e[lust] #62 – What is “sex positive”?


Photo courtesy of Bawdy Bloke

Welcome to Elust #62 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #63? Start with the rules, come back October1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Sex Blogger Life: Real Talk <– Everyone should read Penny’s thoughts on this one

Selfies, Shame and Safety

‘Dress me like a slut and punish my cock’

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

I live in a sex-positive bubble. <– That’s me!  I’m so honored! 

Wicked Wednesday: Silent Memories


~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
Are you guilty of slut-shaming sex doll lovers?

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Writing About Writing

Why can’t I write gay erotica?!
Cream doesn’t rise: the state of UK erotica
Coming clean about writing dirty…
The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales

Erotic Non-Fiction

I’ve Collared Myself a Human Pony
Strapped Back In
View From The Bridal Suite
It’s a date (2/2)
Your Tears Make Me Wet.
Spanking – the ultimate mood changer

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Yes, I am a slut. So?
M feels that labeling myself “gay” erases him
“Appearance Not Important”
Traditional sexual consent vs bdsm consent
Bigger Doesn’t Mean Better!
All in One Person: Thoughts on Non-Monogamy
I Lust, Therefore I Am
Buddhism and Poly
The Great Outdoors
My Love Is Not About You #SameSexCouples
Thinking of You
Tantra Massage For Multiple Male Orgasm


Blogging: My Layout Pet Peeves
An Unpleasant Outing

Erotic Fiction

The Flight Attendant’s Return Home…
Kinky Cocktail Story Time: The Jelly Bean
Spanked Silent

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Quantification of Everything (Especially Sex)
Polyphobia – The New Homophobia


Thoughts and Advice on Kink and Fetish

For Submissives.
Protocols. I Want.
When You Can’t Trust Your Body
Masters Guilt
BDSM Is Not (the only) Kink


ELust Site Badge

I still miss Gillian: A post about community, acceptance, and art.

Certain kinds of people are attracted to the kind of blogging we do, our open sexual catalogs, real feelings, opaque details, fears of discovery.

We’re introspective and have things to say; we have a need to share and a reckless sense of hope that someone else out there might want to read what we have to say.

We crave acceptance and interaction, but are embarrassed to admit it.  I suspect we’re tender, creative, and equally shy.  We might might be wildly different in person, but one thing we all share is a need to connect.

Why not just write this all down in a journal?  Pulp and ink?  I’ll tell you why: community.

When I began blogging it was on a different platform many years ago.  Four, to be precise.  I barely remember the name of it, but I experimented with my anonymity.  I noted the sex and age of my child, for certain, and I even shared the URL with some of my lovers (Troy was a huge fan of reading about himself).  I might have even named my city and my profession.  Rookie mistakes, if you ask me.  I tore it all down when it stopped feeling like a safe place and for a few months I was blog-less, adrift.

I tried writing in my journal, the one I could cradle in my hand, but the words never flowed out of the pen-tip like they did out of my fingertips.

I decided to resurrect myself on WP and within weeks I blindly stumbled upon Gillian Colbert’s Black Door Press blog, a special haven of sex-positive, creative writers and journalists.  (If you Google it now you get nothing; enough time has passed that it’s slipped through Google’s fingers.  It’s just a heap of bones in my memory.)   There were people there who were cloaked in anonymity — just like me — for fear of losing their jobs or their husbands and wives, of being labeled a pervert, immoral or an asshole.

But something magical happened in her sphere: No one judged. 

Instead, we entered each other’s blood stream and felt the pain, the loneliness, the bleak and starving strains on the heart.  We cajoled, but were objective; we didn’t hold a punch, but we were quick to kiss and hug, make sure the other knew it was born out of love that we questioned this or that or stated clearly that it wasn’t for us.  We gave creative feedback on fictional works, played with each other’s art.

Gillian was the arbiter of it all.  She bore her soul to us like no one since or ever before.  I’d never seen anything like it.

