I need you, Internet Boyfriend.

I am feeling lost and sad and lonely.  The Neighbor’s birthday is this weekend and, being silly me, I offered to take him out for his birthday on Saturday, Independence Day.

“So…” I began, “I was thinking I should take you out for your birthday this weekend.  Tina and Amy are both out of town, Peyton is, too, I’d like to do something fun.  What do you think?”

He looked at me with a quizzical look.

“C’mon!  It’ll be fun!  What else would you be doing?”

“I’d go into work then go home,” he admitted. Then he added, “Lemme think about it.”

I knew that was code for “Let me check with my therapist.”  “Ok,” I said.

A couple of days later he called to say I could take him out for brunch.

As you know, Internet Boyfriend, brunch is a sore spot with me.  He never went with me, hated it, he said.  “I’m not a brunch person,” he’d assert.  No matter my protests, he never budged.  The closest I ever got were a handful of 5 am wake-up calls to go to our favorite greasy spoon. I took it, appeased, but still longed for what brunch represented: a closeness, a lazy stroll through the morning after an intimate night, a declaration of couplehood.

Last weekend I told my dates that I wanted someone to go to brunch with.  Both men got what I meant without hesitation.  Last night my date got it, too.  “It’s special,” he’d agreed.

But this offer of brunch isn’t any of those things to The Neighbor.  If I had to guess — and that’s all I can do — it’s because it’s the safest slot to put me in.  It won’t be late, there won’t be much drinking (if any) and then he can bail on the excuse of having to do some work.  I could feel the long arm of his therapist in this decision since I had clearly made my intentions known that I wanted to take him out for the evening, as friends only.  “What do you want to do?” she likely asked.  “I want to hang out with her,” he’d probably said, “but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea…”

It makes me sad because the truth is there is a deep, dark part of me that wants him to come back around to me.  Not as we were, obviously, but as I’ve jumped into the deep end of dating I realize once again how special he is, how special our connection is.

Both Tina and Amy have rekindled romances with their exes.  They look at me with surprise when I say TN and I haven’t slept together once since breaking up or even kissed.  They have both gotten reengaged with their men and — despite all the complexities and confusions it’s caused — are happy with their lots.  I want that, too, but I can’t break him down; he has a steel grip on his resolve, never drinks too much around me, runs out of the house if he does, and because my heart is still dripping with loss I rarely contact him.  The chances of us bumping into each other with lowered inhibitions are nil.

I’ve come to realize that his rejection of me is integral to my wanting him.  The fact that I can’t charm the pants off of him, literally, invigorates me.  I want to know why, I want to solve this riddle.  I can charm the pants off of 97% of the men I meet, why not him?  Hell, why not the Bad Texter?  Even he has me on the hook because he is a complete mystery to me.

As I’ve been given the bitch slot of the day on Saturday it’s caused me to wonder why I even bother, but it’s that inexplicable itch I have to scratch.  Man after man I meet as if it’s my job and one by one they fall to my wiles.  It’s so easy, too easy, IBF.

I’m ashamed to call myself charming because it might come off as arrogant, but I don’t know how else to explain that with very few exceptions I manage to make a man want more of me.  Except the men I want; they eschew me, dodge me, refuse to see me.  Those are the men that draw my attention most: the ones who don’t see me.

Last night I sat at the same dive bar as I had with Remington only 3 days earlier.  We nearly sat at the same table, but out of respect for the ghost of that first date I steered us to a different table.  He was a fine looking man, fit and wirey from climbing, self-assured, a little nerdy looking which drew me in.  We began to talk and I found myself fitting to him as I had Remington, and The Lawyer and Mr. Nerdy, and all the other men.

Remember that ridiculous date I had with the guy with the face tattoos?  Or the power-lifter aficionado?  There have been others I never even wrote about because why?  They all went nowhere.  Yet, without exception they all thought it went swimmingly and wanted more of me.  I’m exhausted being their perfect woman and I am forgetting to look for my perfect man.

