Category: Thoughts

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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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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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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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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.

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Realizing When We Objectify Women

I know I just restarted this blog but let’s get right in the thick of it, shall we.

I’m a man. Objectifying women is bad. I like looking at women. Ergo, how not to be that creep?

For as long as I can remember I have worried… Actually no that’s not strong enough, I’ve been scared that I might unknowingly do or say something that objectified a woman and she would get mad at me.

That may sound ridiculous. Especially in the light of the constant stream of stories of men who feel entitled to demean, bully and take advantage of women, including but in no way is limited to all of those who were rightfully tried on the public square via the Me Too movement.

But I’m serious. As a young man, I had trouble approaching women because of it. If there is any justice in this world, may this confession pull the average balance of decency ever so slightly back to a saner middle.

You know what my problem was? I didn’t understand what objectifying women really meant. It’s like systemic racism; I’m white and I unknowingly benefit from the system so I won’t know what racism really means unless 1) I accept that I could be part of the problem, and 2) I proactively seek to uncover where I contribute to racism. Similarly, I think it’s not immediately obvious to young men how they’re objectifying women when 1) they don’t have the maturity to consider that objectification might be sneaking into their world view, and 2) they are not actively working at understanding women.

I’m in my 50’s now so I’m by no means throwing only young dudes under the bus. I’m an equal opportunity people thrower. We grown-up men are also part of this.

Recognizing objectification is an important skill to have if we’re going to get better at not doing it. And I think we don’t talk about that enough.

As I’ve slowly become older and wiser (allegedly), I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at knowing the difference between looking and seeing. Let’s take a random example. It’s one thing to look at a woman’s elbow and find it hot as hell. It’s a better thing to see she has a complete set of body parts, with a lovely brain to boot, and be interested in knowing more about her. It’s about the whole person, see.

So yeah, you maaaay be objectifying her if you like looking at her ass and the rest of her doesn’t matter. Especially if you’re not in the least interested by what she thinks and what she’s done to get to where she is. Just sayin’.

If you’re not sure, Stark Raving has a cool checklist of what to look for in your behavior to start becoming aware of where objectification sneaks into your male gaze.

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I’m going back in

So here’s the deal. Seven years ago I convinced myself that shutting down Fruits of Libido was the right thing to do. I had limited time and space to write, and life kept getting in the way. In retrospect, it’s clear that that’s exactly why I should have kept writing; we have to make time and space for things that are important to us. But now I’m back and LVNSX is my new digs.

So hey everyone, how’s it going?

Two things happened when I stopped blogging. I lost touch with myself and I lost touch with many people. Coming to this realization was a slow process. Sorry for the cliché, but yes, it’s easy to take for granted the things you have. What I had when I was blogging? Connections, friendships, discussions, challenges, ideas, a sense of where I fit in all of it. A place to be my horny self even. All of that was eroded by the time I have spent not writing.

So I want back in. I’m craving back in. I see some people I used to follow have graduated their blogs from blogspot to first-class domains of their own. Good for you! Yep, blogging is still a thing. And why the hell not.

The “sex blog” designation or categorization is a funny thing. Sexuality is definitely part of the deal, but a sex blog is about sex like a cooking blog is about cooking. It’s not the point. We do it because it’s healthy, it nourishes, we like the smells, and it tastes really good… Yeah, does it ever.

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Angel

Some eyes will make you feel loved. Some other eyes, when you love strongly enough, can make you feel home. And then some eyes, if you are lucky enough to notice them, will make you feel as though you’ve been blessed by an angel.

I was on a several-hour flight, on my way back to the ones I love. Across the isle from me, one row forward, sat a young woman. She was maybe 19 or 20 years of age, with blonde air nonchalantly tied up in a pony tail, wearing a plain white tank top under a grey hoodie with some matching grey sweat pants. By most measure, she was an average young person. But I had seen her eyes back inside the terminal, glowing as they were from fifty feet away as she prepared to board. And those eyes… My goodness. And her face…

Some people have a power that you can sense from their expression. She was such a creature.

There are always those who insist that perfect beauty doesn’t exist, except from within the pages of color magazines manufactured through the judicious use of Photoshop filters. I have never believed that, for beauty is much more than a static image, and perfection is much more than a rare set of measurements. It isn’t the picture of a person that captures us but instead her imagined extrapolations. It is the way she moves, the way she is, the way she makes you feel when she looks at you…

Sitting diagonally from me, the young woman was radiating something special. At one moment during the flight, I happened to look in her direction and her eyes caught mine. She wasn’t just looking distractedly in my direction; she was looking straight at me. She wasn’t smiling nor glaring. There was no malice nor intrusion in her stare. Her face squarely turned toward mine, her eyes were perfectly and quietly focused on my presence.

It could have been such as the furtive look that strangers give each other in passing on the street, but it wasn’t.

In that short moment where she graced me with her gaze, I didn’t feel surprise or shyness. I didn’t feel exposed or observed or revealed. It only felt quite natural. She was just looking at me, purely and simply, intently but without prying. And being captured by her big bright eyes felt soothingly comfortable. Instead of feeling like the looker was trying to take something from me, I felt as though she was giving me something.

In the matter of a few seconds it was over, and I remember smiling.

A few rows in front of us was a couple with a baby. He was about a year-old, and was really not fond of the idea of being propelled in the middle of the sky inside a noisy pressurized cabin. The poor child cried and cried. The tears eventually turned to screams, and the mother had no choice but to stand up and try to rock him to some level of quietness. However nothing would seemingly do. The distraught woman stood there holding the screaming child as we watched.

And then the simplest of things happened: the young woman across the isle looked up at him.

I saw it all happen. She first made eye contact with him, using her body language to grab his attention, opening her eyes wide and making her face bright. As soon as he locked his focus on her, her face lit up and her mouth opened in a beautiful, loving smile. And instantly, the baby stopped crying.

I was looking at him. She was several rows away, but he was staring back at her in utter fascination, quiet as can be. She was smiling, and instantly he was soothed, just like that.

The same routine occurred several other times during the flight. And every single time, no amount of rocking and loving care from the mother would do. And then the young woman across the isle would look up from her screen or from her book, and instantly the child would meld into a soft mid-summer breeze. You could literally see on his face the glow that she radiated. It was amazing and beautiful.

Later I started daydreaming of this young woman as a baby herself, held closely by her loving mother. In my mind there was no question that the girl’s beautiful eyes had been even more pure then. I imagined her mother looking into them, and how striking those moments must have been.

How many thousands, millions of times did it repeat? Did her mother know she was giving this child a special gift? Or did she feel the same way we all did when graced with the gentle stare of this baby’s beautiful gaze?

For a time I wondered if her mother knew that she had given birth to an angel.