The Soldier and I are reunited. [Final draft]

This is the final draft crafted from the rough I posted earlier.  I’m always interested in the process for other writers, so thought you guys might want to see how my brain works.

I took the rough cuts and fluffed out points I wanted to make, drew contrasts for emphasis, and tried to bring human elements to the interactions.  This isn’t an excuse, but I hammered out this “final draft” in less than an hour; I might be able to polish it even more if I gave myself more time, but I’m already late to arrive somewhere as it is. 

I think it’s enough for you all to see some of the process.  Let me know if you like this sort of thing or would want to participate in draft revision with me on the blog.  I think that could be a lot of fun!




Roughly a month after he disappeared The Soldier sent me a text.

“Sorry I was an asshole.”

That was a little before noon on a Tuesday.  By Thursday afternoon he was cumming down my throat.

Our original plan was for him to come and wake me up early Monday morning after I got back from Ann’s, a nice wake and fuck for the both of us, but at 6:59 am on Thursday morning I texted him.

“You know what I just realized?  My 1 o’clock meeting got cancelled…”

“Hmmm… what times specifically”

“I could be home by 1:30.  Gotta leave to get my baby by 2:40 haha”

“Hmmm….. I’ll see if I can get out”

And that was that.

I raced home from the office and knowing we were pressed for time I stripped down to my panties and donned a long, dark grey cardigan.  He gasped when I opened the door.  I gasped as he pressed past me clad in his dusty fatigues.

We turned to each other then and kissed like no time had passed.  Like he hadn’t hurt me, like I hadn’t struggled to make sense of the senseless.  He wrapped his arms around me and I lifted my face to his and let him melt into me and the last few weeks of silence disappeared.

“Hi,” I said into his mouth.


He smelled fruity and his short hair was crunchy like the boy’s hair I touched sophomore year of high school.

His hands slipped inside the cardigan and I moaned and arched against him and tugged his shirt out of his waistband.  He removed it altogether in one smooth pull and returned to our kiss.

I remember the first times I ever made out with a man and the revelry I experienced.  His height, his hard muscles, his foreign everything, including clothing.  It’s a point of pride that I can unbuckle a man’s pants with my eyes closed and lips locked on his, so I laughed when I had to break away to look at The Soldier’s gear.  The belt was buckled and velcroed shut.

He pushed my hands out of the way and deftly undid it.  I unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down past his hips.  My right breast fell exposed by my ministrations and he gently reached out and lifted the heavy flesh to his mouth.

The situation suddenly became real and we hadn’t left the foyer.

He sat down and struggled with the laces on his boots. The dog thought it was the perfect opportunity to get loved on and The Soldier laughed and pushed the wet nose away as he fumbled with the ties.  I stood impatiently wondering if this were even real.

When he stood me up four weeks earlier I was heartbroken.  Not in the devastated way I was left in by The Neighbor, but in a Fuck, I Missed Out On Something Great way.  Seeing him race to untie his boots at my feet was surreal.  And then he was done and lifting me up into his arms.

I sank down to his hips and gripped him with my thighs as he walked us back into my room, his mouth ground into mine and my heart slammed against my ribs.

My room was filled with light and I watched him roll a condom on and crawl up over me.  He pushed in and his diamond hard cock pricked me like a blade.  I came a little and trembled.

His mouth crushed down on mine and I held him to me; the cold chains of his dog tags pooled between my breasts as he rocked against me and I watched them swing when he pushed up to his hands and began to plow into me.  Standing, bent over, curled up like a ball.  He made up for lost time it seemed and I hung on to whatever I could grab for purchase and clenched and moaned and oozed and pooled around him.  My orgasms rolled one into the other as he took his cock out in hand and rubbed it vigorously all over my lips and slit and clit.

I gushed and spasmed as he watched me intently, his tattoos a dark and colorful pattern behind his lust.

I imagined the patron saint of soldiers at the end of his necklace smiling at us.

On my stomach, my skin pink from his touch, I thought of myself as his punching bag — his cock’s punching bag — or that my vagina had been very, very bad and needed to be told who was boss.

His hands gripped my hips and twisted the skin.  I moaned and cried and told the sheets to Cum, baby, cum!

Silently he shivered and held me to his hips and flopped down next to me.

He had to go in 15 minutes.

We talked about the last month, carefully avoiding the night he stood me up.  He’d been working every weekend in addition to his 40 hour work week and full time kid-duty.  I watched him watch the clock.

He got up to leave and stood facing the bed.  I rolled closer and took his wet, flaccid penis in my hand.  It throbbed a little, as if to gasp for air.

“May I?” I asked looking up at him.

“Be my guest.”

“I just want to…” I trailed off, “before you leave…”

My intent was to give his penis a goodbye kiss, not to delay his departure, but delay it I did.

He grew exponentially in my mouth and hand and I closed my eyes and let him stretch inside my warm, wet mouth.  I felt the curl inside and stopped.

