He was a big man who liked rough sex.

“The last couple of girlfriends I had didn’t match up sexually.”  His words filled my head as my mouth was stretched around the fattest cock I’d ever seen while a pair of smooth, cool balls pressed against the bridge of my nose.

David was tall, 6’5″, with broad shoulders and long, muscular limbs.  I lay on my back while he straddled over my face and guided his swollen cock down my throat.  This angle was better, my throat was more relaxed.

“Good, girl,” he crooned, “That’s it, you can take it.  You’re ok.”  I gagged and spit him out, tears streamed down my face.  His sheer size seemed to plug off my airway and I panicked despite my best efforts to remain calm.  “Shhhh, you’re ok,” he said again and gently forced himself back down my throat.  Not every woman would enjoy this, I thought.

On Sunday, the plan had been for him to bring me coffee as black as my heart and crawl into bed with me.  I met him at the door instead where we promptly fell on each other and I tasted the dark brew each time he kissed me.  He towered over me and in between nuzzles I apologized for not changing out of my pajamas.  It had seemed a little silly.  He didn’t mind.

He tore my tank top off — one of The Neighbor’s — and squeezed my breasts.  His feet were split wide like a giraffe at a river as he dipped to kiss my upturned face.

I chuckled when I found his waistband chest-level and breathed harder as I heard the metal clang as I undid his belt.  I moaned when I dipped my hand beneath his underwear and found an enormous mound of hot, rigid man.  The dude was fucking hung.

He was jittery and breathing as hard as me when I took his hand and led him into my room.  He said hi to the dog and locked him out saying not to worry about the sounds that might come from the room later.  We laughed.  On Friday over beers he’d had me in stitches.  The guy was a riot.

He stood up to his full height then and pulled off his shirt and kicked off the rest of his clothing.  He looked magnificent, mustache and all.

He grabbed me by the hair and turned my back to him and bent me over the footboard of the metal bed.  I had to stand on my toes to bend just right as he kissed my neck and began to snake his hands down to my pussy.  When he found the slit and the wetness that had gathered there he moaned something about me being a good little slut and laid his hand into my flank until it stung and buzzed with heat.  So this was how this was going to go down.

I appreciated that he had a plan — a distinct flavor — and let him play with my body, let him see what it would do for him.  When his fingers hooked into me I panted, “Harder, more, deeper, faster!” until I came and quivered with ejaculate running down my legs.

He laughed wickedly.  “Have you ever done that before?”

I nodded, already devoid of words.

He played me with his hands like a maestro for many minutes and then I played with him.

His cock was massive in girth, my long fingers only barely touched when wrapped around the shaft and I felt like every tooth I had was in the way.  I popped off of him and asked how many women in his life had had mouths big enough for him.  He smiled and said, “Only two.”  I knew I wasn’t one of them.

But what I lacked in mouth space I tried to make up in excitement and skill.  I licked and nibbled and suckled.  He moaned his pleasure and gently touched my face.  The fan moved slowly above us.

And then I was done with the fucking foreplay and needed that beer can cock inside of me.

Condom on, ankles on his shoulders, he steered himself into me and I was mesmerized by his porn ‘stache.  Soon it dripped with sweat as he pumped into me wildly with abandon.  I could only grab at his shoulders flexed with rock hard muscles for purchase, I had nothing but him to hold onto.  He liked that he said.

He bent and flexed me this way and that: feet on his chest, spooning me, me on top.  He ground my face into the mattress like an apprehended criminal.  He liked holding my hands behind my back.

“Fuck me!  Fuck me so hard, fuck my pussy!” I managed to murmur into the sheets.

He roared with passion and hooked his finger into my gaping mouth and gently pulled against my cheek while slamming his cock in me as deeply as he could.  I was a fish on his hook and could only whimper and raise my hips in response.

We stopped and I grabbed the Doxy.  His eyes lit up as we laid next to each other and this is how I came to find his soft scrotum upon my face and his horse cock down my throat.  I broke the Doxy as I pressed it against my mound, its speed waned, and then I gave it up and focused instead on the flesh on my face.

I was overwhelmed with a desire to take all of him and paralyzed with the inability.  I liked that he was both devil and angel and seemed to get off on my struggle.  We hadn’t talked about his particular brand of sexuality, but he had said he was a dirty bastard.  Dirty, indeed.  A dirty dominant, it seemed, but he was keeping it vanilla enough with just rough sex and I wanted to play along.

He coaxed and coached and I laughed and cried until I switched the Doxy back on and held it crookedly against my mound.  He swung off of me and laid down opposite me.

“I want to watch you stroke yourself,” I whispered.

His hand moved on his uncut shaft.  Beautifully pristine it moved like a wave with his hand.

I came hard and arched and bucked my hips as he watched intently.  Then we lay mostly still and traced shapes on each other’s thighs beneath the puffing of the fan.  I didn’t really know what to say.  The hunt was over.  We’d fucked each other’s brains out.  What next?

He had to go, he said, and I nodded lazily.  He pulled his pants on and did the buckle as I put on my pajama shorts.  He bent down and kissed my hip, then my belly, then my breast and landed on my neck.  My hands played on his broad back until he roughly flipped me over, skillfully put a knee on my shoulders to grind me back down into the mattress and spanked me while I writhed.

I could hear his breathing catch with each strike and I was brought back to the times in my past when a man lit into me like this.  I hoped with each blow it’d leave a mark for another man to see.

He released me and I drew up to my knees and felt his hardon.  “I wish I could fuck you again, but I really do have to go,” he murmured against my lips.

“I know,” I said kissing him back.  “I wish you could, too.”

I climbed off the bed and kissed him at the door.  He left then with a wave and I watched his back disappear around the corner.  He’d tasted like coffee again.