She cracked herself open right down the middle and showed us all what she found to be the ugliest parts of herself and it only made us love her more.  It encouraged us to do the same: to be bold, honest, ugly as sin.  Fucking real and fearless because we knew — we knew – that no one was going to hurt us in our struggle, in our vulnerability and exposure.  It would not have been tolerated.  Period.

We were safe here.

Gillian was also a prolific writer.  Her internal schedule demanded that she write almost constantly. She had month’s worth of posts piled up and she once told me that whenever the comments began to pour in she never knew to which post they were responding.  It could have been something she’d written months before.  Yet they were always timely.  How did she do that?? I wondered.  I never learned the secret.

Her art was words.  She was a master and a clinician all at once.  A small-framed woman with a bob and a twisted mind who’d masturbate in the bleachers under a coat at her daughter’s soccer games.  She gathered us all up in her little arms and held us close and up to a standard I was proud to meet.  I was a member of this circle.  Not an elite one, but one that only required a desire to join and I was in.  I was so in.  I felt at home.

I participated in all the contests, the writing games.  Gillian came up with writing prompts, we’d pass around an erotic story and each add a paragraph and she’d publish the finished product.  She’d collect photos we’d submit — photos we’d never ordinarily share — and we’d play a guessing game. Who’s who?  No one had ever seen my smile before that game.  Only my tits and ass.

I want that back.  All of it.  Of course I want Gillian, too, but she’s slipped away into the ether, moved on to hopefully better things.  At least I met amazing, influential people through her black door.  Some I’m close with, others I admire from a distance, and some have followed Gillian beneath the dark waters of real life and blog-life expiration.  LSAM and Noodle, Nick (the commenter), Mike, too, Bi, Ginger and Cruel, Z, True, Cara, HH & Lo, AM, TheoJayne, Fay, Deviant Diaries, Cheating Whore, Gideon Jagged, Chris de Voss, Kyle Mew, Rincewind.  More whose names are escaping me at this moment — forgive me!!

Some have cryptic abbreviations in my head, others are fully named.  I don’t know what most of them look like or how they sound, but I know these people.  Their inner thoughts and turmoil, their humor, their lustful fantasies, their creative brilliance.  I know things about these people that they have yet to share with a real life person.  Others, through this community, have learned to open up and fold their two lives together.  Some continue to be artists of their own making weaving fantasy and truth with smoke and mirrors.  There’s also a lot of fun shit, light and free.

Those are just the folks I associate with Gill.  Since she left, I’ve met new people with new energy and without hesitation I can say that each one is another flower in a beautiful bouquet.  Everyone is still accepting; it’s like this inexhaustible reserve of love.  Where does it come from??

But before you think I’ve smoked some kind of hippie love bong and have lost my mind, not everyone agrees with me and my decisions.   I had many, many readers who thought The Neighbor was the devil incarnate and I should dump him, some think I’m a piece of shit for writing anonymously without consent, and still another wasn’t very happy with me for not talking to her first before I responded to a post of hers she had on a national platform.  By all means challenge me, but don’t judge me.  I may or may not end up agreeing with you, but that’s ok.  We’re not all the same person anyway, right?

Still: I feel accepted here and I like to think I’m diplomatic and open to all discourse.  Even if I come out on the short end and look a fool.  I’m not infallible; I’m just a writer.  Some folks aren’t going to drink my Kool-Aid.

However, because I experienced acceptance in the very beginning I continue to be free to be Hyacinth, separate from the woman I am in real life.  I don’t have to make sense.  I show my tits, occasionally my ass, I bitch and moan about my complicated relationship, I write erotica, I shout to the moon about being in love, I leave thoughts like droppings all over the internet, and I avoid the spaces where the tone is negative.  I don’t know the language of snark.  My inner compass rejects it, but I don’t reject the people who partake, I just steer clear and let them have their space.  I have my own, after all, and I use it for me.

This space, at once a playground and meeting place, is also a lens.  What I see in the bathroom mirror is vastly different than what my iPhone captures.  The community gets to see my frailty and responds with kindness because they know that being that kind of ugly couldn’t exist here.  There’s no oxygen for that animal in this place.  And I’m ok with being objectified because my sexuality is my own and it’s more powerful to have choice than be told I have none because someone might wank off to me.  Wank away, I say!  You have the same agency as I do, sir or ma’am!