“Too bad I can’t finish,” I said.

There was a long pause.

“What the hell…”

He climbed over me and laid down on the bed and I wedged myself between his thighs, took his hardon in my hand and dove down.

Little noises escaped his lips, a rare thing for him I think after years of sharing bunks in the Army and having two small children down the hall.  I increased my tempo, my suction, my grip and his thighs flexed, his hips lifted.  I switched pressures, returned to them, believed there was nothing on this planet but me and this fucking cock in my mouth.

His hands gripped my skull firmly and I gagged.  He was cumming, buried deep into my face.  I felt his heat hit the back of my throat and trickle down.  I choked a little and he released me moaning fully now.

I flopped next to him this time, my pillow swallowed my head as I had just swallowed him.  He got up and disappeared into the bathroom.  The faucet ran.

He returned glistening a little and apologized for having to run out.  It was 2:35.

As he got dressed and fought the dog off again; I put on a long black tee and panties.  I didn”t want this to end, but it had to.

We kissed where it started and I pat his ass as he walked out the door.  He chuckled and waved over his shoulder, his shiny sunglasses flashed at me not unlike the ones the boys wore in 1990.

I was glad he came back.


Hy black T


The Solider and I are reunited. [Rough draft]

I love to see a writer’s behind the scenes and rarely get the pleasure, so I thought I’d pull back the curtain a little on my own process for you all to see. 

I don’t fancy myself any good at fiction, but love the craft of non-fiction, weaving in facts with artistic nuance, a little creative license.  So here is the rough draft of my reunion with The Soldier back in early November.  We saw each other over a lunch break and I knew I wouldn’t be able to write it up properly so jotted down these notes later that night. 

I don’t know if they’ll all make a final cut, we’ll see (final draft is here).  In the meantime you guys can see some of what happens for me as I weave a narrative. 

Any questions or comments?  Want help with your writing?  Just hit me up.  I’d love to help out.  My favorite part of English class was being able to give productive feedback.  Makes me feel useful.




came to the door in his fatigues

i was in undies and a long cardi

we kiss hello, he loves it

we kiss more, he removes his shirt, i undo his belt (velcro/difficult), my breast is exposed

unlace boots, kiss kiss kiss

he picks me up and carries me into my room

laugh about condoms in the drawer – he counts them – makes a joke

i run out to grab my phone

i come back in

pushes me down on the bed, bent over, plays with my pussy, rolls on a condom, pushes in

diamond fucking hard

holy shit

we fuck standing up, then he lifts me up and onto my stomach, flips me over, holds my knees up, legs up, i cum cum cum, hypnotized by his swinging patron saint of soldiers, his tattoos

flips me back to my stomach

rails into me

for ever

he cums

we only have 15 mins until he has to go

we chat about what he’s been doing the last month – working non stop, weekends, too.  he’s so pretty

he stands up to leave, he looks beautiful

i lean over and take his cock in my mouth, explain i just wanted to before he had to go.  it got immediately hard

i sucked more.  i was curled on my side.  rigid, looked up at him, said it was too bad i couldn’t finish.

he paused, says, what the hell…

he lays down and i dive down.

can feel his thighs flex and tense.  i switch up pressure and suction and then he grabs my head and pushes me down as he cums deep in my throat.  i choke a little.  he moans, makes sounds.

i flop next to him.  he asks to use the restroom and apologizes as he goes.  comes back, wiped down.  we get dressed.  i put on a long black t.  he fights off the dog to lace his boots.

we kiss.  we kiss again.  i pat his ass as he leaves.


Friday, November 27th, is Boobday!


It’s Thanksgiving week and I’d like to tell you all again how very thankful I am for each of you.  For the women who participate in Boobday, for the readers, friends, and lurkers.  I do all of this because I think body positivity, a healthy self-esteem, and the right to express it any way we choose are important.  It’s turned my life around and I’m proud to steward it for everyone else.

It’s been a great week; I feel blessed and focused and ready to take on the world.  I wish you all the same!



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either be one of the first 3-4 people to submit a pic OR (OR, not AND) 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:

Hy loves the 49ers

I just love the Niners.

NOT my tits:

KIM 112715

Kim gets nice and sticky!

ooops, I messed……whose got a sweet tooth?!?


SANDY 112715

Sandy’s curves go for dayzzzzz.

Post workout boobs.



Anonymous Aussie and her beautiful tits and locks.

The thought of you sprinting up the stairs, blonde mane swishing, this one’s for all the blonde manes out there. xxx

Be sure to check out all the other gorgeous ladies this week by clicking below and leave lots of comment love!

Sometimes you have to climb the stairs twice.

Hy heartbroken in TN's underwear

Forty-one weeks ago I didn’t know what would become of us. Today, I know.

By now he’s climbed the three flights of stairs and found the brown paper bag at his door.

