N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Mar 012018
 

Bratty subs want to lose. They want to fight, and to lose.

I crave a woman who sees her submission as a victory. A victory for her and for me.

If I dominate you, if you submit to me, we both win.

I don’t have the energy to fight a battle, nor do I crave the particular form of dominance that is vanquishing. Quite the opposite: I derive enormous pleasure from knowing you want to give me what I want, from knowing you can’t stop yourself from giving me what I want.

So give it to me.

Please.

Feb 162018
 

I sat at the bar. It had been a long day. As I wrote in my notebook, the Olympics silently on the TV above my head, a beautiful woman, 25 or so, sat to my right. She seemed to know Pam and the bartender.

An aside: I’ve come to understand that Pam and the bartender are dating. I wonder if Pam’s tasted her pussy yet, and I wonder how the bartender reacted to what I wrote about that question, if, indeed, he read what I wrote. End of aside.

I didn’t particularly want to intrude on their conversation. I had a lot of thoughts to jot down, and I couldn’t really make out what the hottie to my right was saying. After about fifteen minutes, though, I heard Pam say: “I don’t understand why people want to go to movies that make them cry.”

“I haven’t heard anything of your conversation up til now,” I said, “but I know why people want to go to movies that make them cry.”

“Why?” asked Pam.

“Because if you can’t cry about your own sadness, it feels really good to cry about sadness that doesn’t implicate you, that isn’t yours.”

Conversation ensued. The hottie and I were talking. Pam receded. We learned a lot about one another. Our conversation was interesting, engaging, long. Utterly asexual. Though she’s super hot, I felt zero chemistry. At any point. Not that I can’t conceive of a universe in which chemistry could develop – I can. But if this universe is that universe, I’m unaware of it.

Fast forward a few drinks.

A tall, young, not especially attractive (to me) man arrives and sits to the right of the hottie. They peck hello. They know one another. It seems he’s here to meet her. They don’t talk, really. She takes out her credit card and settles. We finish up our conversation. She takes my contact information. (I didn’t ask to give it, or to have hers, but I encourage her to contact me.) And she and he walk out. There’s no real affection visible between them, or connection. What there is, I gather, is a plan.

I’m envious. Sort of.

I didn’t want to use her for my pleasure, to connect with her sexually (although, as I wrote, I would be open to developing that desire). I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her had she been interested. I was ready to go home. But seeing her make herself available to someone else, someone with whom it seemed she shared less of a connection (if greater chemistry) than she did with me? That felt bad, in a way that’s hard for me to parse.

It made me a little sad. Maybe in a patronizing, “I feel bad that she has to go with him rather than to connect with me” sort of way that I find unappealing in myself. Maybe in a “I have a hunch that she’s not going to feel good after she does whatever she’s doing with him” kind of way. Also, though, unappealing: not just patronizing, but presumptuous, that. What the fuck do I know? Nothing. I’m projecting my own insecurities and desires onto their relationship, such as it is.

And writing about it here. Which is something I haven’t been doing much of lately.

So.

There’s that.

Feb 152018
 

I feel alive when my cock is hard.

My cock, soft, can deaden me.

If you touch my cock, and if you do so with hunger in your eyes, my cock will spring to life, almost certainly. I will spring to life.

If you do as I ask – whether we are in the same place or separated by thousands of miles – my cock will grow hard.

Beauty doesn’t stiffen me. Thoughts don’t stiffen me.

Interaction makes my cock hard – physical touch, compliance. I have written, often, that I want a woman to respond to me like a finely tuned sports car. Increasingly though, I realize I am the finely tuned sports car. I respond exaggeratedly to even the slightest stimulus, positive or negative.

Feb 072018
 

Sheila canceled a date with me, intuiting that I wasn’t likely to bring my A-game. Lexy and I have fallen out, largely out of my neglect. I have half a dozen e-mails sitting in my inbox, unreturned. I don’t have the energy or the attention to turn to them. It’s not that there’s anything wrong: there isn’t.

My life is good right now. Busy. Full. But sex, honestly, just isn’t a part of it. Certainly not “N” sex, the sex N. has and writes about here. But honestly, not really any sex at all.

This happens, of course, from time to time. Sex, like everything else, ebbs and flows. But I’m struck by how long it’s been, and how deep the rut runs. Part of it is Trump, to be sure. Though I’m fortunate enough not to be in any of the categories of people he’s harming, I am struck by how enervating it is simply to live under him, to bear witness to his assault on truth and decency, day after day.

I am one of those who, as a child, suffered a systematic evisceration of the concept of truth. Trump re-traumatizes me and those who, like me, saw manifest truth denied as children. (Incidentally, or maybe more than incidentally, I often wonder how my child will relate to this as he grows older.) So anyway – Trump Trauma afflicts me. For realz. It’s a thing. It’s not the only thing, but it is a real thing. I find myself reading compulsively, listening to podcasts compulsively, desperately trying to reassure myself that my perspective, my perceptions, is, are, real. And that consumes an enormous amount of energy.

So that’s Trump.

But there’s more.

My cock, lately, just isn’t hard. I’ve been looking at more porn than usual lately. I’ve written about this before: porn isn’t what I do when I’m horny. It’s what I do when I’m not horny.

And I’ve noticed something else: I’m not even that interested in hot woman. Hotness isn’t enough for me. I want compliance. And not just compliance. Perfect, perfect, attunement. I need to write about this at some point, but now’s not that point: it’s not enough to do as I ask. I often crave anticipating my desires, not just fulfilling them. And at the moment? It’s especially acute.