Most revealing photo, yet.

Most revealing photo, yet.

If I had to guess, I bet that most of us want what I’ve described: community, acceptance, a place to do their art.  It’s within all of our reach, but we have to make it happen — it doesn’t just happen to us — and we don’t want snark or judgment.  That’s creative death, cheap thrills and empty wins!  We want love and respect, intelligent discourse, constructive feedback and thoughtful critiques.


LSAM, Cara, and Noodle wrote posts recently that reminded me of this.   Different takes on what seems to me to share the same heart.  If I may put words in their mouths: for LSAM she was close to Gillian and she has felt the cooling the most as Gillian’s sun faded away; for Cara she wonders where hers is; for Noodle she feels that our once tightly knit community has unraveled.

The enigmatic Gillian isn’t here to be our Bloggy Godmother anymore, so we’ve been rudder-less for two years — a freaking lifetime in Blogland — and while I believe it’s impossible to recapture that exact thing that she stewarded,  I bet we could come close if we tried.  It’s obviously not come naturally to me or anyone else to step into her shoes, but if we put our heads together we could patch it all back together into something just as wonderful.

Who wants to try?

I take a pic of him in the shower.

TN showering his hot bod

The Neighbor.

The Neighbor is a bold man, brave, loyal, and fierce.  He’s protective of my person and my people and he has a near zero-tolerance policy when it comes to betrayal.  He’s tough as nails.  A complete hard ass.  The toughest nut to crack I’ve ever known.  A true Cancer with his impervious outer shell and painfully soft insides.

And he’s beautiful, so beautiful.

The lines of his body are artful, yet utilitarian.  He doesn’t look like Michelangelo’s David, but if I had the skill I would carve marble of him for all to see what I see.  His symmetry, his densely muscled limbs, his compact virility, his cock, his bow-shaped mouth and pale blue eyes.

His male beauty is a departure from that image that leaps to our minds — cut, hairless, tall, thick-maned — but it is irrefutable nonetheless.  He walks with a slight bounce, his round ass pert beneath his denim, and his arms swing easily as though he were all alone.

I’d like to take all the credit, for having a good eye, but we are all only as magical as our muse.

TN looked surprised when I showed him this image I’d captured of him in the shower.  I’m certain he never saw himself this way, but it’s still him.  It’s still real.  It’s still beautiful and no matter what he sees, I see a David.


[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet BoyfriendAll photos have his approval before I post them.  As always, he's eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]



I can’t believe I’m almost 40.

Hy's birthday body

I’m not usually all that concerned with my age, but for the last 6 months or so I’ve been a little unsettled about turning 40.  NEXT YEAR.

I felt silly to be freaking out 18 months in advance about an inevitable, non-life-changing event, but I’m rattled.  IT’S FORTY, Y’ALL.

That’s the decade that before she hit the 50s Oprah declared as the best everrrrrrr!  It’s the decade when fuck ups and regrets should be fewer and farther between, when we are financially secure and responsibly planning for our futures, when we are in stable relationships.  But when I think of my 40s I don’t feel anywhere near those ideals.  And the frustrating thing is, I don’t know why I feel this way.  I never put those kinds of pressures on myself for my 20s or my 30s.  I did what I needed and wanted to do and didn’t look back.

Hy's birthday body 2

I can’t help but think the pain of the divorce and the almost constant fear of financial ruin hasn’t run its course with me; I am beaten down, tired.  I’m letting stupid shit get to me.  Like turning 39.

I should be thinking about what I’ve accomplished in the last 39 years, not what I haven’t accomplished before 40.

I was a talented athlete, healthy, and strong. I swam fast and rode horses like I was born on horseback.

I completed my undergraduate work in 4 years at a time when everyone was beginning to do it in 5.

I procured jobs that reflected my interests or my desperation: cocktail waitress at a titty bar, Gallup pollster, swim-instructor, office temp, working-student, lifeguard.

