You go on a date filled with another man’s semen.

Needless to say, Date #1 today was quite eventful.  

Bent over my front seat, the passenger side door opened to provide side privacy and a giant, naked cock rammed inside of me as I gripped the console and he kept modestly pulling my skirt down over my bottom and panties which were shoved to the side as if that would save my virtue or something.

I can smell his cum and feel it ooze out of me even as I park outside the coffee shop for Date #2.

I don’t dare to hope that this or #3 will hold a candle to him, but you never know.

Friday, July 22nd, is Boobday!

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Holy fucking hell.

Is it August yet?

Negative bank balances, a broken heart, all-consuming horniness, the world going to hell in a hand basket.  Yet another lovely July week in the books.

The good news is I feel more focused than ever, stronger, more lovely.  How I can feel this untouchable after such a disaster of a month is beyond me, but I do, exhaustion and crispy brain notwithstanding.

Here’s to one more week and then we tread the thick middle of August and slide into September.  Before we know it it’s Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s and BAM! 20-motherfucking-17.

Love you guys.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR 2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.  And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts!  This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:


  NOT my tits:

Kim's snap reminds me of accidentally seeing something I shouldn't. Naughty, forbidden, luscious.

Kim’s snap reminds me of accidentally seeing something I shouldn’t. Naughty, forbidden, luscious.

just me and my boobies 🙂

::

There's something so raw about Sandy and her friend. She seems frozen as he uses the knife against her skin, his hand grips gently, yet firmly.

There’s something so raw about Sandy and her friend. She seems frozen as he uses the knife against her skin, his hand grips gently, yet firmly.

I’ve been wanting to experience wax with the boy toy but he’s been too busy. Went to an OTK party (over the knee) and knew the rope guy would be there (who also has wax experience) so I asked him to give me the experience. I chose this pic because I think the knife is hot!! Most guys tell me they use a butter knife for wax removal. Zzzzzzz, no thrill in that.

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The angle of this photo, the tear drops of her breasts. It all makes me feel like I'm right there with Madeline.

The angle of this photo, the tear drops of her breasts. It all makes me feel like I’m right there with Madeline.

Attempting to eradicate the tan lines!

Click below for more lovely ladies:

I miss you.

I miss all of you.  This life I once had.  Me, Hy, you, all of you.

Deep, lacerating pain singes along the pathways to the pads of my fingertips and painted toes like lit gunpowder.  The crevice where my hot blooded heart was now gapes empty and yawning.

This summer has grasped me by the ankles and wrists in two hands and twisted with no mercy, wringing every drop of me into the sea of loss below.

I am a fighter and have not given up.  My eye remains on you, on me and Hy.  My grip is strong even as I flap helplessly in the storm.

The depth of my own strength fills me with pride; others would have crumpled into an ashy heap of dried tears.  

But more than anything, I wish I had no cause for proving my Viking spirit still.  I wish it was done with me already.

I want to come back.  

With my hips gathered in painful fistfuls; with the slit of my body choking a greedy, begging face; with my cries and sobs and hot, wet, motherfucking tears welling in the shells of my ears.

I miss you.

I miss me.

I miss everything.

Friday, July 15th, is Boobday!

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It’s also the morning after another atrocity.

My heart goes out to all those in France today.  We’re all brothers and sisters in this. Much love to everyone.

xx

Hy

PS: I’ll post everyone’s pics later today. Sorry for the delay!
My tits:

Matches my mood.

My mood.

NOT my tits:

Cynthia returns to us with a pout and some killer cleavage.

Cynthia returns to us with a pout and some killer cleavage.

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My IG friend, Olivia, returns to the fold with a luscious photo.

My IG friend, Olivia, returns to the fold with a luscious photo.

This is me playing around with the camera feeling sexy.
@oliviatarose

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Ann plays coy.

Ann plays coy.

I may be pale, but three days with you spending time by the pool gave me tan lines I wanted to share 🙂

::

Ms. Tatt exposes more than just her lovely breasts.

Ms. Tatt exposes more than just her lovely breasts.

First time I’ve submitted anything like this but what a rush! I had a Breast reduction years ago and now love my boobs. I love “up” shots which is why I’m sending this particular one.

::

Kim clutches her family jewels.

Kim clutches her family jewels.

“Good Morning all you boobie-lovers 😉 Have an awesome Friday xxx”

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Sandy looking hot and delicious, like syrup.

Sandy looking hot and delicious, like syrup.