On top, neatly folded, is his Iowa sweatshirt.  Beneath it: a bag of his sex toys and lube, 20 or so movies, a blue patterned plate, a blue plastic cup, three pairs of socks, and one pair of underwear which I wore when he had asked for a break from me.

I curated this bag of things carefully; it’s all his.  Not gifts to or from me, nothing sentimental.  I briefly included the black velvet ribbon we used to signify I was in charge and our last dominoes score card he’d signed because I’d won, but I pulled them out.  The score card got tossed and I’m saving the ribbon for the next man.  It was always mine.  This is a simple return of goods.  I am not in that bag.

A week ago tonight I went to the gym to catch my favorite class.  It’d been a few weeks since I’d gone, but it’s like coming home.  The regulars say Hi, the instructor teases me, pushes me to limits I didn’t know I had, and the familiar smell of old sweat and disinfectant signifies it’s time to work.

I’d brought The Neighbor there with me long ago.  He’d quit his gym, joined mine, and began coming to this class with me.  We stood side-by-side for a year, to the instructor’s right, close to the mirrors.   Eventually he stopped coming with me, but I’d kept on and remained in my spot.  Cee-Cee knew I was “Hy on the Right.”

I walked in and caught a glimpse of a man with a familiar build on the far end of the room.  Pale, beardless, bald.  Surely it wasn’t…

“What are you doing here?” I asked stupidly.

It’d been two months since I’d seen him last.  He looked like a ghost: whitewashed without his dark beard, his light eyes bled into his impossibly light skin and shiny white skull.  “Um, working out?”

I was nervous.  We maneuvered around each other, got our gear.  I wondered if he’d set up in his old spot.

I dropped my things and looked behind me.  He was in the other half of the room.  With a woman.

They stood close to one another and talked familiarly, as couples do in the awkward fishbowl of a room filled with mirrors and strangers.

I looked around them.

Their steps were set up of identical heights (two higher than he used to use, but the same amount as hers) and they were set closer together than what non-couples typically do.

I felt like throwing up.

She was roughly my height, slightly slimmer build, small breasts.  Her dark hair barely shoulder length, her eyes brown.  Nondescript.  She’d make a good spy.  When she passed me once in class she looked through me as though I were just any other class member.

I spent those interminable 45 minutes hidden behind a dozen people away and one row up, though regrettably not far enough away to miss that when he should have faced my half of the room to do exercises he instead chose to face her.  The one kid in the marching band who’s lost his way.

After class she waited for him and as I left the room and walked out the front door he was waiting for her as she loitered around a display.  As I drove out of the parking lot I saw them talking near some cars.  Thelonious Monk spattered on my stereo as if to remind me of breaking glass.

I could hardly breathe.  My mind reeled  The code did not compute.

My phone chimed.  It was him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be going to that class!  That was a one time deal for me – just wanted to see it again”.

I didn’t respond.  I haven’t responded.  I’ll never respond.  Fuck you.

He is now in possession of what belongs to him, as am I: I have my heart and a little dignity.  His text sorta kinda apologizing without saying the words sent a message: Hy, run.  Run as far away as you can get from him, from this hurt.

This morning I set the grocery bag in my passenger seat and took Peyton to school then went and worked out.  When I got back home his car was gone.  I climbed to the third floor and set it in front of his door.  The cologne I’d bought him lingered in the cold foyer.

I set a little note on top, “Just the last of your things” it read.

On my way back down I felt the prick of tears.  I swallowed and sat in the car, drove up the hill and continued to sit outside my building.

After almost exactly 10 months since he ended things and 14 months after I should have, it was now finished.

I walked up to my apartment and sat some more.  I sat for hours not moving or thinking.  Heavy, worried, I felt disconnected from the process in general, like I was watching from the outside, peeking in through my own windows.  Something didn’t feel right.

It was time to get Peyton from school, but before I drove through the gates beside his building I detoured and double-parked in front of his stairs.  I ran up, two at a time.  The bag was still there, though the air was clear of his cologne.

I grabbed the crisp piece of paper off of “Iowa,” and turned on my heel.  Instantly, my face broke into a wide grin.  I bounced down the stairs, the sun on my face.

Striding to my car I crumpled it and let it drop to the grass, defiant.  A reminder, like bird shit on a window, that even if you forget they’re there they’ll still do their bird thing to survive.

Finally, I felt light.



Friday, November 20th, is Boobday!


Another long, long week.  Shit happened, feet were placed in front of one another, rosé was had in large amounts.  I’m just glad it’s fucking over.

I’m creeping up on 30k followers on Instagram, too.  Kinda fucking crazy, right?!  Don’t they know I’m not all that cool?  I’m just a 40 yo single mother of average height with an average body and an obsession with sharing pics of my body — I will admit to having a way with words, though.  I’ll take that much — but that’s not what IG is about.  It’s just an odd thing, ya know??

Also, I have so much to say and hope to get a lot of it out of me this weekend.  Sometimes the torrent is its own weird writer’s block.

