong.

I wonder how this will read in six months.