It’s as if my desire is somehow fragile, ready to be extinguished by the slightest failing. I was flirting with a woman via text the other day, and I’ve seen myself pull away from her. Why? She didn’t, honestly, do anything wrong. But she said a couple of things, she interacted in a couple of teeny-tiny ways that indicated… well, to be honest, that indicated she is a separate human, someone who’s not me. And this was enough to send me sideways.

Separateness, in my current configuration, is simply wildly unappealing.

Strange.

Jan 202018
 

Sitting at a bar, passing a few minutes before arriving at a party for which I’m unfashionably early (a friend’s son’s bar mitzvah), I’m sitting next to a party of three – two attractive young women, and an attractive young man. They were here before I arrived, but I’m kinda shocked they’re legal. I’d have guessed 19. Maybe 20. No way 21. Anyway, turns out, one of the chicks is engaged – they’re celebrating. And interactions reveal they’re late 20s/early 30s. I’m old.

Jan 162018
 

Please don’t speak.

Position yourself comfortably.

Or at least, as comfortably as possible, given that my eyes will be taking you in. All of you.

That I’ll be imagining peeling, tearing, off your clothes.

Face your body towards me, and give your full attention to the sensations in your cunt.

Does it tingle? Is it wet? Does it ache? Does it need?

I will simply be looking at you. Perhaps, lightly, stroking my cock as I imagine the uses to which I might, to which I will, put you.

When you finish reading this page, please close your eyes. Will you be able to feel my eyes on you? To imagine my cock on you? In you?

You may, if you wish, touch your pussy. In fact, please do. Under your skirt if you wish. Over it if you prefer. But please, don’t stop imagining that your fingers are mine, that it’s my hand pressing against you, pressing into you.

Now.

Close your eyes. Until I say to open them.

Thank you.

Jan 092018
 

Once upon a time, I wrote in a frenzied way here. I constantly found myself grabbing minutes here and there, and devoting them to posting content here.

Nowadays, I’m not so manic. I just had about thirty minutes between appointments, and, where previously, I would have planted myself in a Starbucks and written written written, today, intending to do that, instead, I planted myself in a Starbucks and… did other stuff.

But there is a really hot woman sitting to my left. So there’s that. 😉

Jan 082018
 

When I was seventeen, my cock was hard. Pretty much the whole year.

Also, when I was sixteen. And fifteen. And eighteen.

I’m older now, and hard less constantly, less consistently.

Back then, if my cock was hard it meant, for the most part, that I was still alive.

Today, when my cock stiffens, it means that I’m turned on, that I’m aroused. And more than that, it means that my cock is stimulated. Almost always, this means both mentally and physically. My cock requires both mental stimulation and physical stimulation to be hard. If I, or someone, isn’t rubbing my cock, it’s unlikely to stiffen. I gather, from reading, and talking, that this is not uncommon for men over the age of, say, 40.

In my next post, I’ll address the meaning of my erection to others.

Jan 072018
 

I have a man crush.

Ben Wittes is about my age, and his voice reminds me hauntingly of that of a close friend of mine.

I’ve never met him, but I could trace a LinkedIn or Facebook path to him really easily.

I never miss either of his two podcasts – Lawfare and Rational Security – and I read his overwhelming blog (really a site that aggregates analysis and thought) religiously.

Things I love about him:

  • Even while presenting trenchant analysis, he does so from a relentlessly apolitical stance (for the most part – he proceeds from a somewhat center-right set of assumptions regarding national security)
  • He’s super-smart
  • He’s funny
  • He could kick Vladimir Putin’s butt (or so he says, and, watching this video, I’m inclined to believe him)

For an example of all this, listen to his recent two-part interview (part 1 and part 2) with Mike Doran, a conservative intellectual defender of Donald Trump. Doran makes a couple of, to me, substantively interesting points to consider, most of which have to do with the conduct of never-Trump Republicans. For the most part, though, he reveals himself – and, alas, Trumpism – to have a lot in common with schizophrenia.

Wittes is far more interesting than Doran in this interview. His patience, and his indulgence, inspire me. He gives Doran more and more rope with which to hang himself throughout the interview. It simply is not possible to listen to the interview as an objective judge and conclude anything other than that Doran’s views are, at best, irrelevant to the topics at hand, and at worst, terrifying for their implications.

If you have 90 minutes to kill (and a healthy appetite for political masturbation), I recommend both parts of the interview.

Dec 312017
 

Most of my posts aren’t posted in real time. I do this for a variety of reasons. But this post is, in fact, in real time. It’s, right now, 6:30 pm where I am, on New Year’s Eve, and I thought I’d wish you the happiest of New Year’s.

I’ve spent the day with my family. Cooking, eating, talking, cleaning, organizing. Our house is a little tidier than it was this morning (I reorganized our spices, among other things). And I sent a holiday letter to 40 or so people I haven’t been in touch with in years.

I’m not a big fan of the holiday card to people I’m in touch with. But writing to people I haven’t spoken with in five, ten, or thirty years – that’s a different thing. Writing the letter, and identifying with whom, precisely, I want to communicate – that’s a fun task. I did that, mostly, today.

So here it is, 6:35 (now). In just a few minutes, I’ll grab a salad that T made, and our kid and I will walk twenty minutes to join T and a bunch of other friends, and we’ll ring in the New Year with some combination of food, drink, weed (maybe – just got back from CO, but kids….) and, for sure, mirth.

Mirth is the greatest thing, innit?

Happy New Year! May yours be sweet.