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Challenging Myself to A New Way of Thinking

I wanted to write more often but I haven’t been doing well. Honestly I’ve been feeling like a mess. Depression and anxiety have a way of making everything look worse than it is, and I’m doing personal work to untangle a lot of my thought processes that are not necessarily healthy or helpful.

Anxiety is a recent addition. Or the return of an unwanted guest. I have been anxious before but was able to get it under control and I had been doing well for a while. But I went from “this is manageable” to “holy shit someone save me” in a very short amount of time. Some days are very difficult, to the point where I have to ask for affordances from my wife, which is totally unlike me. I tend to deal with things on my own and avoid burdening others. Not being able to do that anymore, I have to remind myself to not take everything on and let others help me. I need to be kind to myself and allow for a less ideal self-image to show through, so others know how I am and can offer support.

It’s not an easy place to be. I have a sense that the work I’ve been doing to challenge my thinking is at least partially responsible for these difficulties, especially the anxiety. It’s good to make attempts at solving some of my issues and try to grow as a person, but it’s not meant to feel comfortable. This isn’t the first time in my life where I need to step up and be better. Intuitively it makes sense that every time you do this, it’s going to feel different, because the place where you are in life and the challenges you’re facing are specific to this moment in time. However this one for me comes with the added angle that I’ve been pushing and burying this stuff down for too long. I need a good shovel.

At the moment I stay away from things and relationships that do not bring me something positive. That means the news is out, among other things. As is staying in touch with some people who drain me. I always tell myself that I should do this and I should do that. Well, my new modus operandi is to question those thoughts. Should I really do those things? Do I really need to support others when I can’t support myself? Maybe I don’t and that’s fine. Right? I just have to keep repeating it to myself and maybe one day it’ll sink in.

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After We Walked In

My hand was in her panties. Sweat had accumulated between her legs from the heat of the day. She seemed inclined to let fresh air reach the folds I was caressing. There was no resistance. I was fixated on her breadth, listening to every hint she gave. Her lips tasted new. Her tongue moved differently than my wife’s.

Pressed against the wall, her black hair flowed down her partly unbuttoned top. She already had my dick wrapped in her hand. I started to thrust into her grip. My building excitement was coating her palm and fingers, lubing up this impromptu masturbation sleeve.

The rounded top of her breasts smelled of perfume. The front clasp of her bra popped and I cupped the presented offering. Her skin was enticingly soft. The nipple rolling between my fingers was wanting. Our squirms and grunts mixed as we went into a deeper kiss, lips tightly locked.

There was deliciously fluid cream between her legs. She was using her hips to alternately let my finger inside her and force her clit onto me. Meanwhile she was tightening her hold on my erection. My fucking motion in her hand was starting to produce sounds.

I quit her lips to concentrate on this mutual dance. She was using me for her entire pleasure. Two hands, one of mine and one of hers. Both for her pleasure. In that instant I wanted to bring her to the bed and put her down on her back, tits exposed, legs wide, mouth open. I wanted to take my dick to her pussy and fuck her relentlessly.

She had other ideas. “Keep rubbing and fuck my hand”, she intimated, facing down while looking up at me, the white of her eyes showing around the dark brown of the iris. Her free hand took hold of mine between her legs. She held my index and middle fingers tightly together, and knowingly started stroking her clit with them. Quickly at first, then more furiously as she cried.

Me, I exploded in an instant. But her climax rolled over her forever in waves of muscle contractions and deep vocal breaths.

I was initially unsure what to think of this hurried encounter. After all, we had just walked in. Was that all I’d be able to recount to my wife later?

I needed not worry. An hour later, both naked in bed, she was sucking my dick, approving of the returning erection, when she asked “Can you get your wife on the phone?”

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On Attraction and Age Differences

I’ve always been attracted to women of all ages, both younger and older than me. Of course when I was young it didn’t really matter because all women were either my age or older. As I aged,  the more aware I became of the potential presented by older women, so that was all good. However at the same time, the range of possibilities with younger women kept getting wider along with the age difference. And this presents questions.