Do I have to get up and go to work?

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Miss Green spilling out all over the place.

Miss Green spilling out all over the place.

 

Click below to see who else is sharing the love:

I can’t.

The soft, pastel dawn feels disingenuous.  My heart, heavy with darkness, clenches and the news of last night and the preceding two days clings to me like stink on rot.

Today is also the tenth anniversary of my father’s long, slow painful death.

Some would say he did every human atrocity short of killing a man to warrant it, but I can tell you with certainty that watching someone suffer does not bring you peace.  It’s just more pain on top of despair on top of senselessness.

I texted my sister last night.  We keep each other abreast of the anniversary each year.  Sometimes I “forget,” sometimes she does.  Though “forget” isn’t the right word, it’s more of a willful overlook.  My cells remember.  I’m sadder, testier, more sensitive in general and there’s nothing to be done but sit through the gale of emotional winds that beat down.

Three years ago, on July 9th, my grandmother’s birthday, my friend Sara killed herself.  I weep as I write remembering the shock of the news.  She had a child nearly identical in age to Peyton and the four of us would meet for coffee and play dates when the kids were just barely out of toddlerhood.

We shared our marriage woes and mothering challenges.  She divorced, like me, and we continued to share parallel lives until the fateful night she decided to hang herself and forever rob her daughter of the fierce, beautiful soul that was her mother.

The pain she must have suffered to think that was the solution strikes me down, barren and broken.  Blackness.

There was nothing, nothing, in this world she cared more about than her child.  It overwhelms me with grief on top of grief on top of grief.

These guns…

Two black men legally carried them to protect themselves from what I can only assume would be that “other” nut job we all keep hearing about and instead they brought police brutality upon their carriers out of stark raving fear and racial discrimination.

Yet more guns killed five cops, injured seven others and two bystanders during what was supposed to be a peaceful protest of the two murdered men.  The protesters, there to hold accountable the officers who use excess force and discriminate against people of color, were now being protected by these same men and women as they all ran for their lives and the snipers shot officers in the back.  Fucking chaos.

My brother-in-law is black and he and my sister have to discuss things like, Will he get any extra grief trying to pick up my white, unaccompanied minor at the airport gate alone because only one adult can go back there?  What’s the protocol for if he gets pulled over?  What do they tell their son who’s darker-skinned? 

My sister lives in fear that her husband and son will be murdered because of the color of their skin and it’s paralyzing to think I can’t assuage her fears.  I can’t tell her she’s being overly emotional or paranoid because it keeps. fucking. happening.

Guns, guns, and more guns.  Children in schools, people in theaters and dance clubs.

The afternoon after Sandy Hook I went to Peyton’s daycare early and cried as I pushed past the gate and earnestly searched for the little body that came from mine.  A school.

A hundred highly trained professionals were armed last night and their guns did nothing to stop the snipers for hours.  I consider it a small miracle that only two bystanders were injured and more weren’t killed by friendly fire from either side of line last night.  Bullets go where their physics tells them.  They don’t stop if it’s the wrong person’s body.

 

And so I can’t today.

 

It’s all too much.

My father, Sara, guns robbing families of loved ones, the anarchy that seems to be seeping into the fabric of our nation.  It all runs together like watercolor, like that impertinent dawn that played across my window earlier so oblivious to what has happened.

If only tears could make it all go away for if they did I would be washed anew and feel nothing.  Death is only an end.  It’s never a solution.

 

 

 

Being stood up is fucking shitty shit.

Today sucks and for different, yet related ways.

First, it’s The Neighbor’s 32nd birthday and last year feels like this morning somehow.  And second, I was stood up on Saturday by someone I liked and trusted and even today it feels like a raw, stinging slap in the face.

Though I am making strides to distance myself further from TN, it’s still a struggle.  Last year we were broken up and his birthday spent together was painful, awkward and titillating, not unlike a red, angry blister on ecstasy.

A couple of months later I ended our friendship and embarked on a TN-free life in pursuit of a man who actually valued me, but clearly I’ve failed in that endeavor.  It’s been an interesting 10 months.

That brings us to two days ago when I was treated with no respect and little regard.  I don’t have control over others; I thought I’d chosen well enough, but I was very sadly wrong.  I feel sucker punched.  I have never in my entire 20 years of dating ever stood someone up.

Not a guy I’ve never met before and certainly not someone I had met previously.  Clearly everyone doesn’t operate by the same moral and character code as me.  They do whatever the fuck they want whenever they want because they can.