I’m so busy being charming and winning them over, figuring them out and being wanted that I am completely forgetting to be discriminating.  Why would I want this guy?  Is he the right fit for me?

He loves camping (I hate it), but, I think, maybe I’m doing it wrong and he can change my mind.  He’s a little bit overweight (and that’s not really my thing), but, I think again, he could lose it, it’s not a character flaw.  He’s a recovering alcoholic (and I don’t really want to mess with that being the drinker that I am), but, again, I can’t judge him for getting his life on track.

And so I have these inner dialogues during these dates whereby I dismiss all my red flags, all the things I don’t really want in a partner, because I don’t want to judge and I want him to want me.  And, what if I’m wrong??  God forbid I make a mistake.

I have this thing about me — I’ve noticed it my entire life — that I naturally emulate whomever I’m with.  When I’m with Sharon, I get a southern drawl, when I’m with Tina my hand gestures mimic hers, when I’m with Amy I walk like her.  Studies have been shown that it’s a likeability factor, this emulation.  We are naturally drawn to those who are most like us, who become familiar.  Books have been written on how to capitalize on it.

I suppose this was something I was born with then the skill was deeply stroked as a child in an unstable home.  To survive my mercurial parents, I had to disappear, figure them out and be as likeable as possible.  It’s led me to success in my career, but loss in love.  I rarely know where I start and they end I am so impossibly contorted to be likeable.  This gift of being a chameleon comes at a price: my own voice, my own way.

At the end of my date last night he asked how I was feeling.  I was his first internet date ever (“I prefer analog,” he’d explained) and it was off of AFF.  The truth was that I didn’t find him all that attractive physically, but I had enjoyed the conversation.  So, I did what I always do and kept him on the hook.

“I’d like to see you again, but I have to be honest, I’m a little worn out.  I go out a lot and next week I have my kid again.  Are you a patient man?”

He smiled, pleased I was interested.  “I am.”

I left it at that and we walked out and had a chaste kiss across from my car where, 3 days earlier, Remington had assaulted my mouth and pussy with hidden skills.

I drove home and got texts from Mr. Nerdy.  He’s excited about our date tonight, a traditional dinner and then an activity.  He’s been amping up the sexual content of his messages and I, quite frankly, don’t know if I have it in me.

I am so tired.

David came over Wednesday — yes, the guy who had taken himself off the market was back at me — and had railed me to oblivion.  He’d picked me up and thrown me around, choked me while his hand slammed into me until I puddled around it.  He bent me over and licked my asshole while holding my hands behind my back, fingered me and slipped his fat, unprotected cock deep inside my wet hole.  I’d gagged on his massive cock.

He struck my flanks, my legs, my thighs until I was fire-engine red and fucked me until he came on my back.  We’d laid in the waning light and talked about safe things: our dogs, physiological reactions.  Then he’d pulled me back into him and rolled on top of me and kissed me passionately until I pushed him off of me and tried so hard to get that enormous dick down my throat.

Tears squeezed out as they had earlier in the night, I’d vomited a little and then he’d flipped me over and railed me again until his muscles seized up from his 60k run over the weekend.  I’d fallen back on his cock and he’d turned me around to finger my ass.

How many fingers and how far he was into me was lost as I tried to cope with his penis.  He coached me as I whimpered, mortified and turned on and determined all at once until I’d vomited completely into my mouth and pulled off, stiff and still, looking for something to spit into.  That was it for us for the night.

We found ourselves trapped in the vortex of miscommunication again and I realized it was so easy to fuck him and let him come around because though I had figured him out I didn’t actually want him in my life as an important person.

I lay there, opposite him with his leg draped over me, his hands massaging my ankle and me stroking his calf thinking how comfortable I am with a guy I would never want to date, whereas the men who want me cause me great discomfort.

Mr. Nerdy has no idea that David sucked it all out of me.  I don’t want to have sex tonight, though I’m sure I will.  I will because I’ll mold myself to him and want to win him over.  Plus, I like sex.  It will likely be good for me to be with someone who’s interested in me beyond just my willingness to put out.  And, he wants to take me to brunch.