Imagining scenes involving people younger than me used to be just plain old fun. When I was 30, I had absolutely no qualms fantasizing about a 20-year old person. I’m not 30 anymore though, so my relationship with that age group has changed. I’m not what anyone would define as old, but let’s just say I’m getting older, and the stigma of the “dirty old man” is certainly something that’s on my mind. Will I automatically fall into that category because I’m “older” and I don’t mind appreciating the beauty of younger women? I really hope not.

A long time ago I developed fantasies that involved younger people with Cate and me. In one of them, a 20-year old woman comes to us looking to broaden her sexual experience. I used that fantasy regularly when I was closer to that age. Now I still imagine it sometimes, but my feelings about it are not quite the same. I’ve been wondering why.

First I thought that it might be because my kids are also growing up, and them getting closer to that age brings up moral questions. One way to easily think of it is the cliché of the old rich guy dating the beautiful young model. (Not that I’m rich.) Why are they together? Is it gross? Why do we care? The thing is, I find it hard to articulate why we do. And I’m not someone who is particularly hung up on principles, especially when everyone involved is a consenting adult and no one is getting hurt. So that seems like a societal judgment, not something that uniquely comes from me.

Then I thought that the age gap between me and such a young person keeps growing. When I was 30, it made sense for me to be attracted to a 20-year-old. But if I’m 50, the kinds of things that I look for in a woman have evolved, and maybe I’m not finding the same allure in someone who is 30 years younger than me. Sure, young bodies have their beauty—and I hope this not a cliché—but attraction to other factors become equally important over time, like experience, self-confidence, emotional maturity.

Maybe that’s where I am. I still fantasize about any and everyone, just not in the same way. Sex happens a lot between your ears. What people bring to sex varies over time, both in what we’re looking for and what we’re able to give.

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Tit Sucking Trigger

My wife Cate was kissing me. Her lips were wet and her tongue was in my mouth. Her tits were pressing against me, nipples fully erect. She was grabbing my ass, encouraging me to keep fucking. Her hand was giving pushes following my rhythm. Below our kiss, Ashley was on her hands and knees, ass in the air, absorbing my repeated thrusts into her pussy.

“How’s her little wet box, does she feel good, hun?” My wife wanted confirmation. I had barely nodded that her lips were back on mine. There was sweetness on her tongue.

Meanwhile moans were escaping Ashley with every other breath. Cate caressed her ass and the curve of her back. She put both hands on Ashley’s waist for a few moments, holding her for me, noticing the skin moving, taking in the view of us fucking.

She laid down on her back, her head under Ashley’s. The two women kissed, ignoring me. Ashley’s body was ours to use and invade, Cate’s tongue in her mouth, my dick in her pussy. The moans from Ashley changed. Their lips locking and the saliva being exchanged was becoming audible. Ashley started banging her ass back into me.

Cate opened her legs and started masturbating. Visibly excited, she also reached down under us. “Oooh she is so wet for you, hun. Her clit feels amazing. I wanna hear her. Do you wanna make her come?”

I couldn’t refuse her. She was fingering Ashley, working her clit and teasing my balls each time they met her wet pussy lips. After a minute of renewed vigor, Ashley succumbed, pushing her face into a pillow while the orgasm took over her.

Once I realized I had managed not to go over the edge yet, I pulled out from Ashley and moved over to my wife. Seeing my intent, she propped herself to give me better access. She spread her wet pussy and my dick slid right in, all the way down, deep inside her vagina. Wetness from her pussy lips enveloped the base of my cock, and we started fucking.

Cate closed her eyes. Her fingers were still on her clit, rubbing furiously. Her mouth was open. Her vagina felt wide open for my hardening dick, sliding in and out of her with perfect friction. She was coming. She knew how to get me over the edge too.