There are casual sex rules.

I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that there are casual sex rules.  I’ve written about how to fuck a neighbor and I’d say casual sex in general isn’t that different.  If anything, it’s easier because there’s no forced proximity and emotions might be more easily moderated.

Below are the rules that I live by.

Hy b&w in polkadot shortsRule #1: He doesn’t have to say everything right.  Just some things.

I don’t over-emphasize sapiosexual foreplay and keep in mind the connection that needs to be built is the physical one supported by the emotional.  Not vice versa.

The Little Marine wore shorts, a polo and flip flops.  Again, the bar stool beside him was reserved for me and I pulled it out and sat down gingerly next to him.  I ordered a cheap French red and he sipped on a beer.  We ordered some apps and settled in.

He was wound up and chatty and when I asked him a little bit about his history he launched into an overwhelming monotribe of a dozen siblings, some alluded racial stereotyping, and a passionate love for pitbulls.  I sat there for quite some time musing that he was handily opting himself out of any kind of long-term potential, but reminded myself that my personality and beliefs criteria were different here.

I needed him to be kind – check.  I needed him to be smart – check.  And I needed him to be hung – possibly check.  Where he fell on the political spectrum didn’t matter, how he handled his family didn’t matter, his seeming inability to ask me questions about me didn’t really matter either.  I was happy to listen.

When there was a break in his story, I shared some of mine, then injected some raunchy ones to lighten the mood.  It worked.  Then I nearly lost him.

“Do I look as fetching tonight as I did the other night?” I asked flirtatiously.

His face fell and became hard.  “You’re setting a trap for me.”

“What??” I shook my head.  “No, I’m not!”

Apparently, he didn’t like my hair pinned up into a loose bun and didn’t know how to tell me.  Forget that my breasts swung loose beneath my dress and I was wearing heels and I looked like I did on Monday when he thought I was the best thing since sliced bread.

Deftly, I navigated us away from a confrontation.  “Look, Marine,” I told him as I took his elbow and we headed back to his apartment.  “It’s not all or nothing.   You can still be honest about how you feel and complimentary.  You could say something like, ‘You look beautiful, but I like your hair down better,’ and I’d have laughed and not thought twice about it.  Put your mind in Date Mode, not Logic Mode.”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” he admitted.  “You’re right.”

Rule #2: He doesn’t have to be my physical ideal, he just has to work what he’s got.

I don’t overlook someone right under my nose because they’re not what I’m used to.

He looked good.  And compact.  He had the V from shoulder to hips that I like so much and his hair was cropped short.  If nothing were around him for scale, you’d have no idea he was only 5’6″.

Later, on his couch, I accidentally spilled red wine on him.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed.  He sat there mostly unbothered.  “You should take your shirt off,” I suggested laughing.

He laughed, too, and got up to throw his shirt in the wash.  I watched him as he peeled it off and his muscles flexed under the canned lighting.  He was a miniature Adonis.

He turned towards me and the tattoo on his pectoral curved outward with the muscle.  His abs were rock hard and long and his biceps were mountainous in a size-proportionate way.

He looked fucking edible.

I thought about all the women who pass him over because he’s short and thought what a goddamned shame that was for him.  He didn’t care, though.  He loved to crawl over any woman taller than him who was willing to let him.

Hy purseRule #3: The sex isn’t supposed to be mind-blowing.  It’s just supposed to be satisfying.

(However, in this case, it was pretty fucking great.)

Sitting shirtless on the couch now, he invited me to sit on his lap.  My panties were shoved down into my purse in anticipation of this moment.

I straddled him and we began the dance.  Nibbles and bites, moans and soft, wet tongues on warm, clean skin.

I slid down to the floor between his knees and released him from his shorts.  He was clean-shaven and bigger than average just as he’d promised.  I couldn’t call him hung, but I have been ruined by The Neighbor in that regard and I looked at him hungrily for a moment then fell on his shaft with my face.  Fuck The Neighbor and his giant, glorious, perfect cock.  I was going to show this one a great time.

I slurped and gagged and pulled on him while he shuddered and clung to his control.  I pushed him as far as he’d let me, then he pushed me off of him.  He stood and pointed at the bed and his eyes gleamed with passion.

I quivered inside and felt 9-stories tall.  I hadn’t seen a man filled with this much desire because of me in very long time.  He fucking glowed.

I pulled my dress off and laid down with him.  The paper light in the corner cast a soft glow on us as I mounted him and sunk down on him.  It felt so good to be penetrated by something other than a cold, 9″ silicone dildo.  His warm human-sized cock pressed into me until it completely disappeared inside.  I began to move.

It didn’t hurt like it did with The Neighbor and I bucked and rode him harder than I’ve ridden any other man in two years.  I came and I screamed and I clawed at his flexed chest.  He gripped my wrists and told me to go easy on him.

I leaned back and let him grind up into my neck.  I grabbed the backs of his knees to pull him in further.  He moaned, wild, and his hips slammed up into me and I came and gushed all over his waist.

“Where do you want me to cum?” he panted as he suddenly began to lift me off of him.

“All over me,” I panted back.  “My tits, my fucking face, anywhere, everywhere!”

His jizz spurted out and hit me in globs.  I rubbed it into my sweat and it kept coming.  It hit my chin.  I heard him exclaiming at the sheer volume.

I preened under the layer of cum on my body — a badge of goddamned honor — as he looked down on me, mouth hanging open and lids heavy.

We lay exhausted on the little full-sized mattress and I couldn’t think.  Or move.  Stars bloomed behind my eyelids and my limbs felt like anchors.  Minutes passed in quiet satisfaction until he bade me to get on my back. My hands were heavy with the lead mittens of orgasmic bliss, but I silently complied.