Hy's birthday body

I got a Masters degree and launched a new career; I own my own business.

I partied like I had two livers, did lots of drugs, drank too much, introduced myself to strangers and made friends of anyone who crossed my path. I fucked all the boys and girls.

I loved, I laughed, I cried.  I lost friends never to see or speak to them again; I made lifelong family out of some.

I attempted a relationship with my father, but ultimately failed.  When he was dying, we were there, I was there.  I sent him off to the other side knowing I had given him his final gift of forgiveness.  A ruse, but a gift nonetheless.

I moved my mother closer to me and struggle to redefine our relationship; I fear for her health and shoulder the responsibility of her care.

Hy's birthday body

I made a child, grew it within my strong and healthy body, and birthed a perfect human — a miracle that was.

I became a mother.  A mother of a sweet, precocious, whip-smart little person who challenges every stupid thing I know about how things should be.  Through Peyton’s eyes, I see a new world, a better one.

I got married, I got divorced, I continue to struggle with the disappointment of who I chose to marry, but I am finding new resources within me that are carrying me through.

I fucked and sucked with wild abandon.  I fucked in pools and cars, against trees, with multiple partners both men and women, on top of washing machines, and in elevators.  I opened myself up to a real kind of sex I’d longed for and only read about in romance novels.  I became my own heroine, my own protagonist.

Hy's birthday body

I found a love that appears to combine all that I’ve learned with all that I know with all that I aim for.  And his cock is the perfect fit.

I buried two beloved pets and felt the unique pain that their absence creates; I replaced them with new four-legged love and experience the unique joy their presence creates.

I began to write.  And write and write and write and I met wonderful people through my words and theirs.  We crossed oceans and continents and came together in a community of camaraderie and sex and writing.  I found my tribe.

I became ripe with sexuality and desire.  I am injured and in pain, yes, but it’s like the freckles upon my skin: I notice it, but I don’t let it change me.

I am lush with curves, not at all skinny.  I might even be considered plump by some.  I am 39 and I have yet to beat down my desire for a smaller body, but I finally no longer crave a size 8 body.  I am good with my size 10/12, my DD breasts, my big ass.  In my 39 years I have learned to detach this body from my self-worth.

Hy's birthday body

I am a good person.  I am  a sum of so many things.  I am flawed, overly-sensitive, sometimes too critical, but I am also loyal and giving, creative and loving.  I am proud of who I am, but still see many things to improve upon.  It almost feels like I’ve just begun living because now I know who I am.

Each morning upon waking I turn to see the sun rising above the hill to the east and I stretch and I think of how happy I am.  No matter financial or relationship worries, no matter at all.  I am filled only with joy and hope and a feeling of wholeness.  Maybe The Neighbor is beside me or perhaps Peyton, I could even be alone, but what is really lying next to me is my sense of blessings and luck.  Faisal’s purrs punctuate my morning thoughts like clockwork.

Hy's birthday body

I can’t believe I’m 39, but I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.   I think I’m gonna like being this old.

Friday, August 29th, is Boobday!


Boobday is a place for us to honor breasts of all shapes and sizes belonging to all types of folks. All of us who are the owners of breasts know their magical powers, but not everyone gets to hear it. I hope this will become a place of support and praise.

Ohhhh, it feels so good to be back, everyone!  I’ve been excited to launch the new monthly Boobday meme and am so grateful for all the gorgeous women who chose to participate this month.

Going forward, every last Friday of the month will be Boobday.  All the same rules apply, all the same time limits, etc., but there’s a new banner, so please be sure to grab it and update your blogs!  You can grab the html in my sidebar or just right-click and save my image above.

Here’s the official word on the new Boobday, much as I’ve stated before in my State of the Boob Union:

I want Boobday to be about the art of our bodies, not the hardcore sex lives we lead.  There are other weekly memes for that.

I want the focus to be on your bodies, not anything else, so clean off your bathroom counters and look for the good light!  I am the curator of this meme and I have a certain aesthetic I’m going for.  Not sure what I man?  Just check out the archives for guidelines.  I will veto pics that don’t fit:

I’ve said in the past that so long as there were boobs in the pic, I’d post it, but that’s changed.  I will only post pics where the focus is the woman, not the act in progress.  Even if that act is all about the tits.  If you are unclear what this means for a particular week and theme, email me and we can discuss!  