He didn’t text me when I asked if he was en route 30 minutes after our agreed upon time, nor did he respond when I texted close to an hour after our date to confirm that we were actually meeting at 8.

I can’t guess what happened, but I can tell you with 100% certainty that there are only 2 reasons why not texting me back would be acceptable:

  1. death or serious bodily trauma or;
  2. a phone is lost or broken.

But this young man turned down the offer of my address because he said he remembered where I lived, so ostensibly he could have shown up if it were #2.  And I’ll feel badly if it’s #1, but the odds are slim to none that something tragic befell him.  Let’s be real: he was just a dick.

In a world of disposable dating, why do I have to extend any slack in the line??

With TN we fought a lot about his tardiness.  I would have dinner timed and  he’d call 5 minutes before he was supposed to arrive to say something had come up at work.  He thought he was being sensitive.  My risotto or fish never agreed.

He demanded my understanding and I his, but we were in a committed relationship so it seemed reasonable.  But for a 3rd date?  Is it reasonable to extend blind understanding and empathy at the expense of one’s dignity and self-worth?

When I have shared my upset in the past with a man at being treated like this I’ve been called inflexible, told my standards are too high and that I’m seeking “dating perfection.”  I’ve also been called old and demanding, as if to infer I don’t know how the kids these days date.

The details of the interactions are immaterial, but what’s important is the overall belief that if I insist on effort I am high maintenance and rigid.  But here’s the thing, for a first date, yeah, you better make a fucking effort.  In fact all my dates better have some work behind them because I will be working for them, too.

I’ll have cleared my schedule and protected your time slot (I turned town two sets of friends for that date Saturday night), I’ll eat the right things so as not to be gassy or have an upset stomach (yes, I do that), I’ll clean my fucking house, shave my entire fucking body, moisturize and shower, buy various sizes of condoms to accommodate your dick, make my bed, stock my fridge and even put my phone on silent once we’re together.

And yet somehow texting me to let me know that something has changed or come up is too much effort.  TN could barely keep me in the loop and I was supposedly a major part of his life.

Well, thanks a fucking lot for that, you fucking dick wad.

In 20 years of dating I have never mistreated another human being in that way.

I’ll admit to being distant and letting things die on the vine, or not returning feelings, but I have never not been where I said I’d be or not done what I said I’d do.  It’s counter to who I am: I am a nice fucking person whose word means something.

Dating has become this vicious, self-serving, distant act.  We do what we want when we want.  We rely on our phones to implant a wall between us and those we’re actually trying to get to know.

We don’t want to seem too eager, too clingy, too insecure, too caring, too into it, too ______.  God forbid we show any genuine excitement about anyone lest we reveal ourselves to be drooling, humping idiots with no self control or caché.

I have spent literally hours upon hours of my life dissecting text with and for my friends. What does it mean if he doesn’t text you after a sexual encounter?  a first date?  Should you send the first text?  reply immediately?  What happens when punctuation suddenly shows up when text was fast and loose before?  Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

I treat a man I’m talking to with the same respect and social courtesy as I would a friend or family member who’s texted me; it removes any thought on my part.  It gets tricky when the interactions become dating-specific, like the post-fuck text.

In those instances I err on the side of who I am.  What feels natural?  To text or not to text, that is the question!  There’s no right or wrong answer there considering we’re all our own Litmus test; if he doesn’t like what I’ve texted when I’ve texted it (or didn’t text it) then that’s valuable information moving forward and if it ends there, well, then we clearly weren’t meant to be.

Everyone plays it so cool we forget the message we send is I don’t care about you.  Maybe there’s some truth to that, but what if it’s on a scale?  Like, I don’t care about you that much, but I still care somewhat?  Obviously, there’s no way of knowing the intent since it feels the same on the other end regardless.  We all really fucking suck at communicating.

For you Gen Xers out there, like me, do you remember when all we had were landlines?  I would come home from work and toss my keys into the bowl next to the answering machine and would be filled with a pleasant rush if I had a flashing number blinking at me.  Someone had thought of me!

They’d left a message with real words and the only way for me to let them know I got their message was to pick the phone up and call them back and use my own voice.

Chats took effort and focus; I couldn’t do anything else but think about and talk to the person on the other end.  My mother, my friends, the men I’d met.  It was a simpler time despite it requiring more effort on everyone’s parts.