Lastly, have I mentioned how much I love you guys??  Well, I do.  Truly.  Thanks for supporting me and everyone else who participates in Boobday.

This week we have all returning participants: Kate, Kim, Miss Silla, and Sandy.  They’re a beautiful representation of how different and uniquely sensuous we are.  Enjoy, boob lovers!!



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either be one of the first 3-4 people to submit a pic OR (OR, not AND) 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:

Hy in the bathtub

Last night I had my own Netflix and Chill.

NOT my tits:

KATE 112015

I love anything that makes me look harder and Kate’s nailed it.

Hope you enjoy my barely hidden boobs today! 😀
KIM 112015

Kim from South Africa has a suggestion for us, except I have no idea what it is.  Do you?

Ladies, give this stuff a try……’s amazballs 😉



I wonder if Miss Silla deliberately captured the ball at the end of her piercing and the pearl at her throat. Stunning.

Summer has arrived down under!
SANDY 112115

Sandy is bursting out.




Click below to see who else is playing along this week and please be sure to leave lots of comment love! It can be scary to put yourself out like this!:

e[lust] #76

Elust header

Photo courtesy of Charlie in the Pool

Welcome to Elust #76

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 #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Sex and the post-birth vagina

Lonely Things

Just the two of us


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel…

I have fallen in and out of love with myself


~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

I had An Abortion

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!


Erotic Fiction

The End of the Run
Ladies Who Lunch
kink of the week: dirty panties
Brutal Nights
Because I Knew I Shouldn’t
Erotic Fiction: “Everything”
Look, Don’t Touch
As one night ends…
String Quartet
Unmasked: Part 1: The Gift
The Secret Rolls

Erotic Non-Fiction

The lick of love.
Tickle & Tease
Oral Sex, Don’t Forget Oral Hygiene – Whoops!
Feed my senses
Camming With A Foot Lover
Finding the Edges
Word power
The Mail Room
Doing It Herself

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

I Had An Abortion
The 7 Dimensions of Cock

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

When I Thought the Scene Was Done
Introducing the Abject Kitten, Part 2
The Joy of Fear
Talking About BDSM With Your Therapist
On Denial (and topping from the bottom)

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

I Did It My Way
Fuckin With Fuck Boys Part II
You don’t need my permission to fuck my lover

Writing About Writing

The Hunt for Adult/Sex Friendly Businesses


ELust Site Badge

I am lustful.

It crawls through my veins like poison, this burn, this viscous lust.

Once a month at the trough is a cruel joke.  Three times in a lone weekend whips it into a frenzy.  It is not slaked.  I am an ocean with no shore, my waves crash against nothing.

I am untouchable in too many ways.  I haven’t thought of him in days, weeks maybe.  Too many hours I’ve forgotten what I wanted with him.

Closeness, to breathe his breath, to hold my hand on his warm, broad chest, the spring of curls beneath my palm to softly remind me of our differences.  To awaken with the sun caressing his face, his icy blue eyes softly gazing at me behind his lashes, our days laid out ahead in a lazy trail of orgasms and fucking brunch.  To feel the sandpaper stubble of his shaven head and the odd giddiness of adult love.

His absence has allowed for light, but I choke on my independence, my fear of that same closeness I longed for with him.  I am at once repelled and drawn toward the false hope of intimacy.  I want to argue, but have no one to rail against.

I taste my thirst for a man in my tears, in the wetness between my legs.  It spills out of me, this urge to put another human being deep inside of me, to lose myself in the power of his drive, the punching of his hips.  I drown in its depths, even as it singes the pathways to my heart.

Please, someone, put me out of my misery.

Take it.


Click the lips to see who else is playing along for Sinful Sunday:

Sinful Sunday

Friday, November 13th, is Boobday!


I’ll admit it, I forgot about Boobday again.  I’ve been recovering all week from my trip last weekend and going to bed at 9 or 10.  It’s been great, though not all that productive.  I woke up this morning and thought, “Holy shit!  Boobday!” and jumped right on.  Sorry, ladies!

This week we have a lot of variety, which just makes my little heart sing.  IG 47 has returned with the last of the pics she submitted to me.  Maybe we can get her to send more?  In addition, we have a new participant, Miss Smilla (yay!), and a returning one, [Can’t remember if she wants to be anonymous or not] (yay! again), and dear, sweet Kim from South Africa.

As always, thank you for sharing your amazing bodies with us; you are helping women all over the world to learn to love their shapes and sizes just the way they are.



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either be one of the first 3-4 people to submit a pic OR (OR, not AND) 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:

Hy in a classic pose

I’ve been DMing a young man from a big city lately and I often wake up and think of what he’s doing. This morning I caught him just out of the shower and his sexy post-shower pic inspired me to turn the lights on and take some of my own.


NOT my tits:

IG FRIEND 111315

IG 47 has quickly become a favorite around here. Gee, I wonder why?