Hy with no filterRule #4: Don’t compromise on what I want.

My current dating criteria are: he must be kind (respectful), smart (quick), and hung (empirically large).   My body needs a larger man, my mind wants someone nice.

On my back I lifted my knees and he gently guided himself in.  Our eyes locked.  Neither of us could feel the other.  I was so wet, so opened, so soft and throbbing that he’d have to have been twice as big as he was for us to feel it.

“There’s no friction,” he whispered.

He pumped a few times and it made it worse.  He stopped and lay beside me and invited me into his nook.  I limply cuddled in and dozed on the post-coital clouds that still floated about me.

“I’m too wet,” I murmured.  “I came too much before we tried that.”

“Yeah,” he said and kissed my temple.  “I didn’t think of that before.”

Frankly, neither had I.

The Neighbor’s sheer size prevented him from becoming completely invisible to me, though I could lose him in the cavity of my body after too many orgasms.  He felt me more than I him and The Little Marine was about three-quarters the size of The Neighbor.  Not small, bigger than average, but not huge like The Neighbor was.  No wonder we couldn’t feel anything.

Fuck me…

Hy on her tummyRule #5: Know your limits.

This isn’t a relationship that requires traditional nurturing.  It’s an agreement between two sentient animals who have needs and who have an understanding between each other.  My limits are time and emotions.  I won’t give a whole lot of either.

We lay there for a while and he jokingly said I wasn’t allowed to leave for another 45 minutes when he’d be ready to go again.  Just then my phone alarm went off signaling it was time for me to go.

“Wait,” he said and pulled himself up and rolled me onto my stomach.

He spread the cheeks of my bottom and began to press at the pucker.  “I fucking love your ass,” he hissed and I felt his hardon on my cheek.

I raised my hips and let him play with my asshole.  He suddenly seemed to have 8 arms then and rolled on a condom, kept my cheeks spread, his finger on the star and pushed the head of his cock at my pussy hole.  It felt like a soccer-field’s worth of area being stimulated and I moaned and writhed and smeared mascara all over his white fucking sheets and didn’t give. a. fuck.

He pushed into me and we both felt it: tight, throbbing, scorching hot.  He pumped and slapped and poked my asshole slipping his finger inside every few strokes of his cock.

“Grab my balls,” he barked.  “Now!”

Mindlessly I reached through my legs and grabbed his soft, dangly balls and tugged.  He moaned and thrust harder.  I reached out a finger and pressed against his tight little asshole and he moaned louder and cheered me on.

I gripped the headboard with my other hand and yelled.  He shushed me and I told him to go fuck himself.  He laughed and kept at me until I had to pull my hand back to hold onto the earth.

I came and went limp.

He flopped back down next to me and began to jerk off as I whispered how fucking big he was and how tight his ass.  How many times I’d cum and how I wanted him to cum all over me again.

He leaped up onto his knees, hissed where did I want it, and came all over my offered breasts.

What seemed like 10 beats later I was dressed and he was escorting me to my car.  It didn’t even occur to me to kiss him goodbye; I was in a fog of sex and I wanted to be home.

I thanked him and robotically drove home thinking about The Neighbor the entire way and how beneficially medicinal casual sex can be.  My heart felt better in a way I couldn’t describe: I was bringing myself pleasure and that in itself was pleasurable.  I was answering my own question of Why Hyacinth? with positives and not negatives.

The thing about casual sex, especially when all the boxes get ticked, is that it feels like self-care, like meditation after a long day.  It recenters me and reminds me of my humanness.  Participating in this thing that practically every other person on the planet also participates in connects me to the essence of what it is to be alive and safe and healthy.  Forgiving myself for my preferences and my urges is one step, maintaining a healthy distance is another.

Next step, unrelated to the rules of casually fucking, is making sure I protect enough emotional energy for the real healing I need to happen lest I get sucked down the drain of 1000 cocks again.  At some point, none of these rules will apply and I’ll need something real.  I’ll want to be loved again and hopefully love in return.



I’m hearing new things.

Hy outside in her robe

I got bored while waiting for the dog to pee.


“Wait,” he said interrupting his own stream of thought.  “I’ve just got to tell you how goddamned gorgeous you are.”

My eyebrows went up, surprised.

“No, really,” he said sincerely.  “Your face, it’s gorgeous.  Your body… I wasn’t expecting all this.  You’re the whole package.”

He was a good looking guy and wasn’t saying it just to win me over.  I mean, of course he was, but it came from him honestly.  My hair was loose,  as were my breasts, and we sat at an outdoor tiki bar sipping on margaritas.  I wore my wedges and was a good 2 inches taller than him.  We both liked that neither of us gave a fuck.  I’m interested in what’s between his ears and his legs, not how vertical he goes.

Hy outside in her robe

Later on in a dark parking lot 2 minutes away he grabbed me from across the truck console and kissed me deeply, passionately.  He pulled my hair and paid attention to everything I did.  

I moaned a little and let my breasts slip out of my top. His hand snaked between my legs and he plunged into me until I filled his hand with my juices and came with an embarrassed smile.  The cab became perfumed with my aroma and we laughed conspiratorially.

We got out and headed to the isle that jutted into the river.  A Marine for 8 years, this guy didn’t fuck around and offered me his arm as we walked the dark trail.  My heels crunched on the gravel as his head bobbed just below eye-level.

I’ve decided to approach dating from a different angle and I am floating in peace.  I am a catch.  I am worth some effort.  Nothing less will get me in front of someone because I am the prize.  Not his cock.

This will require patience and conviction on my part.  

And the giant dildo The Neighbor gave me for Christmas in 2012.