“Oh god I want some tits, give me your nipples, I wanna suck ’em”, she ordered Ashley, who cupped her breast and placed a nipple into my wife’s mouth. Instantly, hard suckling came to be heard. I closed my eyes and the sounds of Cate pulling this red pink nipple into her mouth became my only vision.

Immediately I went over the edge. The fucking intensified as I rode the top of the wave. Spurred on by Ashley, my dick erupted and I filled my wife’s pussy with loads of warm cum.

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Looking For What Sustains Me

I’ve been feeling very down for a while. As I keep thinking about why, it’s been on my mind that I’m a support person for many people in my life. It’s actually something I identify very strongly with. Always have, since my younger years, and something I used to take pride in. There is dignity and strength in being there for others, in lending a helping hand, being there to listen, or just teaching what you know.

It’s something I do in my personal life and at work in various capacities. Professionally I get rewarded and regarded for it, but I don’t know if that’s something I want to keep doing, so it’s a source of internal questioning. Not an easy one and probably a whole other branch to explore.

In my personal life, this is a side of me that has grown and has become increasingly difficult. More people have become dependent on me during the last 10 years, independently and at different times. I have had to step in and provide for others in ways I didn’t know I could. I surprised myself helping others through some pretty rough times. However at the same time it seems right when I say to myself right now that it affected something within me. I didn’t come out of it unscathed. It’s a form of trauma, which I didn’t realize at the time and perhaps didn’t properly heal from.

It sometimes feels like a weight and other times it feels like darkness. It triggers my mind to try to find a way out. Some of the places my thoughts go in doing this are rather discomforting. Suffice it to say it’s not a good place to be. It’s not easy to admit I’m not OK.

I have a strong feeling of duty that I have to keep going, so I find it difficult to say no when someone comes to me. I am emotionally tired though. I am running out of gas.  The word exhaustion comes to mind.

So I’m trying to break the negative cycle, by writing here, by doing things differently, by thinking of my needs. I am also looking for help. All of these things seem like very very small steps at the moment. I’m often reminded of the advice on planes to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others.

That’s where I’m at, looking for what brings me oxygen.

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The Blonde at The Pub

She was chatty-friendly in the way that pub waitresses can be. The reappearance of her blonde pony tail was guaranteed every once in a while by the disappearance of the beer in our glasses. She took the time to partake in some banter with us, before skirting away momentarily to return with refills.

“So what brought you into town?”, I divined her asking, owing to the loud music.

I leaned in closer to answer, taking in the smell of her neck and the sight of her cleavage. “Just work, but now I’m starting to think that work was only the beginning. And you’re not helping.”

“Oh really”, I saw her lips say with a smirk. “Would you rather me stop coming over then?”

“On the contrary, I do think you should come over”. A playful look later, she was off serving other customers.

My drinking companion entertained me until late into the evening, but eventually had to abdicate and confess his girlfriend was waiting for him at home. And I had to head back to the hotel.

“Where’s home?” she asked on her return, seeing that we were ready to wrap things up. She was looking at me.

“It’s the boring hotel suite for me, I’m afraid. Unless you would like to help with that?”

A short while after her shift ended, there was a knock on my hotel room door. She kissed me as she came in. I pulled her in closer. Her neck smelled of the pub and of sweat and perfume mixed together. She tasted sweet. I pushed her against the wall and ran my hands down her hips.

Sucking on her tongue, feeling her breasts as I tried to unbutton her blouse, she was fiddling with my pants. “I think I can help better if we move to the bed”, she said.

In my drink-fuelled brain, the trickiest thing to figure out at that moment was whether to take the lead and have a sip of every inch of her naked body, or to let her suck and ride me, landing her delicious tits in my face until I pass out.

As it turned out, it was a bit of both.