Oh and I think I’m supposed to tell you why I’m sending you my boobs… hmmm… I love my boobs and I’m wanting to share small breasts to help you give more women confidence that tiny (and old) can still be sexy! I’m 47 now, but these boobs are 46! Lol!



This is Miss Smilla’s first submission and, well, as you can see it’s fucking fantastic. The red of the choker, the lipstick, the aubrun hair all on this pale, beautiful body. Well done and welcome!

Hallo ladies and gents. This is my first boobday appearance and I’m feeling both bold and shy. These boobies are Polish-Australian, they love sports bras and salty water and yeah…they’ve been a bit bad!


?? 111315

I love how her breast is so inviting, I literally want to crawl through the laptop to get to her. This is the friend of ours whose name I’m not sure is anonymous or not.

I’ve been missing for a while. Life stuff  – good and bad. These things happen but I’m back. I’m back with my breasts that have, since last time I wrote, been touched by another man for the first time in longer than I can remember and all while my husband watched!


A little squashed boob for y’all!

I don’t care if you have a wife or girlfriend.

Monogamy is an old construct based on a patriarchal tenant to track ownership of property, which has now become a belief system about love and sex and a strict set of rules of operation for life with someone.

It’s also basically impossible to maintain over a lifetime.

I grew up with the idea that I would find a man who would fill all the gaps in my life that I couldn’t fill on my own.  He’d be a compliment to me as a grown woman, he’d support me in my endeavors to reach my goals outside of him and I would do the same.  We would understand when the other needed time with friends or to immerse ourselves in our own careers.

Even with this understanding that we would each need many to feel fulfilled in most aspects of our lives, I also understood — without a shadow of a doubt — that I could only actualize my sexuality via him and him alone.  Where I could turn to the world for everything else, sex was strictly off limits.

Maybe I have it wrong, but here’s how I perceive our basic, mainstream monogamy today:

It is unacceptable to:

  • have non-professional contact with anyone but your partner – this includes emails, texts, sending photos, and touching
  • speak in a sexual manner to a non-partner
  • look appreciatively at anyone who is not a partner
  • have sexual, lustful thoughts about someone else
  • have desires for any of the above

There’s that old cliche, often drunkenly delivered by a bro in the wedding party, that sums it up pretty clearly: Marriage is basically like eating steak and only steak for the rest of your life.  And it is if you try to follow the rules most of us know about, but then we wake up one day and reality takes a shit on our dinner plate.  Oh hi, Reality.  Is that you?

I can’t quite figure out why, when it comes to sex, we close the shutters like we do.  Why are our partners not allowed to even talk to another woman?  Or think about another man?  Or engage in a dance of wits and sexual energy?  Is it all the fear of our partner fucking someone else?  Of loving another?  Of being left?

I’m not at all saying the answer to our monogamous society is polyamory or open relationships (those are as difficult in their own ways to navigate as a monogamous relationship, for the record), but I can’t help but wonder if we aren’t making our relationships all the more impossible because our expectations are completely outer limits.  Why not attempt monogamy, but understand your wife really needs for other men to get off to pics of her naked body or that sometimes your man needs to jerk off to a real live woman who thinks he’s available?  All while trusting no one will abandon anyone.

I’m thinking about this for a number of reasons.  First, because some of you have shared with me that you think The Soldier might be married.  His unwillingness to share his last name, his disappearance, his general unavailability.  It’s raised flags for some of you.

Second, an old lover messaged me a couple of weeks ago.  When we did our little naked dance 5 years ago, he was dating a woman and lived with her; it was very serious.  Today, they’re married.

And third, there’s another man, a tall, green-eyed fella who duped me into thinking he was single.  After our date, on a grey rainy morning, he texted me his confession.  I felt like the rain streaking my bedroom windows were my hopes of an “us” symbolically slipping away.  We met later that night to hash it out and as it turned out, to make out some more.

The thing of it is, I’m not out to wreck homes, but neither am I out to tell people what to do with theirs.  I know how hard monogamy is, I know how painful it can be to leave, and if I can provide some kind of respite, then I am happy to play along.

I’ve never known anyone, man or woman, who breaks a promise just for the thrill and not a greater gain: the ability to stay in a sexless marriage, the resolve to keep the status quo, the strength to stand a failing relationship, the stamina to wait until the nest is empty.

There might be better ways of handling feelings of neglect, anger, or desire than turning to someone new in secret, but I get it.  The problems of a relationship might seem simultaneously insurmountable and precious.  No one wants to walk away from a stable home just because his wife won’t suck his dick anymore, but the dick must be sucked, figuratively speaking.  Everyone’s dick must be sucked.

When I’ve cheated it was while under the influence of alcohol.  In my 20s, belly-scorching Southern Comfort would strip me down to deeply suppressed feelings of dissatisfaction and twice I found myself writhing on the dance floor with strange men who were neither of my boyfriends at the given time.