Hy outside in her robe

Earlier, this little Marine and I had a frank conversation.  “Look,” I texted.  “I am tired of hearing how hung all you men are.  Great, that’s special and I’m hoping it’s true, but the fact is, I’m a fucking rarity, too.  I just don’t go around talking about it all the time.  I’m smart as fuck, a good kisser, soft, have big tits, I’m multi-orgasmic, I squirt, I love giving head, I’m kinky, lusty, and loving.” 

He’d been wowed my forthrightness.  

And then I followed up with the mixed signals I always send: “But I’m not looking for a hookup.  I want rapport and friendship, great conversation.” 

He made me cum again when we got back to his truck then made me promise to see him again. 

Our next date is tonight and I’ll get to see if he’s all that he says he is.  

And, lucky for me, there are others in the queue with as much eagerness as him for the new and improved Hy.   

Hy outside in her robe

I almost got caught.


I am more than my needs.

Hy in pink panties

I wish I were different…

I lost my virginity at 19 to a boy I barely knew.  He was blond and golden, had soft lips and a beard that tickled my face.  I knew him about a month before we drank smuggled wine in my bedroom and I let him go down on me.  His mouth was warm and soft and his tongue was perfect.  It was the first time I’d ever allowed a boy to do that to me.

When he climbed on top of me and tried to shove himself in me he had no idea I was a virgin.  It hurt for all of 3 seconds and was over in 4 and I laid there wondering what the fuck had just happened.  This was nothing like what I’d read about in the romance novels I devoured.

That fateful night 20 years ago marked the beginning of my lifelong pursuit of sex.  I have never stopped looking for it, needing it or wanting it.  As a young, single woman I averaged sex about once every two months.  This was pre-internet and trolling bars and parties was the quickest way to Point B.  Then the internet entered my home and it altered my universe in a molecular way.

No longer was my quest for attention and sex limited to in-person interactions, but now it was virtual and could happen round the clock.  I web-cammed with men while they jerked off in their offices, I came on screen while 4 men watched, beating themselves to climax into hands and tissues and towels.  I had phone sex with men in NY City while he lay on silk sheets and with men who lived in Salt Lake City who shyly told me their fantasies.

And then I got a smart phone.  And then divorced.

The pull for constant contact and reaffirmation was all consuming and I was sucked into a cycle of men that for a year consumed my life.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner I had men in my head, possibly my body, in my phone, my computer, my space.  They littered my emotional landscape like garbage.

The Neighbor cleared them away with his massive cock and persistent attendance, but I never resolved the crisis within me, that feeling that if I’m not hunting I am nothing.  That if I am sexless, I am losing something.

Couple that with the fact that I believe The Neighbor is out trolling for sex [with women better than me] and I am experiencing a kind of split rejection, an internal tension that has stretched me taut and spread me thin and in order to mitigate the existential pain of his rejection and subsequent satisfaction with someone else I have to find someone, the voice hisses.

The past two weeks since I’ve been home have been a maelstrom of men.   Tinder, OK Cupid, that eHarmony guy, my old lovers.  None have ended in any kind of consummation, but I’ve orgasmed a few times, squirted, have some beautiful bruises, and seen a cock or two (none of which have come even close to measuring up to what I want).

I’ve switched gears and put my efforts into Adult Friend Finder because at least there no one bitches me out for being a size queen and I figure I’m a decent human being on an adult website, so I’m sure there are male equivalents.  On Tinder I allude to gold wrappers and hope for the best.

So not only do I crave sex, but now I have the added misfortune of wanting it attached to a huge cock and a kind man who actually wants to be with me.

My struggle today, this moment, is to chill the fuck out, remind myself to remember all the kindnesses The Neighbor gave me, believe every word he ever told me, let him go, and to move on.  I won’t do anything I don’t want to do and will be patient.  My life doesn’t actually revolve around sex, despite what I might think or how it feels.

I have a child, a career, friends, my health, this blog, my writing.  What I have to offer a man is top shelf, a high commodity.  If I rush into the arms of every horny man who thinks I’m hot I’d never get a moment’s rest.  Apparently, men like me.  A lot.

What I have always done wrong when I’ve dated is I have approached it desperately, with a churning, oily need inside of me.  Almost a sickness, my need to be desired has pulsed throughout my life and it distracted me from so many things that mattered more.  I won’t do it again.

This time around I am clamoring for balance, for that belief that what I have to offer is worth some fucking effort.  I am catnip, yes, but substantial, too.  I’m a fucking person, goddamnit.

How on earth does a woman who loves sex, big cocks, kinky sex, and general debauchery obtain it when she’s sensitive, intuitive, and sweet?  When she’s horny as fuck all the goddamned time?  When she yearns for love and commitment?  I’m a walking contradiction and my own bear trap.

It may be small-minded of me, but I only wish that The Neighbor is at least half as miserable as I am.

Hy bruises

There was a fella who knew just what to do to my ass.


I got mine and left.

When I walked into the coffee shop he was in a tall booth facing the front door.  His light brown curls were cut into a mop of frat boy curls and his blue pin stripes matched his eyes.

I held up my phone with his Tinder profile pic in it as I approached him.  “Yep!  It’s you!”

We hugged awkwardly and I sat down in the barstool.  “Can I get you a coffee?”  His eyes were piercing.

“Oh, no thank you,” I replied setting my things down and trying to control my nerves.  “I’d just like a Topo Chico.”

He jumped to get it and when he returned he said the words I was not hoping to hear:  “So, wanna go to my place now??”

I sighed then laughed.  “Gimme a minute!”

We’d been texting for a few days and this was our first meeting to see if we clicked in person like we did in 1s and 0s.  Apparently I was clicking for him.