But I will be kicking him out sometime in the night, under the summer moon, because I will have to wash up and be ready for The Neighbor’s birthday brunch and afternoon surprise (I’m taking him to the batting cages).  He says he’s excited and really looking forward to it.  Strangely, I am, too.

I’m looking forward to figuring this out, IBF.  I’m lost.  I’m sad.  I’m lonely.  And The Lawyer wants to spend time with me on Sunday which makes me feel all the more lonely.  I need you.



I’m dating too many men.


The last time i took a pic like this I was training for a fun run with him.

On my run this morning it occurred to me that I’m dating too many men.  Then, under an oak tree atop a picnic table I tried to name them all:

David is still in the picture, the Bad Texter, The Lawyer, Remington, Mr. Nerdy, the guy tonight, the guy tomorrow, another dude — no, two dudes who’ve been out of town, the guy who texted me that crazy shit the other night when Ann was here, another guy, another guy.

The other night I had to write down who and when this week and I still had 6 left over in the sidebar with no time to give.

Nameless, most of them, as I probably am to them.

I had a dream about The Neighbor two nights ago. His giant, turgid cock was all mine.  My hunt was over and he was going to be with me forever.  I was going to feel his fuzzy, muscular body jam into mine and I was going to die of bliss.

It was all a fantasy, even in the dream. He slipped through my fingers when he realized I was still in love with him.  I denied it, but had no proof.  “But look!” I’d shouted into space. “Look at all the other men I’m fucking!”

He could t believe me and so he faded away.

I awoke tortured and throbbing and then cried.

I’m dating too many men and not the right one.

I’m Mrs. Robinson.

“People are coming” I whispered into his neck.  The two people and their dogs I’d spotted down the street continued to walk toward the two of us leaning against my car under the streetlight.  The thick night pressed in around us.

At 6 foot 4 he he stooped to hook his long fingers into me and straightened as he removed himself from between my legs.  I moaned a little.

As the dog walkers passed, he rolled me to the side and pressed my back against my car door and bent to kiss me again.  We’d been kissing for minutes on end and my neck was beginning to hurt, my feet cramp from lifting up to meet him, but it was magnificent.

He paused and I said, “What should I call you when I write about you in my diary?”

“You can call me Remington Steele,” he laughed, in reference to a lame character reference I’d made earlier in the night.  I had been surprised he’d even heard of the show.  Remington is only 24.

When we first met at the dive bar yesterday I wasn’t at all sure how our date would go.  He was trim and wore a button-down dark green shirt and had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow; he wore black sneakers and Ray-Bans and was quite dashing, but also obviously very, very young.  He’s also wickedly smart, but too busy for a girlfriend.  He wants something ongoing, fun, exploratory and respectful.

When he saw me walk in his eyes lit up and we hugged, got some drinks and began to chat.  His face cracked into a smile often and he was open and interesting.  This was his first date off of AFF.

I ran into a girlfriend and as we ordered beers at the bar she lowered her voice and whispered, “He’s awfully young, isn’t he, Hy?”  I laughed and shrugged.

“I’m totally your Mrs. Robinson, aren’t I?” I teased him when I returned to our table.

“Yeah, kinda.  I like older women,” he admitted.

He wants to be my pool boy and shyly shared that he wants to explore his submissive side which is why, out by my car in the dark with random passersby, I was so taken aback at his bold moves, his confidence.  He blew me away with his skill and expertise and each time he released my mouth I would lower to my heels and shake my head, dizzy with desire, not sure where to catalog this young man.

We’ve made a date for Friday afternoon where we can test out his pool boy skills.

Fifteen years between us… holy shit, what am I getting myself into??

I doubled up.

The words “double date” tickle me because these days it means something entirely different than two couples out on the town together.  For me it’s two dates back-to-back in one evening.  Holla.  How’s that for some great double date ideas??

This past Friday was certainly not my first, but it was certainly my best double date in recent memory.  The last double date I had, I forgot about Date #1 completely and didn’t include him in my own list of who I was datingOops.