Themed pics will receive preferential treatment in regards to being posted.  I’m not saying you must do the theme, but if you can, please do.  And the themes will be easy-ish.  Some may be more challenging than others, but that can be fun!

So please make a sticky note of the following for future Boobday submissions.  This is what I need:

  1. an email with the theme name in the subject line

  2. an attached pic

  3. a sentence about why you chose this particular photo

  4. if you want to be anonymous or not

  5. a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)

  6. a hyperlink or URL to your blog post (if you have one and post, it must have my Boobday banner and a link back to me and only posted on the last Friday)

  7. make sure your phone and/or camera does not keep your location information! 

Emails sent to me with all of this info plus the theme will be given preferential treatment.  I will not look up links.

The next Boobday will be Friday, September 26th, and the theme – inspired by LSAM’s submission this month – is T-SHIRT.



My OPEN tits:

Hy in her sheets

NOT my OPEN tits:



@KaylaLords has been busy lately, but she sent us this old favorite.

This week, I’m flashing back (hehehe, I said ‘flashing’).


DAWN 082914 OPEN

Dawn searches beautifully for her light.

For once, I enjoyed being photographed rather than doing the selfie thing.
We took advantage of the slightly open blinds to play with the sunlight, how it warmed my nipples and tummy. It is quite a pleasant memory :-)


BECK 082914 OPEN

@BeckandHerKinks shows off a stunning satin bra.


TAMI 082914 OPEN

@KinkyBikerMom gets reflective.



I love this image of @MollysDailyKiss. It reminds me of a cat.

I love this shot not just because of the boob but also because you can see the whip marks lingering on my thigh and hip.


LSAM 082914 OPEN

LSAM before.

LSAM 082914 OPEN

LSAM after.

M likes the way my nipples look through my thin, 1986 t-shirt.



@SassyCat38 has a little nibble with her nipples.

Tea time!



Anonymous Blonde rejoins the busty meleé this month with some decadent lingerie.

Even though I don’t participate often I was so glad to see the return of boobday, that I strapped on a corset and took some photos. This celebration of the soft mounds has been missed.



Beautifully painful.


CARA 082914 OPEN

Cara (@thereon_cara) sent in two pics, but this one was by far my favorite. She called it “early morning shyness.”



Tis get’s all Andy Warhol on us.

 Me and my many moods for one set of boobs.



Sweet G resurrects just for us! She’s alive, guys!!



Elle #1.


Elle #2.

Coach got involved this time. Attached are some fun pics. My post has a short video. We had a great time just having fun. Good to have Boobday back.

HH was the very first person to send in a pic and screwed up and forgot to flag it!! Thank god he emailed me to point out my oversight!! So, here’s the bewitching Lo! Enjoy!


Masturbation is a sin.

In my worst nightmare, masturbation is a sin and I would be robbed of magical moments such as what I experienced this morning.

Naked and wrapped in my white sheets, I propped my phone up with one hand near my pussy.  I spread my knees and with my other hand I moved my little pink buzzing thing around and around on my plump, clean-shaven skin.

My phone, delicately balanced near the action, had action of its own flashing on the screen.  It was The Neighbor from almost two years ago; a video of him doing wonderfully debased, sinful things to himself.

Video #1 started off with him laying in his bed and when it panned down I could see him in a pair of my black lace panties.  I remembered the catch in my breath when I first saw it all those months ago, far away in San Francisco, it was the same this morning.  Video #1 ended with him taking an enormous erection gingerly out of the lace basket it’d been straining against.

I kept buzzing as I switched to video #2, the cat readjusted himself on the pillow above my head, I hit Play.

Instantly, I heard him call my name, “Hyacinth, Hyacinth, fuck me, Hyacinth.”  My arousal lurched forward and I slid the movie cursor back and listened to him call my name out over and over and over.