As for me, he had a little belly that wasn’t obvious on his profile and I didn’t like the immediate proposition.  I had promised nothing but a meeting, though had said I’d keep an open mind.  Chill, bro.  Chill.

He dutifully asked me questions about my job, a little about my divorce.  I did the same.  An internal clock seemed to go off in his head and he asked, “So, can we go back to my place now?”

I laughed, mildly irritated.  Nervous, excited.  I balked a little, but made sure he understood my agreement to change location wasn’t an invitation to fuck.

“I know, no pressure!” he said again.  

The throbbing between my legs that I’d been experiencing for days shouted louder than any other voice: I needed to see what could happen.

I followed his fancy black car to a fancy new apartment building and he buzzed us in and led me to a fancy elevator.  

He towered over me and when the doors closed I braced myself for an awkward ride, but he closed the distance and kissed me.

There are so many layers to chemistry and decision making in these moments.  I found him to be physically thrilling in his difference from The [5’9″] Neighbor and curiosity drove me to explore his mouth, but there was zero spark.

He nibbled too rapidly and didn’t notice my reaction, my gentle instruction to slow down.

The moment we were Inside his apartment he wrapped his arms around me and pressed his length  against my back.  I hadn’t even put down my purse.

I had followed him there to continue our talk and see if more than my pussy could engage.  He had other ideas.

When a man doesn’t listen it sets off alarms.  It’s also a fucking turn off.

We kissed again, he fondled my breasts, he moaned a lot and tried to lure me into his bedroom.  I refused remembering the last time that happened (LINK).  We settled on the couch and it was after I stroked his hardon that I knew I had to stop.

I just wasn’t into him.  His cock wasn’t what I wanted.  He wasn’t what I wanted. 

I sat up and apologized.  He assured me it wasn’t necessary.  

I walked back to the kitchen and fumbled with my bra clasp.  “Want some help?”


I turned my back to him and when he struggled we laughed together.  And then he pulled me into him again and kissed the top of my head.

His hand snaked down to my crotch and began to work me.  The throbbing I’d been so cruelly indifferent to began to pound through me and a little moan escaped me.

I pressed my bottom up against him and and clutched his arm.  When he went to unbutton my jeans I popped them all open with one motion and let him plunge into my panties.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he growled into my ear.

I liked this.  This no kissing, on my feet, close to the door thing we were doing. I decided I was going to cum and bade him move around to my front.

He pulled my pants down to my thighs and hooked into me.  His movements were too soft and I was so close.

“Put them inside me,” I gasped.  “HARDER.”

I rode the wave that came in from far out and filled his hand with ejaculate.  I felt him tremble with desire.

He delicately pulled his glistening hand out of my cunt and fumbled with his belt buckle and pulled himself out.

“Please put your mouth on me.”  An urgent whisper.

Filled with benevolent desire I bent at the waist and gingerly took him in my mouth and stroked him noncommitally.  He panted.

“Did you squirt?”


“Do you do that a lot?”


“Fuck, that’s hot.”

I released him and straightened and watched him suddenly cum into his own cupped hand.

I smiled and thought, “Well, at least he’s not leaving empty-handed,” but said, “Wow.  I didn’t mean to make you do that.”

I buttoned my jeans and gathered my things. 

“Well, this is where I bid you adieu,” I said with a smile.  “Thanks for a swell time.”  

He smiled back, said something similar in return, gave me directions out of the building and said he had to go clean up.  I left grinning.

I won’t be seeing him again.  Men who don’t listen don’t get more of me.

I am heartbroken.

Hy in her CA tee

My heart might be in California.

To the outside world, I think I appear completely normal, though beneath the surface I have been awash with all the fear and pain and anger that I worked so hard to keep at bay for all those months.  I can do nothing but stand in its current and let it rush past me for it is bigger than little ol’ me.  A lot bigger.

I miss him desperately.

I am furious with him.

I love him.

I am walking the precipice of every heart that’s ever beaten.  Great wars were started over broken hearts because it is a languishing, vile pain.  It’s there when you awake and still watching you as you sink into your dreams.  It cheers at your deepest insecurities and chides the hope you try to build.

I haven’t slept in two days because the thought of completely losing him from my life is too painful.

I have the delightful and dubious pleasure of a documented relationship and when I dip into the past, the distant TN and Hy past, I can see the turmoil I was in.  My heart was in limbo, he was distant and non-committal, but when he chose to share himself with me I stuffed him inside of me in every way I could.  Little nibbles here and there in my mouth and in my soul.

He has always been him and I will not allow myself to fault him for it.  I am determined to remember his love for me and shroud myself within that memory as I work through all the rest.

I always knew he would leave me.  I think he always knew.  I wrote about it extensively and worked hard to live in the moment.  I never let him address the strange state of our relationship in that way as I tried to stretch the clock.  I was complicit in our pseudo-status.

Weeks and a river of tears later I have come to terms that it has run its course and the only thing for me to do now is to accept it — and him — with grace and loving memory.

There are other men on the horizon as always.   Men who may help me heal, men who may be better for me.  I might even have one between my legs today.

Hy in her CA tee

Keep going, Hy…



I turn to the sunrise.

I will say it with the soft sunrise.  With a dog on my hip, a cat on my legs, things to do just out of reach of the blankets atop me.  With my heart.

I always knew this day would come.  I always knew. 

Can you see me walking away?  Towards someone else?

Hy in the sunrise

Hy in the sunrise 2

Hy in the sunrise 3

Hy in the sunrise 5

Hy in the sunrise 4

Hy in the sunrise 6

Hy in the sunrise 7

Hy in the sunrise 10

I usually felt alone anyway.