In the following days I contemplated my actions, which had been a surprise to even me.  I didn’t confess, I didn’t even feel all that guilty.  The men whose mouths I’d latched onto were irrelevant, already forgotten specters in my cloudy thoughts.  What was important was that I had been compelled into their arms by some unseen force, my sub-conscious.  It was telling me I wasn’t happy.

That sub-conscious muscle is what propelled me into the arms of another man while I was married, too, and it was impossible to ignore.  It forced me to review my misery to a life-altering degree.

Without telling my husband what had transpired between me and the other man, I described my heartache, my sadness, my complete unhappiness in our marriage.  We even briefly opened up our marriage, but had the disastrous rule of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, which felt disingenuous and wildly impractical.  I spent most of my time hiding my texting activity and arranging trysts.  It was exhausting.

Technically, I have cheated — the Rules of Monogamy say I have — but I have never had to look at someone and see the hurt in his eyes or watch his heart break.  Even knowing the technical definition, I was still able to do some emotional gymnastics in order to believe that maybe I didn’t really cheat-cheat because it wasn’t with my vagina.  Is a slut a slut if no one is there to judge her?

My stumbles outside the cinched belt of monogamy were basically in the dark.  The boyfriends likely wouldn’t have been too pleased, but I’d have defended myself vociferously that it was just a drunken night.  Certainly my husband would have had serious grounds for seismic outrage.  I count myself as lucky that a) no one witnessed my mistakes and b) I didn’t wait for them to become even bigger and either ended the relationship or attempted to fix it immediately.

This entire blog is based on my set of sexual morals which are loose compared to the majority, therefore none of this may come as a surprise to you.  The fact that I am apologetic towards those who cheat and also engage with it on the other end means that I accept a broader understanding of what a person might need in life and that sometimes we’re forced to find it outside of a partner.  And I don’t judge.

It also means that I don’t feel any kind of responsibility to police a relationship.  As I told the tall, green-eyed man, “I don’t mind being with you, but the second I get a whiff of drama about this, I’m out.  I don’t want your girlfriend to know I exist; it’s your job to use me to better your life, not fuck it up.”  He understood and agreed.  We’ve yet to engage in anything beyond some cum art on my tits, but I’m open to more.

And if The Soldier has a wife, well, I assume he has his reasons, too, and if our lives remain in positions to benefit from our knowing one another, then great.  If not, peace out.

The married man, the one who was attached 5 years ago, has long used other women to supplement a sexless, neglected life.  When I asked him why he didn’t just leave her he said he loved her and felt he could get his needs met this way while still building a life with her.  Ok, I’m in.

I have some rules that help me decide what to do:  1) He may not talk shit about his woman.  Ever.  2) Finding outside companionship can’t be in retaliation.  I’ve turned men down because they’ve called their wives prudes, frigid, and cows.  How dare they.

I don’t want to split hairs with anyone on this; I know lots of people might think I’m depraved, a bad woman, a scourge on society.  If he’s married, he’s off limits, right?  But I am dissolute, truly.  Some people are very black and white, but it’s a black and white that resembles prison bars, not a Hitchcock movie.  There’s no tension, plot, or climax.

Maybe people wouldn’t hide and sneak around if they were allowed to be a fully sexual person within parameters everyone felt comfortable with and agreed to.  An understanding that not just one person could possibly fulfill the endless depths and needs of a single individual.  A regard for your partner’s needs, both physical and emotional, in an honest and open way.  Being forced to break your vows in order to survive a relationship is a heart-crushing process; we do it to find peace, not to maim.

If you are lucky enough to find that person, then I applaud you, but for the rest of us, we need more than just the one and we need the freedom to find it.  If we did, no one would be accused of cheating, they’d just be living.


Chemistry is non-negotiable.

Hy in a striped dress 2

Friday night stripes.

I’m 30,000 feet in the air on my way home from Ann’s and I’m fairly certain of three things: 1) vacation dick is pretty great; 2) cheese and more wine, while pleasurable, does not cure a hangover; and 3) I can’t remember a third thing because numbers 1 and 2 have pretty much taken all my brain power and life force.  I’m sure I’ll think of it at some point.  [Ed. note: It doesn’t happen.]

I could give you a blow-by-blow of my weekend with the ever gracious Ann, but if I jumped into that I’d be missing a bigger, more important theme of my time with her: chemistry — between friends and lovers — and how it’s actually non-negotiable.  You can’t turn it up or down, it just is or isn’t.

Ann and I have good chemistry as women, as friends.  Apparently, I had pretty great chemistry with the man she calls “Shenanigans.”  I also got to see first hand the effortless chemistry between her and a man she can’t explain, Tony.  And last night she invited two of her friends over for a night of drinks and chatting and those women also clicked seamlessly into the tapestry of our weekend.  Again, more good rapport.

