N. Likes

What it feels like to slide my cock inside you — the warmth, the merger, the selfish pleasure, the primal fulfillment.

Three boys on their way home from Catholic school, one of them oblivious to how “Father X really likes me” sounds in the 21st century.

My cock is hungry, and there’s no word for the sensation — not quite an ache, not quite an itch, not quite restlessness, but something insistent and entirely its own.

Tomorrow, the holidays end, and I return to the familiar rhythm of my life. I can’t. Fucking. Wait.

My brain would rather be anywhere but here — planning dinner, rehearsing catastrophes, fantasizing — as if the present moment were the one place it can’t bear to stay.

At the holidays, the marital bed gets crowded — and not in the fun way.

Our relationship had become three-dimensional, and fucking was off the table. I was damned if I was going to let that stop me.

Not writing about not wanting to write about not wanting to write.

The anticipation of what’s to come is almost better than the coming.

A brief encounter with a woman I’ll never see again.