Date #1 lucked out and caught me at a time in my week where I was both available and feeling open-minded.  He messaged me on Tinder, but never acknowledged my preference for gold wrappers.  I ignored it and figured he knew what it all meant and followed his lead.  He was smart and quick and even though I’d already made a date with a tall drink of water for around 8 o’clock on Friday night I decided that I could handle a warm-up date with this nerdy surprise.

Date #2 was with a 29 year old lawyer.  An impossibly tall young man with whom I had established my golden wrapper requisite.  “I know what you’re talking about,” he’d messaged.  “I use them.”  I’d explained my preference while blushing furiously.  It never gets easy being a size queen.

I drove to meet Mr. Nerdy with a light heart.  My graphic tee was mostly see-through and my legs looked long in high-heeled wedges.  I had nothing to lose if this went badly; I couldn’t wait to meet The Lawyer at 8.

“I’m in the green shirt,” Mr. Nerdy texted.  I took a deep breath and walked out onto the patio littered with people drinking wine and eating cheese.

Our eyes locked and we both smiled.  He stood to hug me hello and he towered over me.  He was taller than I had imagined.  And more muscular.

We ordered some drinks and settled in.  I laughed and maneuvered through the date with a sense of fun I wore like perfume.  It enveloped us both.  We opened up, we flirted, we shared, we set boundaries.  He was far more attractive than his pictures let on and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders and tapered waist.  When he moved his chair closer to my knees and casually dropped his hand on my warm skin my eyes locked with his and we laughed.  We knew we were a match.

He walked me to my car when I realized I was close to being late to my next engagement.  “Do you have another date?” he’d asked.

“No,” I’d blithely lied.

I hooked my arm through his elbow and thanked him for being tall enough to wear my heels.  He chuckled and squeezed my hand.  When we got to my car I turned to him and put my hands on his hips and pulled him towards me and his soft lips pressed into mine.  I looped my hands up to his shoulders and gently massaged him as he wrapped his arms around me.

We had hammered out every detail: we are both looking for passion, for connection, for something steady, maybe a launching off point for something more serious.  He alluded to being kinky and bold; I’d alluded to compliance and perversion.  His mouth plied mine with warmth and verve.  I moaned a little and arched into him and hoped I wasn’t getting beard burn from his 5 o’clock shadow.  That would be hard to explain to Date #2.  His kiss was nice and we vibrated against each other.  First kiss nerves never go away, it seems.

I broke us apart and thanked him again for the great date and we promised to see each other again.  He brought my attention to the large bulge in his dark jeans.  “I sure hope it pleases you,” he said smiling.

I winked at him and told him I was sure it would.

I drove to Date #2 beaming, skipping across clouds like a naughty angel.

As I walked into the restaurant I felt my heart beating more quickly.  I saw my date out back on the patio and he stood to hug me as I approached.  Jesus Christ, he was tall.  I reached up, he stooped down, we laughed nervously.  “Well, hello,” I said, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

I could barely look at him; his long lashes curled to touch his cheeks and he looked like a kid.  I laughed and said, “Are you sure you’re 29?!  You look 12 years old!”  He blushed and lowered his chin and assured me he was an adult.  A 6’6 1/2″ adult.

“I get that a lot,” he replied in a deep, grown up voice.  “It’s the eyelashes, I think.”

“Yeah,” I laughed.  “Maybe.”

We ordered wine and soft-shell crab and blistered shishito peppers, though the chicken liver mousse was our favorite.  Turns out he, too, is looking for a steady, lovely, sexy, passionate, brunch-going type of relationship.  Too bad he lives an hour away. But then again, maybe it’s a perfectly built-in speed bump.  I don’t know.

On our way to my favorite watering hole I laughed until I cried when I realized his feet were as long as my femur.  “Can you see this?” I guffawed as I pressed a shoe of his to my leg. “You’re a giant!”  He grinned sheepishly while I teased him, but was happy to hold me close as we walked up the hill from our parking spot.  I forgot how amazing it feels to be with a gigantic man.