Being so charged with chemistry this weekend has made me contemplate who and what I am as a person.  How am I perceived?  What is my impact on those around me?  Should I be more careful?  How do any of us ever find one another?

I arrived Friday afternoon still covered in the sweat and bodily fluids of The Soldier.  He’d come over Thursday when I discovered a free hour in my day.  He’d plunged into me and dripped sweat down on me as he rode us both punishingly over the edge.  We rested, talked easily, and as he was getting up to leave I put him in my mouth and let him bury himself into my skull.  When he came, I felt his semen hit the back of my throat and relished the feel of his hands on my head holding me to him.

I didn’t want to wash him off of me and so I didn’t.

Driving home to Ann’s she laid out our plans for the night: we had tickets to an art show of some kind, a little free time to grab a drink somewhere, then we were hitting a club.  Tony, her on/off again amour wanted to meet us for the drink portion.  I realized then the evening would require I wash The Soldier off of me if I were to be in polite society.

As the night wore on and the purple, pulsing lights cast eerie shadows on the club walls Shenanigans, an old lover of Ann’s, continued to text her from an earlier chat they’d had in the week.  She wasn’t the least bit interested, I imagine still on the high from holding Tony’s hand in the fancy hotel bar we’d met him in coupled with just a basic disinterest, but I insisted that he come over and hang out with us.  I had no ulterior motives other than just wanting to meet as many people in Ann’s world as possible.  And so he did.

By the time he arrived, however, Ann was worshiping the porcelain Gods.  I went to let him in and was surprised by how good-looking he was.  Tall as all fuck, scruffy looking in a boy-next-door kind of way.  I knew virtually nothing about him, despite her writing about him over the past two years; he seemed like such a peripheral character, I never bothered to give him my full attention.  Plus, shenanigans.  I don’t have to read about a fella to know if he’s earned that moniker.

He followed me up to the living room and I went to pour him some wine while Ann continued to die somewhere around the corner behind a closed door.  She soon went upstairs to rest.

We followed her and lay in her bed congenially until I playfully convinced him to take his pants off in front of us at which point his strip of Magnum condoms were revealed.  I’m fairly certain that secured the evening for me.  And for him.

I took his hand and led him out of Ann’s room, down the stairs and — he told me later — pulled out a great big cock and did what I love to do.

Sometimes I forget that this isn’t what normal people do.  

Most people don’t travel thousands of miles to visit their girlfriend and then end up sleeping with an old lover of theirs.  They don’t fuck on purple leather couches in the open.  They don’t fuck in their friend’s son’s beds.  But, I guess that’s the kind of person I am.

Shenanigans peeled off my dress and fondled my breasts.  He pulled me up to standing and reached for the condoms while I rolled down my stockings.  We kissed again and I felt his erection bob between us, its hard heat far above my bellybutton as he towered over me.  He roughly turned me around and pushed in.  I held onto the back of the couch and marveled at how we somehow fit even with more than a foot’s difference in height between us.

My breasts swung and I felt an orgasm come up and over me, juices trickled down to disappear at the bones of my ankles.  I briefly thought I was glad I wasn’t soiling Ann’s pretty rug or couch.  At least I wasn’t that impolite.

Time and space stood still.  I wasn’t far from home, I wasn’t in someone else’s living room, this wasn’t someone else’s man.  I was just this seething mass of nerves and drive desperate for release and he was the conduit.

He sat on the couch and I climbed up on his lap and sunk down.  His pale skin was illuminated against the dark purple leather, his cock buried up to my sternum.  He latched onto my breasts and squeezed them.  I faced the staircase behind him and saw Ann’s feet, then legs, then drawn, tired face.  She smiled and paused next to us.  I continued to move on Shenanigans, just a little, as she and I exchanged pleasantries the equivalent of which would be “Hey, girl.  You good?  Good.  Later.”

She padded past us to the kitchen then back up the stairs.  We didn’t see her again until morning.

Alone again we laughed at having just been interrupted and turned back into each other.  He picked me up and I kept my legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked me while standing in the middle of the living room.   An odd sight we must have been, I thought.  My long hair draped across us both and he seemed not to exert himself at all as he pumped against me.

I felt like a kid in a candy shop, frankly.  Free and wild to be me.  He came and let me loose and we wandered naked upstairs where I put my pajamas on and crawled into a little boy’s bed and pulled this giant stranger in after me.  I fell asleep instantly.

I don’t have a recent memory of waking up with a man.  I don’t do that.  I steal moments from busy, scheduled lives, or I run out as soon as we’re done.  It felt oddly normal to wake up next to Shenanigans and oddly normal still to let him push into me, his mouth on my neck and lips.  I couldn’t stifle a  laugh when guilt washed over him.  “Man… we’re in her kid’s bed,” he said.  I told him to close his eyes and not think about the stuffed animals.

My eyes were closed, too, thinking about the treat between my legs.  The great big athletic man rocking away into me as 8 am peered in at us.  He was getting close, he said and I told him to cum all over me, anywhere, everywhere.

