N. Likes

I built myself an infinite porn library, and it’s teaching me more about the future of the internet than anything else I’ve seen in years.

I went out with my old friend Judd — both of us in open marriages — to a lively cocktail bar with the half-joking aim of flirting. We met a group of women at the bar, including one particularly fun blonde, and I reflected on the rarity of having a true wingman and the ongoing question of whether Sydney will call.

I can’t have this fantasy – Margot isn’t available unless I pay. So here are three versions of it anyway.

I’m here for me, not for you — and I mean that in the nicest possible way. Expect more typos.

I’m dictating this on my bike in the drizzle, halfway across the Manhattan Bridge, and it’ll be on the blog before dinner.

I’m still thinking about Sydney

I reflect on a conversation with Margot about her unrealized fantasy of double penetration and a gangbang, realizing what excites me isn’t the act itself but the trust she’d place in me to keep her safe while curating such an evening — and the gratitude that might follow.

I experience connections as deep and real, but they end not in intentional closure but in disappearance. This is my compulsive repetition of courting and failing to avoid abandonment.

A candid message to Sydney, distinguishing between my general desire for cunnilingus and my specific desire for her, while framing it carefully to avoid unwelcome intrusion.

Is delightful. Delicious. And lovely.