Ben is the last man I’ve “chatted” with and one of the only ones over the last several years.  I’d like to think it sets him apart in some ways.  But I could be wrong; I seem to be wrong regularly.

My Saturday night date was a sweet young man — or so I thought — and it doesn’t help that other men I care about have been infuriatingly silent for far too many days on end, as well.  Nor does it help that today is TN’s birthday and all the memories of him are kicked up.

I’m worn out and down and frustrated and lonely.

I have extinguished the frantic pace with which I was devouring men and all but ground to a halt.  I have been picky, patient, and persistent and yet it has not yielded what I’d hoped: a shield against bullshit.

The truth is, dating sucks no matter how you do it.  Whether you’re a man-eater or  cautiously optimistic and highly selective.  There’s nothing I can do to protect myself: dating is dangerous, period.

My feelings are hurt from Saturday and I’m left scratching my head at how I could have been so wrong about him; I never would have thought he’d do something like that.  And I am bereft — still — at the absence of The Neighbor.  Yes, even now.

The other irons I have in the fire don’t seem to be panning out and so it’s back to the drawing board.  I’ve spent my entire weekend basically on my couch or poolside doing literally nothing of any interest.  I’m not proud of that.  I fear loneliness is slipping between my ribs and weaving its way towards my heart.  I feel frozen in time.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, adrift and aimless.  Sad.

Treating a person with disregard, a person whom you ostensibly want to get close enough to lay with, is an odd cross of messages.  I want to penetrate your body, but I refuse to acknowledge your humanness.  It makes no sense and no wonder we all act like crazy people in this random, ridiculous march to coupling.

Had he only texted, “Hey Hy, got super drunk with friends earlier today. Can’t make it tonight,” I’d have been pissed, but grateful for the note.  As it stands his continuous silence is humiliating and embarrassing.  Not only was my judgement off, but he clearly doesn’t think I’m worth even the littlest amount of effort to be treated with kindness.

TN’s continuous stalking is humiliating in its own strange way: he wants to keep tabs on me, but not in a meaningful way.

I look forward to the end of July.  This has never been my favorite month.  It’s TN’s birthday, the anniversary of my father’s death and my friend Sara’s suicide.  My grandmother’s birthday falls on Sara’s death and I can’t think of her without thinking of the pain my friend felt.  I put my cat down after 15 years of togetherness on the 6th.  The anniversaries are on the 4th, 6th, 8th, and 9th.  It’s a brutal time of year for me.

I always try to be kind to myself at this time; there’s nothing worse than self annihilation when you’re hurting.  Unfortunately, I don’t feel all that successful.  I’ve been glued to the couch and my computer and have been pumping my veins full of wine.

I guess the hurt will pass, as will all the memorable days, and I’ll get back to normal me.  Quiet, lonely, normal me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, July 1st, is Boobday! (With a surprise announcement!)

hy_tits_bannerLots of lovely boobs this week!

Thank you, as always, for lending me the images of your bodies and showing thousands of people that sexy and confident isn’t only what we see in a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

We’re far more diverse than just those lovely young women.

Ok, now for the big news!!

There were rumblings of something during this year’s Eroticon, but no one knew for sure what.  Well, it’s official!

EROTICON 2017 LONDON IS BACK!

The incredible, stupendous, fantastic trio of Molly Moore, @DomSigns, and Girl on the Net will be carrying the torch for the lovely and brilliant Ruby Kiddell!!  (You can also read all about them here.)

I knew by the end of my stay that I would have to find a way to make it back through fundraising and/or sponsorship.  There is absolutely no way I’m missing out on another one.  It’s too important to my writing, to my being, to my sense of community.

I encourage all of you fellow bloggers and writers to find a way to make it over there.  You won’t regret it.

LipsEroticon2tIWish LipsEroticon2trans250Attending LipsEroticon2HelpMeCurrently, I’m all three of these buttons, but grab yours and let’s get started!

Ok, I’ve been procrastinating enough today.  Time to get down to business and get these titties out to the world!

Love y’all!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR 2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.  And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts!  This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.

Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.

NOT my tits:

Miss Shy's first, delicious submission.

Miss Shy’s first, delicious submission.

I’m very shy so this is very hard for me to do and because my breasts are so large-I’m very self conscious. I chose this pic because it was right after a cool shower and some coconut oil makes them appear somewhat exotic.

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I love the open shirt on Kim.

I love the open shirt on Kim.