Hyacinth, Hyacinth, fuck me, Hyacinth.  Hyacinth, Hyacinth, fuck me, Hyacinth.  Hyacinth, Hyacinth, fuck me, Hyacinth.

I watched his hand blur and heard the telltale smacking sound of his arousal, my breath caught, my eyes closed.

One more quick rewind and I finally came with him.  Thick, milky jizz spurted out towards the lens and I cried out and arched my back.

I sent him a picture from my  morning and said I wished I could have sent him a picture of me masturbating to him jerking off.


Hy pleasures herself.

He suggested a webcam, but I just laughed.  I’d much rather have an extra set of hands in the room to help me capture a moment such as this.  Any volunteers??

I live in a sex-positive bubble.

Hy in a cardigan

I love the kitty bomb.

It’s recently come to my attention that I live in a bubble.  It’s a sleek, sex-positive bubble, shiny and open-minded, inquisitive and searching.  It doesn’t judge others, it doesn’t believe in “right” or “wrong,” and it certainly doesn’t try to categorize every little atom it comes in contact with.  My bubble believes that if it’s between two consenting adults who are exercising informed consent — no 16 yo in love with a 45 yo kind of thing — then I am all for it.  No matter if I would ever do it or not.

This means that I won’t judge an illicit affair between two adults, or a gang bang, or someone getting bruised and beaten, tied up and ravaged.  Or maybe it means I’m ok with a woman being hunted down by a group of people in the woods whilst half-naked or if another woman only has sex with the lights off and the covers on.  Go ahead, sniff panties!  Perhaps I’m on the side of the man who loves it when his lover straps a dildo on and goes wild on his pert ass and then they get up and make pancakes for their sleepy, chubby-cheeked children.  It could mean that I support waiting to engage in sex until marriage if that’s what they want.

I am accepting of transwomen and -men; I don’t need them to cut things off or add them for their existence to make sense.  It’s none of my fucking business and I count myself lucky that I don’t have to prove to anyone that I have the right to be me.  They don’t have to be straight or gay.  Their parts are theirs as are their lovers and they may mix and match and call it whatever they like.  Are they happy?  Are they consenting?  It may be diametrically different from my personal experience of my own body, self, and sex, but I will never feel that I am “right” and they are “wrong.”

I believe that sexual orientation is about love and attraction, not orifices; that women have the right to be frank about sexual health concerns.  We do not carry the onus of being polite.  Everyone gets to fuck, not just fit, pretty people.

Sex is noisy, sloppy, messy and as complicated as you let it become.  We can fall in love or walk away, but we have the ultimate choice as to how we approach it.  I forget sometimes that on some level my entire world is filled with basically like-minded people, but it isn’t reality for many.

For many more women sex and their sexuality is shrouded in shame, guilt, and a strange responsibility to live up to standards.  We have to search for our sexual organs and our desire — it’s so different for men, their penis begs for attention and exploration — and we’ve never been encouraged to do so.  I still cringe when I think about the “mirror challenge,” and I’m ashamed to admit it.  It’s not because I hate my vulva, but because I just never, ever see it.  It’s an alarming thing in a way, all the folds, the dusky pinks, the little hairs that I’ve been told aren’t supposed to be there.

Becoming sexual and owning it is a hurdle, a rite of passage in a way.  We have to remove the cloak of shame and own who we are sexually.  Maybe we’re kinky as fuck, maybe we aren’t straight, maybe we’re not cis, maybe we’re asexual, maybe we’re vanilla as fuck and monogamous to the bone, like an Emperor penguin.  Maybe we aren’t what we think we should be.

I should not want to watch porn with my boyfriend, I should love every position equally, I should not want to touch myself, I should not want to get sex over with quickly, I should want to masturbate, I should be able to take all of my lover, I should not have casual sex, I should not like anal sex.

I wish women thought, “Hey, my lover likes it, I like it, it has zero connection to my character and self-worth so I feel good about it.”

Can you imagine a world such as that??  I can’t.