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A Sex Dream I Finally Had

I very rarely have sex dreams. And when I do, it’s either low on juicy details or it ends before anything of significance happens. Aside from being frustrating, I’ve always found that surprising for someone like me who thinks about and desires sex quite a bit.

Last night was very different. I dreamt that I was receiving anilingus from a woman. It’s the end of the day now so the memory has faded, but it had the vibe of a group sex scene. I was standing naked with an erection, straddling the face of a woman kneeling, pleasuring my anus with her tongue. A little later on I was walking around and someone, possibly the same person but the dream wasn’t specific, surprised me from behind and shoved her face between my butt cheeks again. I was grinding from the pleasure she was giving me. Stroking my erection I eventually sensed the orgasm coming. I hurried toward another naked body lying down a short distance away, who I think was my wife, and ejaculated onto her tits. The last memory I have of the scene is that of feeling disappointed that the pleasure was over.

Such playful thoughts are so welcome in my nightly mind wanderings, but are unfortunately sparse. Even when I do dream, I can’t remember it ever involving anal sex. I wouldn’t mind in the least for this to be a more frequent occurrence. I regularly put myself to sleep by thinking of sex. You would think that this would seed my dreams accordingly. Anyone has tips to bring on more nightly naughtiness?

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Searching My Way Back In

I haven’t blogged in seemingly forever. It is something I miss dearly though and I have often thought recently about getting back into it.

It’s hard to say what has brought this on. However I do know that I feel lonely. Not the kind of lonely that arises from finding yourself alone, but the one that results from wanting back in. As I have mentioned before, I used to have a good following and made interesting connections through the previous incarnation of my writing digs. That and the body of work I had built is something I regret leaving behind instead of nurturing it and keeping at it. Who knows where this would be today if I had.

I have a sense that if I write and put down whatever comes to mind, hopefully good things will follow. I need a place where I can pour words and stir them into ideas that can grow into something soothing.

I have personally been going through a very rough patch and I need an outlet. My thoughts have been dark and rather unwelcome, to say the least. OK, honestly it’s freaking me out. I need something to grab onto. I think it’s all because I’m not getting any younger and my life has changed in recent years. My role with my wife and my kids is not what it used to be. All for the better, to be sure, and I still love them dearly. That will never change. Professionally too, things have lost their luster, in a way that makes me wonder what’s next. And it’s natural that things change. I just was not expecting that the transitions would hit me like a ton of bricks. Now I find myself pondering deceptively fundamental questions like why am I here and what’s my purpose now that those previous roles have been largely fulfilled?

Answers to such gloom seem like a millions miles away at the moment. My apologies for the heaviness. May these words evoke some meaning for you, dear reader. Perhaps this can be like a song, where we attach a meaning that suits us based on what personal experience we bring in. I do read a lot of blogs and I’ve always very much appreciated that people freely share personal slices of their life experiences with strangers on the web. I started blogging back in the day as a way to give back some of that. Now instead of giving, I want to get back what I lost.

Cheers.

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Beautiful Eyes Are Everywhere

So let’s talk about the one thing we see on everybody’s face right now: their eyes.

I find interesting that we have experience recognizing—or at least decoding—people’s faces without seeing their eyes. That happens all the time when we see someone wearing sunglasses. We only have cheekbones, noses and lips to work with, but we manage to know who it is. And still it’s unusual to notice someone with sunglasses and do a double-take because of the beauty of their mouth or nose. I should point out that I do say this as someone who is forever fascinated by noses. It’s the one feature I find will make or, sorry, break a face. It’s amazing how much of a difference changing your nose can make. Yet, in the grand scheme of faces, noses are supporting cast at best.

Smiling lips can be pretty too, and there are plenty of fine examples. Sanaa Lathan and Rachel Weisz come to mind. A recent like of mine is the two masked young women who are part of the Poly-Amory triad whom you can find on your favorite porn site. But all in all, faces are still never as interesting to me as when the eyes are part of the mix. The cliché is true: eyes are the window to the soul and that truth is part of why we avert our eyes when crossing strangers on the street. You may have a beautiful face, but usually it’s your eyes that are the main attraction. Even though we know not to stare, eyes are what we try to look at the most when in discussion. It’s a private place to look into, and even though we’re curious, we know we should modulate our gaze to match our intent. It’s one of the social skills we need to master to speak without words.