Friday, March 27th, is MARCH MADNESS BOOBDAY!


When I chose this theme at the beginning of the month it was because it could be widely interpreted.  Basketball fans could go that route, the rest of us could go another (“madness,” is quite subjective, after all).  As I said before, I don’t give a shit about college basketball.  Some of you really took the bit between the teeth and ran and others struggled.  I’ve loved seeing what you’ve all come up with!

Let me remind you all that the themes are prompts and participants who follow the theme are given preference, but it’s not required for me to post.  If I like the image (read: this has nothing to do with your body shape/size/whatever, but the artistic mood of the image) then I’ll post it regardless.

In my experience of hosting this meme around 75 times over the course of two years, themes push us all to think outside the box and really embrace the artfulness of our bodies.  If you hate the themes, then by all means, there’s no pressure for you to participate.  I won’t hold a boob-gun to your head.  Wait for one that inspires you; no hard feelings!  Or maybe don’t play with us!  That’s totally ok, too!  I’m easy, y’all know that.

This Boobday I have asked the fearless and raw Becky Whee of Beck and Her Kinks to be Boobday’s featured star (@beckandherkinks).

Each month I will be highlighting one of you in an effort to say thank you for making Boobday happen.  Without all of you, it’d just be me and my tits.  If you’d like to nominate someone to be featured, email me (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) and tell me why.

I asked Beck to write about what Boobday means to her.  Here are her words:

When I first began posting photos of myself, I shied away from images that exposed my body. I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. I listened to that voice in my head yelling at me about every imperfection. I let my fear of judgement keep me at a distance with embracing myself. 

It wasn’t until memes like Sinful Sunday, Wicked Wednesday, and Boobday that I seen others so freely exposing themselves and embracing who they were.  These memes taught me that imperfection could still be beautiful. They helped guide me to becoming more confident. Now, sharing my body is so liberating. Exposing myself and capturing that perfect moment has changed the way I feel about myself and more importantly taught me that I love myself no matter how imperfect I might be. 

Boobday is a place where all boobs are welcomed. It’s a place where all boobs are celebrated. All shapes. All sizes. All colors. All boobs. 


I love that Beck is wearing a sport tank and teasing us with her cleavage.

I love these tops because of the cut on the under arms. I love when I get to see armpit hair. Anyhow, I decided to put this tank on and show a little cleavage.

Next month’s Boobday theme is YELLOW.  It’s one of my favorite spring (and fall!) colors and makes me think of sunshine, blonde hair, warm, runny yolks, poppies, the sun, and the warmth between hearts.

And, as always, thank you so much for all your love and support.  Not just with sharing your tits, but sharing your time and insight with me as I’ve been navigating this new phase of my life.   I have my first date since the breakup this afternoon with some guy who’s nervous to meet me, a quick happy hour tomorrow with Troy and Jack to reminisce before another date later that night with the tall eHarmony guy who’s already told me he’ll never send me “penis pics” – ha!

I’m beginning to see how long my list of things I want in a prospective partner is.

Must like sending me pics of your huge cock on the regular

Must like kneeling before me

Must have a career you love

Must be good with dogs, cats, kids, and my friends

Must have a retirement plan

Must not snore

Must love me

You know, the usual.

Wish me luck!



For Boobday Guidelines, click here.


Hy's mad tits.

I never sent this to him.

I chose this photo because it’s like I’m ripping them off my body in a mad frenzy, like the straps are about to snap.  I took them for The Neighbor, but for some reason I never sent them to him.



Anisa lost her mind and let her titties get burned, but check out that tan-line and beautiful belly!

Madness is how much the sunburn on my tits doesn’t hurt at all, but the sunburn on my belly that is barely visible stings like crazy. MADNESS!



I love it when you ladies include your hair in the pics. Here’s Anonymous Aussie tantalizing us all yet again!

We don’t have much of a March madness down under, but I thought of how I’d lost 10kgs (22 pounds) & let my hair grow quite long during last year & thought yeah, that’s a bit of good madness!  So my March madness is how I adore the way my long tresses that now float just above & frame my boobs.



R and her stunning 60 yo self is lithe and very net-y!

March madness….as a basketball fan all I can say is “nothing but net!”



I want to dive into @KaylaLord‘s softness.

I’m mad about Boobday!



I love K’s accidental coordination! Delish!

We don’t play basketball her in SA, so I improvised using my kid’s toys as props ;-) lol!!



First ever group Boobday photo! So hot, so fun, so amazing!!  I can’t gush enough about this!

 On the left is Miss V, center Mz Hyde, right La Shonna. Here you witness the friendship spanning 30+ years. We’ve seen the very best in each other from childhood, teen & adulthood (with & without clothes). I love these women to infinity and beyond. Hundreds of miles separate us but we talk, text, message nearly every single day.

This March Madness Boobday was super fun with props of pots of gold, basketball, clovers, oh and green glitter (leprechaun jizz). LOL. We are definitely doing this again at every opportunity.



I’m always struck by Dawn’s soft sensuality.

I’d had ideas about what to do for this month’s theme but here I am sitting in bed, in someone’s favourite nightgown, listening to  Freddie Mercury’s tribute, trying to work on a very serious project and I am overcome by the need to suddenly take this picture.
So I guess it’ll be a tame March Madness picture for me. Symbolizing the gentle madness that sometimes settles over me, while I’m singing at the top of my lungs “Find me somebody to love”. It’s only after the fact I realised how fitting it is for me at the moment.

St. Patty’s Day is my favorite holiday! I love that Miss V was part of this great group pic! Look at those lucky titties!

This months Boobday was so much fun. Had a great time “crafting” with my girls. Love the Holidays, Spring Break and Boobday!