Those of us who are open in these ways are characterized as outliers, freaks, even sex addicts.  Some couples who are hetero-normative and monogamous say that if we could fix what was wrong with us, then we could be happy like them, though really modern-day life doesn’t work that great for lifelong monogamy, does it?  Some of us don’t carry that penguin gene.

I’m upset that men and women, but especially women, carry such a burden when it comes to their bodies and their sexuality.  I wish I could invite them all to my bubble where they could see the endless possibilities, that they don’t have to jam themselves into any one box, that they have permission to be free to express themselves.  It’s what the last 150 years of industrialization has steered us towards: we no longer struggle to survive, now we focus on fulfillment and personal expression.  It’s a gift and a curse, depending on who you ask and who you’re surrounded by.

We have to be careful, curate the kinds of friends and life that fit us the best.  You guys are part of my gallery, carefully chosen energies, men and women alike, who support my beautiful bubble and challenge me in the best of ways.  I wouldn’t have such a clear sense of myself if it weren’t for this blog and the community it moves through.  I know who and how I am in relation to the outside world and I no longer carry doubts or guilt about my sexual needs and person.

I hope that with each post, no matter how erotic or high or low, I personify my joy in my freedom to be me and express myself; I hope that it inspires other women to discuss their needs and bodies and sex and to remove all judgement from the dialogue.  There isn’t only one right way to be.  There are endless ways to be. 

I never want to leave my bubble.



Don’t forget that this Friday, the 29th, is Boobday for August!  It’s an open theme, so get creative!

He’s funny and he’s hot.

The Neighbor and I have been on twinkle toes of late; the weight is gone and the heart is wide open.  I can only assume TN feels it, too.  I surely hope he does.

The other night as we cuddled and I lay on his soft belly we had the following exchange about something being ridiculous:

Me: That is ridick.

Him (in all seriousness): You should change your name to Ridick so that I can say I put the DICK in ridick.

I can’t tell you how his mind tickles me, his weirdness elates me.  I love his fucking dry sense of humor.

And then there’s his body.  His delicious, meaty, fruity-scented, hairy body.

In our conversations about vulnerability and trust he told me he was having a bad day when I asked him if I could share a certain photo of him and he said, No.  The image, to my eyes, was incandescent, luminescent.  His milky white body thick and stout like a farmboy is like the froth on someones lip from a cappuccino: I want to lick it right the fuck off.

Once admitting his human frailty, he said I could post it after all.  I was surprised, pleased, even a dash of proud.

I love this body.

TN milky white

Who wants to sip this tall glass of milk with me?

[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend.  All photos have his approval before I post them.  As always, he's eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]



I’m disjointed.


In so many ways I haven’t felt like me. I’ve been tired, angry, in pain, confused. I’ve been sucked dry of my passion and playfulness these last few months. I hardly ever masterbate anymore.

I no longer get excited about the thought of it; it’s far too much work. With the Hitachi dead, I am left with a tiny pink thing that buzzes. To call it a vibrator would be like calling a burro a Thoroughbred.

I have to carve out 10 minutes of my day versus 2 1/2. Sometimes even 15. I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but I rarely feel I have 15 minutes to simply lay still and touch my lips, arch my back, imagine mouths and cocks and breath and thrusts.

It’s too much work to feel good and so I don’t even try. I slip down a hidden path of apathy which if I look closely enough I can always find, like the last stashed cigarette in my kitchen drawer.

But I am losing something important: me. My apathy sends the wrong message. It’s not leisure, it’s misuse. I’m misusing my body. A strong, healthy, responsive body which rarely lets me down. I’m neglecting her.

I recently received a gift through my donation button, and to that kind soul I’d like to say that that money is going towards my Hitachi Magic Wand fund.

In the meantime, I’m going to get off the path I’ve been on and I’m gonna touch the shit outta myself.

I’m going to squeeze the handfuls of my breasts and moan a little. I’m going to pretend that you’re there in the room with me, your hands wandering over the planes of your body. I’m going to close my eyes and dip my fingers, listen for the gentle smack of moisture as my digits plunder my chubby little folds and hole. My teeny pink buzzing thing is going to sound like a little moped on my mound as I let my orgasm build and I think I can hear the catch of your breath from beside me. And then I’m going to cum and cry and clutch and fall back onto my pillows with a smile and a sigh.