Such a versitile item, the denim jacket…..clothed or topless!!

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I haven't figured out if she's anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.

I haven’t figured out if she’s anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.

Happy weekend 😉

::

Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.

Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.

Ms Green catching rays in the kitchen washing dishes.

Click below to see more!

Avoidance.

Hy at night in shadow

Shadows.

At this point in time I fully admit to avoiding some things.

My fitness, for one, not to mention my creativity, my mental health, and my peace of mind.

I feel like I’m floating on a little raft of seaweed just past where the waves swell and form.  I can see the beach with my towel and my things, but my senses are consumed with salt, long, low pulses of waves crashing, and the tickle of the sea.

Peyton flew unaccompanied to San Francisco for a couple of days during my most recent custody period then went straight to my ex’s upon arriving back home.  Today they all leave by car for a family vacation and won’t return until mid July.

My phone remains mostly quiet except for my frantic checking of world news.  The list of heartbreaking things seems never-ending lately; it’s been a particularly brutal late spring for the entire world.

Knowledge is power, but it’s also paralyzing.  I feel overwhelmed as a member of our global society and even in my own little life.  Tributaries of thought and feeling merge into a raging river only to split off a few miles away.  I have a clear idea of what I need to do, but then remain sedentary.  Not taking care of my body is the main signifier.

I stain it with alcohol and lack of movement, my dietary choices aim to hurt, not nourish.

Yet meanwhile in the other parts of my life I am dedicated and driven.

My work continues to bring me significant pride and satisfaction and my Summer of No Men (or really, Summer of Very Few Men) has brought a sense of calm and balance I have never felt before.

I blocked The Neighbor from being able to view my AFF profile and with that single keystroke the weights attached to my ankles which threatened to drown me were gone.

He remains in my complex, but the sight of his car somehow bothers me less.  My empty, boring nights are a result of my choices and I feel empowered even as The Good Wife and a bottle of Casillero del Diablo keep me company.

I chat with Ben on occasion and have a couple of other irons in the fire, but they’re on low heat and I like that just fine.  My standards for a date seem impossibly high after London.  I want someone to look at me and think, “Fucking shit I’m a lucky man!”  Not, “She seems ok for now.”  Effort means everything to me now.

My avoidance of my physical and creative health is the natural reaction to my career and dating health.  I have yet to master all aspects of my life simultaneously and that has been a lifelong pattern.

If I’m working out regularly and my diet is on point, then I am making risky decisions with my heart.  Slacking at work?  Then I’m probably drinking less.  It’s like squeezing a balloon that won’t pop: it just squirts out somewhere else; I can’t hide it.  At least I haven’t had a cigarette since December and that seems unlikely to change any time soon.

The biggest question I’m trying to answer is why do I have this deeply driven need to balance smart, healthy decisions with their opposite?  Why can I not allow myself to revel in all the sun?  Why must I always be cast in shadows?

The immediate answer that comes to mind is I am not comfortable with that level of success and/or happiness and I’ll admit to that; it’s what I am working so hard to change.  I want all the sun.

The second I hit Publish today I will feel better.  It’s a very caring thing, writing, and I have been actively avoiding things I know will make me feel better.  It seems I want shadow in addition to all that sun — perhaps I need it, I can’t tell the difference — but I’m trying to honor the pull nonetheless and not beat myself up about it.

I’m supposed to see Remington tonight, a reschedule from the weekend, but I’ve asked if we can move it to tomorrow.  I’d like to see him in an old friend sort of way, but I’m content if it doesn’t happen.  Not quite ambivalence, more like acceptance.  That’s a sunny thing.

I’ve skipped lots of opportunities to work out this week, though.  Shadowy.

I’ve focused on my work and goals.  Sunny.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine every night.  Shadowy.

I’ve been highly selective about the men I interact with.  Sunny.

I haven’t written all the things I want to say: good v. bad sex, UDP (unsolicited dick pics), the strangely dangerous and beautiful world of IGShadowy.

My hope is that while my little one is away for so long I will get my sea legs and stop floating, overwhelmed by the current and unmotivated to move.  I’d like to honor my quiet mornings and my need to write.  The summer is short, though the heat is long, and I have to get my shit together.

The cicadas are chirping.  It’s time to get started.

Hy in the morning in the sun

Sun.

 

Friday, June 24th, is Boobday!

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[Updated below and much later than I’d hoped.]