Mz. Hyde gives us a little finger madness and some leprechaun jizz.

Some March MADness boobs!



Zoe channels a Vogue photo shoot.

Blurb: I’m not a sports person at all. “March Madness” makes me think of madness generally, “mad as a March hare”, and “mad as a hatter”. Hats it is, then.



‘Tis fucking rocks the photoshop AND her hot teddy!   And I’ll palm her balls!

I don’t even know what to say about this months theme. I feel like I had to work for it, as in be imaginative and really think outside the box. So what you see here is my interpretation of basketballs and a net with a little help from my lingerie and photo shop. Anyone want to try and palm my balls? lol

La Shonna really did strike gold! @sunsyne0915.

This Boobday was the best ever. Great friends, great memories, and they’ve got the best boobs.

It’s been 7 weeks.

[Ed. Note: I started writing this 4 days ago.]

Seven weeks ago today my little life changed.

The man I loved — the man I was thinking of having a future with — pointed out some of our fatal weaknesses and decided to end it.  Just like that, it was over.

There had been no fighting, no screaming, nothing.  Just a general malaise, a quiet and ongoing discomfort between us.  I had felt it and worked daily to adjust; I told myself things like, “He loves you, don’t worry about it.”  For months he refused to admit anything was wrong.

That morning I woke up safe and went to bed in a complete free fall.

Since then I’ve put one foot in front of the other, concentrated on the moments themselves, but also embraced the fact that this feeling of abject loss and rejection will pass.  Eventually.

Today, exactly seven weeks later, and a thousand miles away, I can admit to feeling ok.  Insisting on some space from him was the smartest thing I could’ve done.

For one, it’s given me the room I’ve needed to get some perspective.  I see the failings of our relationship so much clearer and with it my dissatisfaction and sadness within it.  Hearing my best friends say things like, “What?! He never stayed the weekend with you?!?!” have helped me immensely.

Not because the implication is that he’s a bad man, but that what I accepted as normal is actually far from it.  A man who loves me and wants to be with me — no matter how fucking introverted/odd/whatever he may be — will want to do things that are deeply important to me.  Like spend the weekend with me.

I know that — I knew that! — but the time apart has helped drive it home: he was never, ever really in it.

Second, since my two little back-to-back trips away, I’ve realized I’m still vulnerable to injury and must proceed with caution.

I wrote him a 6-page letter the weekend before I left which he would have found that Wednesday night.  Even while writing it I was reminded of Rachel’s doomed letter to Ross wherein he falls asleep reading it and in his embarrassment at not having finished it blindly agrees with her that basically “Yes, he was wrong.”  Naturally, it doesn’t go over well.

I didn’t write anything like that, but I did write a letter.  A personal, vulnerable, honest letter in an attempt to tie up loose ends [and help him take care of the cat].  Six days after I wrote it, while home on a brief layover, I left him a second note, this one all cat business.  When I didn’t hear from him by the following morning when I thought he’d be feeding the cat I texted to follow up.

It was then revealed that not only had he not seen the second one due to a flexible cat-feeding schedule, but he hadn’t read the first one despite having taken it from my kitchen island.

“I haven’t read it yet,” he texted thinking that the note I was inquiring about that morning was the 6-page one and not the more recent cat one.

Standing on the SFO curbside pick-up with the phone in my hand, bags staggered about and Peyton patiently and exhaustively leaning on me I couldn’t believe it.  I’d suffered through 5 days of  what I could only call personal mini fits wondering what he’d thought about my words.  Had I said the wrong thing?  What was he thinking?  And the dude hadn’t even bothered to read it.

Moments later my phone lit up with his face, a picture I’d taken years ago at one of our favorite restaurants.  He looked clean-cut and painfully handsome.

“Uh… hello?” I said.  It was weird having him burst through my self-imposed No-Neighbor-Bubble.

“Hi!  I figured it’d be easier to just call you rather than text back and forth.  So, when are you coming home?”

“Well, like my note said this morning, I came home for about 6 hours last night, but I’m standing in San Francisco right now.  I won’t be home till next Monday afternoon.”

“Ok, so I just have to feed the cat for another week?”

“Yes.  Are you feeding him twice a day?”  There had been evidence to the contrary, but nothing concrete.

“Yes; I’ve been coming home at lunch.”  That rung strange with me, too, but whatever.  “What time did you come home last night?  I guess I just missed you.”

“We got home around midnight and left at 6 this morning.”  It suddenly occurred to me that he was driving to his therapy session, hence the need for the phone call and not texting.  I felt a wave of humiliation that he hadn’t read my letter yet.

“Yeah, I was there about 20 minutes before you.”  My gut clenched at the thought of having nearly run into him in our current state.

We hung up and I deeply regretted answering the phone.  I was upset and not a little crushed by the entire interaction.

Since then I’ve spent the week wrangling my sister’s small children from dawn till bedtime and accidentally falling asleep when the children do.  I’ve been thinking constantly about TN in a disembodied way.  The lack of contact from him isn’t unlike what I’d have gotten had we still been dating, though of course that’s just speculation.  I’m sure he’d have called off an on, but there wouldn’t have been any early morning texts to check in or tell me he missed me, so no loss there.

What I do know is that the tall eHarmony fella — whom I’ve never met — has shown more interest in me and my life in a consistent, easily identifiable way than TN ever did.  No code-reading here: he wants to keep contact because he’s curious about me and that’s kinda what you do, right?  It’s weird and comforting all at once.  I’m not remotely sure what is in store for me and him (our first actual date isn’t until the last weekend of the month), but it has been an eye-opening experience and led me to the Wow, I Put Up With a Lot of Bullshit Phase of this breakup.

No entire weekends spent together.

No 24-hours together!