We ordered drinks and bummed cigarettes off our neighbors and with each drink we sat closer and closer until our lips locked and I inhaled his Old Spice and slipped my hand between his thighs.  He moaned and grabbed me and smiled into our kiss.

“Wanna come back to my place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

He drove me back to my car and followed me home and seconds after he walked through the door we were writhing on the couch.  His sheer size pushed me down into the cushions and his mouth moved across my neck and breasts with a reckless first-date fervor.

I led him into my dark room and we found ourselves tangled in clothes, then just limbs.  His face fell to my pussy and his fingers snaked inside of me.  I coached him on what to do with what, then relied on raw begging.  His hand slammed into me and as his mouth lapped at me I felt myself gush into his mouth.  He moaned and shivered and slammed into me more.

“Please,” I panted, “please fuck me.”

He stood up and grabbed a condom, rolled it on and positioned himself between my knees.  He pressed into me, but the erection had softened some.  I clung to him as he moved me about the bed and I could tell he was becoming frustrated with his pouty cock.

I pushed him off of me and bade him to lie on his back.  I removed the condom and began to suck.  A nice size, not huge like I’d hoped, but I knew I’d be able to feel him once I got him back in business.

I sucked and lapped and stroked and opened the back of my throat and kissed his pubis with a mouth stuffed full of cock.  His hands were in my hair and on my face and when he was hard as rock again we rolled another condom on.  He scooped me up and held on as he gyrated like a jack-hammer into my wet ass pussy.

I found myself squirting again and he moaned into my neck as he felt it between us.

He began to shake his head and I knew he was at odds again.

‘I don’t think I can cum tonight,” he finally said.

‘It’s ok,” I said stroking his head resting on my shoulder.  “There’s always tomorrow morning.”

We separated and he pulled me against him and I fell asleep next to a great big bear of a man.  I woke up a few hours later and noticed his feet were stuck through the bars of the footboard.  I smiled and got up, did my morning ablutions and quietly crept back into bed.

It was the normal thing to do after sleeping with someone: stay the night and wake up together.  I remember a time when that was common practice, though it hasn’t been in recent memory.  I either tear out of his room under the auspice of a dog who needs me or a bad back and when I have company over it’s during the day or morning so he could never accidentally stay over.  This was nice though, almost normal.

I fell back asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up a couple of hours later it was to the dog scratching himself.  I called for him to stop.  The Lawyer was disturbed now, too, and rolled to his side and pulled me against him.  I felt his morning wood for a moment then drifted off back to sleep.  The dog had begun to scratch again.

The next few minutes were spent drifting in and out of a lazy morning haze and commanding the dog to stop being so disgusting.  We laughed and wiggled closer whenever we could until finally I felt his lips on my neck and his hand on my breast.

I rolled to my back and kissed him, spread my knees and handed him another condom.  He was hard as a brick this time and I was dry and tight until I was hot and wet.  He came quickly on my belly just as I had asked him too and when he handed me a towel to clean myself up I asked him to lay with me while I came one last time.

His hand gently caressed my breasts as I held the Hitachi to my clit and I wondered if he’d ever seen a woman do this before.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t say anything.  I just let the buzz do its job and came quickly myself.

“When do you have to leave?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes,” I answered.  Peyton had a birthday party to get to.

We got dressed and I openly teased him about his towering height now that I was flat-footed.  “You know, 2000 years ago you’d have been earmarked for brawny work based on your size.  But you lucked out and got to be all intellectual and shit.”  He laughed and said he supposed I was right.  I’m sure all the village girls would have wanted him in their hut.

He said he wanted to see me again, thanked me for a wonderful time, and said his next two weekends were tied up with family and friend commitments.  I assured him we’d figure something out.  I hope that we do.


Friday, June 26th, is JUICY Boobday!



Boobday is going to change a little starting next month.

1.  I will no longer host everyone’s pictures, but I will provide a system of entering your URL much like Sinful Sunday does. This means you’ll have to write a post and have it on your own blog with a link back to my main Boobday page including the badge (which is on my sidebar including its code).  I will leave the linky thing up for all of Friday, but will shut it down at the end of the day, so be sure to get your post up in a timely fashion.