For some people, it’s trickier because their eyes are like gaze magnets disguised as scintillating gems. I think I’m only slightly exaggerating. I wrote before about a young woman whose angel eyes I noticed from 50 feet away in a crowded airport. (“Crowds? What’s that?” asks my 2020 self.) It’s a good story. You should go read it.

But now, in a pandemic world where going out requires a mask, all we have to go with are the eyes. It used to be that the eyes were one feature of someone’s face. Now it’s the only feature. Maybe because I live in a Western society, where masked faces have not been common until this year, I find that I have less practice recognizing people this way. And the thing is, I find all these eyes going around amazingly striking. Everybody’s eyes are more beautiful than I ever noticed them. It may be at as mundane a place as the grocery checkout, where I recently noticed a woman whose eyes had the intensity of Dianne Wiest.

Thinking about their relative importance, it’s as though the effect of some people’s pretty eyes was previously diluted by the rest of their face. The movement of their lips or the curve of their nose drew my attention away. And now that I don’t see these other features, what’s left are perfectly pure and glorious gems. I saw a lady at the dentist the other day and couldn’t help but enjoy the lovely and untroubled shape of her almond eyes. Later I checked out the staff page on their web site. The difference between masked and sans-mask was noticeable. It seems that we interpret faces more than we actually see them.

Recently I visited a town where I used to live, and which I always found had a higher than average ratio of lovely women. The way they look and dress speaks to my particular tastes. Probably men too but I don’t notice them as much. On that particular occasion, even though I knew to expect masked faces, I was really amazed by the beauty of the eyes I saw everywhere. It’s oddly pleasing to find such beauty doing such mundane things as picking out the groceries. It’s like getting a lifestyle upgrade. Everything feels a bit more luxurious when you have more beauty around you.

And you know what? Maybe that’s all I got from 2020, but I’ll take it.

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I Can’t Hear You Coming

I don’t know about you, lovely people, but I for one am really fed up of not being able to be loud and vocal during sex. It’s fucking frustrating, quite literally, to not be able to really get into it. The sounds of sex add so much spice and flavor. That’s why we all like listening to porn, after all. Sure watching naked people getting it on is nice. But without the sounds, who cares. Don’t you dare deny it. You know you love the grunting and moaning and aaaaahing.

Doing the deed with sound effects turned on is what I would like to do. The thing is, the neighbors across the wall are liable to get their panties in a bunch if we’re too loud. I swear, in my neighborhood, nobody has had non-procreative sex ever. All the neighbors are so close, you would think that I would’ve glimpsed or detected something suggestive going on by now. But we never see anyone holding hands or, gasp, kissing on the street. Forget about seeing anyone wearing anything remotely close to revealing. And hearing heavy breathing or rhythmic fucking is just unimaginable.

Not that we don’t hear noises. Oh no! We can hear doors getting slammed, people going up and down the stairs, dogs barking. We hear the hum of their dishwashers and we see the lights they leave on. So these windows and walls do have the capacity to transmit sights and sounds. And that’s what’s terrifying. It’s like some spookier version of The Stepford Wives.

Having sex is an activity for the senses. I do mean all the senses. Sex with the lights off and not being able to look into her eyes? Not for me. Not being able to smell her skin and taste her everywhere? I would be a very sad person if that were to happen. It’s not as bad with sex sounds. We can manage to quietly whisper our orgasms, after all. But still. Did I mention it’s frustrating?

I miss not caring about the noise we make. I miss being fucking turned on and letting my vocal cords act accordingly. I miss blaring my abandon and coming like a true king.