It’s also a super busy day, so I’m just gonna do this quick link-up post and will add the gorgeous tits I have in my email in a couple of hours.

Hugs to you all!

::

Ok, so it’s many hours later and I’m so sorry.  I woke up at 3 am and freaked out about the whole UK leaving the EU thing then made an early morning airport run to drop Peyton off for our first ever unaccompanied minor experience as a family.  Eek.

Fought sobs in the airport and on the way home, rushed to work, had intense meetings, drove home in a fog, got ready for a date I was really looking forward to only to have it cancelled last second and I’ve been in a weird, 4 hour-sleep fog every since.

Anyway, I’m getting my shit together finally!  Please forgive me!

We have lots of amazing ladies this week and I can’t wait for you to see them!

Power to the titties!!

xx

Hy

PS: Hugs to all you Brits who wanted to Remain.  I wanted you to, too!

My tits:

I'm so goddamned tired I can't even sit up straight for a pic this week.

I’m so goddamned tired I can’t even sit up straight for a pic this week.

NOT my tits:

I love this netting on Kate's big, round breast. It feels like we caught something special.

I love this netting on Kate’s big, round breast. It feels like we caught something special.

Sharing a pic that I took for an online friend last night before a cam session. Expanding my horizons and pushing myself out of my comfort zones. 🙂

::

Amanda perfectly captures a bright, new morning on her luscious breasts.

Amanda perfectly captures a bright, new morning on her luscious breasts.

Boobday was my first introduction to you and your site.  I knew it was the place for me to learn to love and except myself again.  You’ve been a roll model for over a year now.  I feel I owe you major kudos for leading the way to proudhood!.  A pic I took as the sun came up one morning.

::

I am a big fan of Olivia's images. Each one makes me look more closely.

I am a big fan of Olivia’s images (@oliviatarose on IG). Each one makes me look more closely.

Me playing in the sheets. Happy boob day 💋

::

These high-waisted jeans somehow accentuate the softness of Sandy's breasts.

These high-waisted jeans somehow accentuate the softness of Sandy’s breasts.

The only thing better than being naked in my office (which I am) is to be having mind blowing sex in my office (which I am not).

::

It's beautiful Meredith and her vacation titties!

It’s beautiful Meredith and her vacation titties!

On vacation in SoCal, getting ready for a swim

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Click below to see who’s sharing today:

 

I was wrong.

He didn’t move out this weekend.

His fucking fancy black car is still there, mocking me.

My heart lurches when I pass him on the street, though I’m invisible to him in my new and unfamiliar car.  Lucky him.

I dread seeing him when I run to get groceries and have scathing, vitriolic conversations with him under my breath as I stride angrily through the heat from my car to the produce section.

“You should never have followed me to my complex.”

“You lied to me about who you were.”

“You are a cruel, selfish bastard for invading my home.”

I think twice about getting my mail.  Do I look good enough if I run into him?

I think twice about walking to the office.  Will he see me?

I think twice about visiting the gym behind his building.  Does he use it?

When I park at the bottom of the hill near his building late at night, laced with wine, and with a virile, good-smelling man I wish he could see me saunter up the hill.

When I go to the pool with my little string bikini I worry he might be there and even worse, be with someone who looks better than me.  Because that’s somehow important to the small woman in me.  I’m reduced to thinking looks matter.

The bottom line is, I was wrong.

I got his apartment number wrong — it’s not actually listed on our website — and it feels like he’ll never leave.  I have no idea when it’s going to happen.  There is no relief in sight.

I am trapped in Purgatory and forced to face my mistakes every morning, noon and night.  I ignored all the signs and focused on my love for  him.  His thoughtful sweetness, his throbbing sex, his delicious distance.  I have no one to blame but myself and when I once had power in the situation I no longer do.  I can’t make him go.

I struggle with the word regret.  It feels like I’m admitting I got nothing from my choice when that’s not true.  I loved that man madly and deeply.  I proved to myself I was capable of magic with another human being.  I unearthed parts of me I didn’t know existed.  How could I possibly regret that?

The regret I feel is for ignoring my gut that summer before he moved here — something was seriously amiss — and though I have no actual proof my sleepless nights and early morning searches for GPS trackers were enough for the jury of my heart.

I wish I knew why I felt those things, I certainly wish I hadn’t, but I did and I neither tried to prove or disprove them.  I simply put one foot in front of the other in total denial and love and hope and resistance.

And now I’m afraid to check my mail.

Because I was wrong.