2. I know that lots of you don’t have blogs, so I won’t leave you out to dry, but I will only post the first 3 images I get.  Also, I’ll need those images by Thursday.

3. Boobday will become a weekly meme again!  As soon as I have the widget installed I’ll let y’all know and we can start doing Boobday weekly as it should be!

4. No more themes!  I’ll still offer a prompt, but it won’t be the guiding force for your images.


The reasons I’m changing this up are that I get emails all the time from you lovely ladies saying how much you miss the weekly opportunity to share and I know that the themes often cause struggles.  I can’t devote the amount of time required to host all the images and sort through, edit, cut and paste and whatnot, though, so the link system will solve that labor issue for me.  I’m  hoping that it will be a finely tuned machine by the end of July.

Gimme a couple of weeks to sort out all the new rules, guidelines, etc.

Woot!  I’m excited about Boobday again!  Yay!

I’d asked Anisa of Thirteen Years In to be our featured blogger, but as many of you know she was busy birthing a beautiful new life.  So, in lieu of her own words, I’ll write a few of my own.

Anisa’s raw honesty and hard-hitting sexual prose is what I first noticed about her writing.  She was cracked open for all of us to see; all her faults, her wins, her hopes, her struggles were neatly set before us.  She began participating in Boobday — if my email research is correct — from Day 1, or very close to it.  Her photos have ranged from covered up to fully exposed and her curly hair sometimes makes an appearance resting on her shoulder.  We’ve watched over the past few months as her body has changed and she even gave us a peek at her milky tits last month.

I’m honored that she’s been such a big supporter of Boobday and all its participants.  Congrats again, my friend, on that perfect new baby!



Ok, so, without further ado, here are all the JUICY tits for this month.

My JUICY tits:

Hy in boy briefs.

All tits are juicy.


NOT my JUICY tits:


(Click pic for link.)

I, Hy, chose this image of Anisa’s because there’s nothing juicier than a woman on her back.



Anonymous Aussie knows what she’s doing. Damn.

I sent this pic to a very special friend that replied, ‘wow, don’t they look so ripe & juicy, just waiting to be plucked & sucked!’ That’s why I chose this pic for ‘juicy’.



Krystal’s boobs are, indeed, very juicy. (Click pic for link.)

Doesn’t get much JUICIER than soaking in my hot tub!



La Shonna has a giant, juicy piece of fruit on her.

Oh my …. Juicy. Like low hanging fruit. :o)



Dawn goes the distance for us, yet again. I bet there are lots of us who would like to be drinking some OJ right about now. (Click pic for link.)

Orange juice dripping down my breast. Who will come and lick me clean?



This is Adriana’s first submission and she’s going through a tough time. Please, show her some Boobday love, guys! (Click pic for link.)

It doesn’t fit the theme really…
it’s just boobs…. 
ZOE 062615 JUICY

Zoe’s breasts remind me of those beautiful champagne glasses from the 20’s. They’d fill them perfectly. (Click pic for link.)

As it happens, I think of myself as juicy all over – thighs, biceps, bottom, tum, and yes, breasts.

As it turns out, I think Beck’s image does fit the theme. (Click pic for link.)

Doesn’t really fit the theme, but I wanted to participate anyhow.



Kayla offers a suckle of her juicy juicy breast. (Click pic for link.)

Juicy like a peach.


KIM 062615 JUICY

Kim gets domestic for us.

A naked chef deserves a JUICY tip, don’t you think??



Mz. Hyde gets a little help with her juice.

Juicy Boobday. My first thought was to pour wine on myself. My second thought was to have help! I have so much fun with #Boobday!
xoxo Mz Hyde

My orgasm made me cry.

I saw The Neighbor last night.

It’d been a while since we’d sat across from each other.  He’d taken up a lot of conversation when Ann was here and then emotional space when I saw his fancy black car speed off ahead of us on Sunday afternoon.  My gut had ached with sadness and loss.