No lazy days fucking and eating and loving and watching movies.

Little to no interest in my family.

Virtually no trips together.

No messages of any kind just to say, “I love you,” or “I’m thinking of you.”

No planning for the future beyond vague allusions to being 61 and 70 years old bodies together.

No “I miss you, Hy, can we spend some time together?”

No immersion into my life beyond the fringe.

No excitement about me, my baby, or us.

I realize now the gap that created in me and it reinforces the breakup.  It’s not that I was ok with all of those things 7 weeks ago — I certainly wasn’t — but I believed that they would all resolve themselves, that we’d fix them.  He may have ended things now, but had things stayed the way they were it would have been me walking away instead.

I fell in love with him despite him telling me in no uncertain terms that he saw no future with me.  He never wavered from that.  He might have fallen in love with me, but it didn’t solve the basic problem that he felt I was the wrong woman for him, which by default made him the wrong man for me.  And now here we are.

I have boiled it down to the basics and only shared what I feel is necessary to close this particular arc in my life.  He’s not a villain or a bad guy and I have little doubt that he loved me to his fullest capacity.  Every second he gave me was a little testament to how much he loved me because deep down he knew it wasn’t going to last.  Nothing like a big spoonful of bittersweet.

To be honest, I don’t know what I want on April 7th when my self-imposed request for space is officially over.  I have been unbearably light these past 2 weeks without him.  I feel safe; he can’t hurt me from here.  He can not want me all he wants so long as he stays over there.

My last words to him the night I told him I needed space were for him to call me in a month.  I have no doubt that I am the only one keeping my eye on that little day and I don’t think I’ll want to burst the bubble by then.  I wonder what will happen.

I take a vacation without him.

I’m currently cruising at 30,000 ft — or maybe it’s 40 — the pilot hasn’t said much to us except that it’s going to be very bumpy.  He seems overly concerned about it.  He even went so far as to cancel the drink service.  Lucky for me, I’m in 8B, so I got my white wine.  “In case it’s bumpy, it’s better than red,” I explained to the flight attendant.

Peyton is next to me, sweet and beautiful and darling, drawing intricate fantasies in a notebook.  A woman with a 3 carat engagement ring with wedding band sits in the seats across the aisle.  She has two children with her.  The little girl is 5 and watching Frozen.  A large, white bow holds her hair behind her ears.  The baby is 10 mos old and has a little brunette fountain of hair spurting from atop her head.  When she smiles I can see all 4 of her teeth.

The Neighbor should be to my right.  Not these people.

This was going to be our first vacation together.  We’d gone to the beach once last summer, but that was because my best friend had pressured him into it.  He’d come late and driven separately.  I always felt that had I been the one to invite him he’d have said no, but since it was Amy asking and not me, he agreed immediately.

Peyton voiced a little wish earlier.  “I wish TN was coming with us still.”

“I know, baby,” I said, “but we’re not dating any more, so he can’t.”

“But you and Amy are friends and she’d come with us if we asked!” was the very logical retort.

“True, but I’m not there with TN, yet.  One day soon, I hope.”

There was a little pause and then from the backseat I heard, “It’ll happen eventually.”

I left the house for the airport in a frenzy.  I couldn’t find my phone, we were up against the clock.  You know, regular travel travails.  I left a note for TN along with letters from both me and Peyton.  My letter was supposed to just be a, here’s what you need to do with my cat and the plants, but instead morphed into something that lasted for 6 pages.  I’ve never written him anything a day in my life save from a love-lorn note when he dumped me after Pisspants.

My handwriting is generally atrocious and it was no better despite my best efforts, but there’s something intimate about the curve of a letter, the idiosyncratic way an “I” is written.  I find handwriting to be deeply personal and revealing and I felt shy as I scribbled words on the college-lined paper.

I still love him, I’m working on acceptance, I want to do whatever I can to remain friends, I need space, feed the cat *this much*, take the perishables out of the refrigerator if you like, thanks again for doing this.

When I masturbate I think of him and of new men all mingled together.  I want to prep my body for a new scent, a new feel.  I’m not remotely interested in anyone, but there will come a time when I am forced from my cave.  It will be sooner rather than later.

Do I go the Adult Friend Finder route?  OK Cupid?  Do I fuck with this eHarmony guy?  No one can measure up to TN, I know that.  I want to be kind to people, but I want to get mine, too.

Each morning I wake up thinking about how much I miss him, how much I want him to be a part of my life and future.  Today was no different.  And even now, thousands of feet above him I feel his absence.  Instead of the squawking babe to my right it should be him with his bald head and red beard with ear buds in listening to some music while Pey and I chatted and did our thing.

I’ve been trying to think of times when I left someone because “it didn’t feel right”; I want to get inside his head.  I certainly wouldn’t have let it go on for 3 years, but maybe he was hoping his feelings would change.  Maybe he was trying to feel differently.  I don’t know.  All I know is there was a summer when I dated a friend and he fell in love with me.  There was something about his energy that I didn’t click with, though: too acquiescent, too easy.  It just didn’t feel right.  And I broke his heart and left him.

Is that what TN is holding on to?  But how can he feel that way after everything we’ve been through, how we relate, how we love and play and fuck and talk and laugh.  I had none of that with my summer friend.  We had no chemistry.  The Neighbor and I lit up the sky with our friendship and sexual chemistry; we relied on one another for everything and found so much solace there.  In our case, though, love didn’t light the way, it darkened it.  It became too complicated, too dangerous, and generally too undesirable.

Love infiltrated his being and shut him down.  Love was my enemy.

I have to remind myself to just breathe, to wait for the feelings to pass through me, and that this too shall pass.  Nothing lasts forever, after all.  At least I got my wine.