That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop being disjointed.


Check out everyone else being sinful today!

Sinful Sunday

I’m feeling him again.

As he plunged into me as gently, yet deeply as possible, I felt his long, hot shaft more acutely than ever.  It was smooth and soft, yet full and stretching.  It felt like a cross between a hard velvet and thick, viscous cream.   I tried to articulate the sensation, but only pulled him closer to me and kissed his scruffy neck.  It had been 11 days since we’d last connected our bodies and in that stretch of desert pass I had seen mirages of separation, but now I’d passed through it and realized they were truly only visions, not reality.

I’m healing ever so slowly, but message received: there were toxins in me, and two nights ago they boiled inside of me.  My visions of separation did not make me sad; only the blissful nothingness of apathy touched me.  I told him I’d rather be alone that night, “sorry,” and after Peyton’s long lashes met chubby cheeks for the last time that day I went to lay on the couch, a frown carved on my face, but happy I didn’t have to pretend.

And then the phone rang.

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

I was 99% pissed that he was even trying to figure me out.  I answered anyway.

The chat was filled with long, awkward silences until I finally relented it’d probably just be better to face weird silences in each other’s company rather than on the phone.

He arrived with a worried look on his face and left with a smile.  I let something pass from my psyche that night which I had been holding close for too long: I’d felt like a failure that I couldn’t figure us out and I was mildly traumatized by a sense of mistrust which clung to him like the day-old cologne.

He admitted to being deliberately evasive sometimes with me and withholding all the facts, an old defense mechanism he’d used when living at home.  It was as if someone had released a hundred balloons from within me and as I let his words sink in I felt as light as those balloons.  That was what I haven’t been able to put my finger on all this time; he was being opaque, I wasn’t making it up.

I feel for The Neighbor’s plight with me sometimes: a data-, facts-driven guy with severe trust issues surrounding opening up dating a woman who’s highly intuitive and sensitive to her surroundings.  A different woman may never have noticed his little slights of hand — about literally nothing, I might add — and there would never have been a rift.  But alas, I’m me and there was.

The dodging he does is a limping vestige of compulsive lying from his childhood, something we do when we feel powerless.  Lying (and hiding) makes us feel like we have agency in a family in which we may have less than we should or want.  Grown ups do it, too for similar reasons (all things being equal that we’re decent folks and not out to hurt anyone), and sometimes even during times of stress.

In the end we decided neither of us wanted to give up.  We haven’t tried our hardest yet and we both believe that if we can figure out this “happiness” thing, then we’d have one helluva relationship on our hands.

The following morning I woke up and was sick again, but to a much lesser degree.  The emotional purge had the desired effect on my physical body as I’d hoped, I was healing a little faster it seemed.  Or not.  I suppose it makes no difference if there’s a correlation, except that one fed into the occurrence of the other.

When I crossed the little lawn and passed the building between us last night in the slightly warm dusk with my little overnight bag over my shoulder I felt light, excited to see his face.  The dread was all gone.

We went and ate dinner, me gingerly so, and I needed to lie down when we got home.  “I feel like a baby after a meal,” I said.  “I’m exhausted.”  He laid behind me stroking my side waiting for me to feel better.

The love I felt, the patience, the sweetness struck me.  I knew he felt better, too, from our little release the night before.  I told him to take off my bra and he fondled my breasts a little and I could feel my energy coming back a little.  I rolled onto my back and stroked his erection through his shiny, see-through underpants.

He was loving and gentle, made sure to touch me in all the places he knew I loved, his beard scratched my face and I inhaled his clean scent.  When he pushed into me I was still nervous about my belly, but she remained calm throughout and TN’s careful restraint was rewarded with multiple orgasms which surprised even me.

When we were done he lay to my left and my legs were hitched over his, his cock buried deep inside of me.  We lay like that for as long as we’d coupled talking.  “I love you, TN,” I said.

“I love you, too, Hy,” he answered.