Once alone Sunday night there was a thick stillness about me, about my life.  I went from full-throttle socializing to zilch, nada, nothing.  I felt hungover and desperately alone.  I contemplated texting him.  I contemplated texting the Bad Texter.  But a cooler head prevailed.  I sat with my sadness instead.

And then I sat with it Monday, too, sunken in my mattress surrounded by furry, sighing bodies until it was time to get my two-legged baby from summer camp.  Tuesday rolled around and I was bereft, like an empty cage I felt stiff and skeletal.  Then, yesterday, I went to a friend’s house to sit with her.  Something had changed with her live-in boyfriend, she said.  Sunday, out of the blue, he said he was moving into an apartment.  Monday she changed her will and is now waiting for him to get the rest of his things.

I remembered that feeling the morning The Neighbor told me, “And I don’t want to.”  Those 5 words that ended our relationship.  … and I don’t want to be with you, Hy.  … and I don’t want to be in a relationship.  Just like that.  But I’d known that was going to happen when he’d asked for a break.  Who ever recovers from a break??

So on my way to her house knowing I was going to learn something about the end of her relationship I caved and texted him.  A simple Hi, no punctuation.  Immediately he texted back, “Hey!”

We chatted for a bit and agreed we should see each other that night.  As I sat with my brokenhearted friend I thought about my own broken heart and the man responsible for it.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the 4 and a half months since we broke up, namely I’m capable of keeping my shit together.  After I left my husband I was sloppy, a wet dishrag of a woman.  This time, I was collected and focused.  I waited to date, albeit not long, but I am built for contact.  I wither away out of reach from rays of men.  Collectively, my experiences have been mostly good, but sadness courses through my veins nonetheless.

I’ve also learned that I desperately want to connect dots that might be better left alone.

The knock on my door made my heart skip a beat.  As always.

I opened the door and he smiled and we hugged.

“You smell really good,” I remarked.  “Is that the cologne I bought you?”

“It is.”

“Damn, I have good taste,” I quipped.  It made me happy to know he still wore it.

He declined the wine I opened and we went outside to talk.  We caught each other up and then I said, “So, I thought of you today.”  He looked at my quizzically.

“I used that giant dildo you got me and my vagina burned.”  His eyebrows shot up and we burst out laughing.  “That’s right, I don’t think you’re allergic.  I Googled it and apparently those jelly toys are basically poison.”

“Wow,” he laughed some more.  “Well, that’s nice to know!”

What I didn’t tell him was that I had cried while that giant, poisonous dildo was buried deep inside of me because it reminded me of him, of the way he would twitch inside of me as the Hitachi buzzed on top of me.  It reminded me of his scent and his warm skin, his lips on mine and the way he’d grip my breasts as I came.  I felt the tear slip into the shell of my ear the same moment the orgasm tore through my body and I sobbed with longing and loneliness.  My orgasm made me cry because I still love him; it’s a ghost limb.  A reminder of something that used to be.  It doesn’t exist today.

Watching him across the patio table last night I was reminded of all the other nights we’d spent like that as lovers.  How after a night like last night we would end up tangled in bed, sweaty and filled with lust.  Last night ended with a long, warm hug of promises to keep working on our friendship.

We struggle, but we keep plugging along.  It hurts him to know I’m dating, but he understands I no longer want to pretend that I’m not.  I will let him know if anyone becomes important.  He promised the same, though he hasn’t been out with anyone since our split.  Oh, how I wish I were more like him; to be able to be alone and safe for such long periods of time.

So we keep picking ourselves up and plugging along.  Laughing and learning and hurting and being angry at one another on occasion.  I think it’s worth it 5 out of every 7 days.  I guess those are pretty good numbers.

He’d scoffed a little when I told him how Amy and Tina were both still seeing their exes. “What?” I asked, “We still hang out,” I pointed out.

“True,” he said, “true.”  The big difference between The Neighbor and I and my two best-friends and their ex-boyfriends though is that he and I don’t have sex.  We have maintained that line and I am both proud and saddened by this.

He asked if we could hang out this weekend and I said we could.  I’m hopeful that last night relieved some lingering doubts I had clinging to me about our relationship, both past, present, and future.  I hope he’s hopeful.  And I hope that my ghost love for him won’t present any barriers too high to scale as I look for new love to fill my life.

Because I really do want love.




Send me your tits!  Tomorrow is Boobday!

Just a quick reminder for everyone that it’s that time again!

Theme is JUICY.  



Don’t do this.

Wanna get laid?  Don’t have a monologue with a woman and reveal your “emotions.”

Little backstory, this guy and I have not met.  He’s my age, has a Beemer (cuz he’s posed with it on Adult Friend Finder), and really, really wants to meet me.

I’ve explained to him multiple times that I am not free (Ann is loving on my dog as we speak after she helped me fold all my laundry – who’s the hostess with the mostest??), but he insists on nailing a day down.

And then he sends this:

This does not feel good, you guys.


These are the thoughts going through my mind.

I rarely do this kind of post, but seriously, people. I feel like this is a public service announcement: be reasonable, don’t cross the line, learn to recognize the line.

If I could teach a class on THE LINE I would.  You’d know how to flirt and tempt, challenge and attract.  You wouldn’t offend or turn off and you’d certainly never shut down the openness of a potential amour.

There’s a degree of natural talent to this, yes, but I think it’s mostly a skill that’s honed over time via trial and error.

Sadly, probably lots of error.  Lots and lots of error.

I exhausted Tinder.


Sorry, girl, Ryan Gosling is taken.

Apparently, when you’re a picky motherfucker like me, Tinder runs dry after so many “Pass” swipes.

Look.  I haven’t heard from the Bad Texter in over a day so I texted hello about 30 minutes ago (I also texted 6 other men).  Of the 7, 4 responded immediately.

Naturally, I only want one to reply, though I’m not sure why.  I’ll just be hustling in the inevitable.

When the stars align.

There’s an eerie balance to the universe.  One thing expires, another blossoms; a door closes, another one opens.  People who are closely bonded find themselves on similar cycles of mood, energy, menses, luck.

For me, the stars have been aligning, one by one, to bring me to my knees on the alter of Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass.

I’m finally admitting to myself that, yes, I want a relationship.  

A real thing to nurture and take care of.  I want to be fucking special to someone, not just a fun time — my fun bags be damned.

Admitting that is much harder than you might imagine.

To say I want to be loved shows you that I am soft where I wish to be hard, that I have a chink in my armor.  It means I will have to be honest for a change with both myself and the men I date because right now, I’m a giant liar.

“No, I just want something casual!” I might say laughing, which roughly translates to “I don’t need you to call me, to make plans.  I don’t need you to say nice things or let me know you care.  I don’t need to share myself with you in anyway because you are a blip on my radar, just one vessel of many in my dating sea.”  In other words, I pretend I’m self-sustaining And don’t give a fuck what you do.

But the truth is, I’m not and I do care.  I care very much.

My little relationship with the Bad Texter has taught me that I am capable of developing a connection outside a bedroom and though I wonder that he might not be a good candidate for me in the long run, I’ve decided to practice my truth-telling with him.

I will tell him I am looking for something real and that I’d like to explore that with him.  Because that’s actually the truth, crystal ball malfunctioning or not.

What that means is, I will say that I care about him and that my feelings are ripe to develop and that I want to explore them with just him.  

Well, to be more specific, I want him to date only me.  Baby steps, ok?  I don’t think I could put all my eggs in his basket.  Admitting I have feelings is big enough, thank you very much.

Then I will wait to see how he responds because there are only two things that happen when you tell the truth.  You either hear what you want to hear or you hear what you fear.

I suspect he will tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend at which point I will kiss him goodbye and thank him for our time together.  He won’t have any idea how his easy-going nature and focus on me helped put me back together, but I will never forget our brief time together.  

I’m tired of lying to myself and everyone else.  It’s time for the truth: I want to be special.

Next step will be to look for a man who thinks I’m amazing.