He pulled out and laid ropes of pearly semen all over my belly and tits.  We marveled at his artwork and regretted not snapping a pic.  We were both too lazy to get our phones.  I was probably still drunk.

I laid there for a few minutes and blinked, reality slowly creeping in while Shenanigans was having reality crashing down hard on him.  I mean, the guy ostensibly came over to fuck Ann, but he ended up with me.  He didn’t know she couldn’t care less about what we’d done.  He was agitated and fidgety.  “I’m going to go talk to Ann.”  He pulled on his underwear and left the room.

I got up and did my morning ablutions then knocked on her door.  He was sitting on the edge of her bed looking uncomfortable.  I crawled in next to her and told him to relax.  “Tony’s bringing us lattes,” she said.  “One for Shenanigans, too.”

I took him downstairs to leave poor Ann alone until our coffees arrived.  He was nervous.

“Who am I?” he asked.  “How do I explain why I’m here?”

I told him Tony wouldn’t think twice about him, that he’d assume I’d pulled him in off the street and we’d fucked.  I couldn’t convince him, my words were useless, so instead I undid his pants and pulled him out.   He was hard again and I could taste me on him.  He was more fun with his lips sealed.

I licked his warm balls and tongued the smooth patch of skin behind them and dove down onto his shaft until he came with a deep, long guttural moan. He held me to him the exact same way The Soldier had 36 hours earlier.

He didn’t mention Tony again and when they met a few minutes later he fell over himself to explain that he was my friend.  Tony didn’t notice as I’d predicted.

I walked him downstairs, told him this might be goodbye forever, hugged him and shut the door.  I didn’t see him again.

Back upstairs, Tony had let himself up to Ann’s room and was laying under the covers beside her.  I sat at the foot of the bed while Ann rested her head on his chest and he pet the curls at her temple.  We joked like old friends and I surreptitiously watched them interact as I regaled them with my tall and sexy tale from the night before

After hearing from her for so long the somewhat torturous entanglement they’ve had I could see why she always wanted more from him.  He’s sweet, yet different, quirky; his words tumble out of his mouth with a child’s exuberance; he’s bold and bright.

He’s driven and can become hyper-focused; if she’s out of sight, she’s also out of mind, though not in a callous way.  He cares about her.  I imagine it’s much how a lot of men I’ve known have been: The Neighbor, The Soldier, countless others easily forgotten. The difference, though, between the forgettable ones and the memorable ones isn’t the effort they put in or the category of relationship that ensues, but the quality of the chemistry, the intensity.  Ann and Tony have great chemistry.  It’s natural.

All the talk about my raucous night was making Tony visibly antsy, so I left them to their own devices and went downstairs.  I sneaked back up to get some socks and could hear Ann’s cries and skin softly clapping.  I crept back downstairs to wait for pizza and thought about my chemistry with Shenanigans, all shenanigans aside.

We’d laughed and shared stories and talked like we weren’t total strangers, the mysterious atoms of chemistry doing their work.  His oddness was impossible to miss; I could see why she’d nicknamed him Shenanigans.

Later, the two spunky lovers and I ate lunch and cuddled on the couch.  My feet tucked under me and Ann’s on Tony’s lap as he watched soccer and explained his passionate love for it.  Soon, they disappeared back upstairs and I napped on the couch, desperately hungover now.

Time stood still again as I was once more reduced to my physical needs.  I climbed back upstairs and fell into Liam’s bed until Tony came in to say goodbye.  We hugged tightly and I went back to bed where Ann soon joined me.

“I asked Tony to share with me what’s in his heart and head.”  I only moaned and asked if we were really getting back on The Tony Ride.

Since meeting TN, I have greatly edited my expectations of what a relationship should look like.  Brief?  Long?  Committed?  I don’t know — or often care — what it looks like.  If it feels good, do it.  If it doesn’t, don’t.

By that afternoon I had hardly heard from The Soldier and even been told he would keep his last name private.  I could freak out about that, but why bother?  I’d rather enjoy what I have than lament about what I don’t have.  If I ever really need more from him, I’ll ask and make a decision from there.  I like the freedom of being able to fuck some guy while I’m on vacation with zero regrets.  I owe no one anything.

I urged her to seek the same kind of peace in order to enjoy the beautiful thing they share and wondered aloud if anyone had ever died from a hangover.

She left to go shopping for dinner and I buried myself under puffy down covers still wishing I were a more normal friend, one with a lower volume in general.  When she returned we readied a carpet picnic of cheeses, bread and crackers and first one, then another of her friends came over.  We laughed and talked well into the night.  After they left I lay moaning on the couch while Ann hammered out a quick post, overcome with giggles.  It still felt all very unreal.

This morning, I continued to struggle with my shame over my behavior.  Was I going to leave and in the quiet of her home would Ann suddenly realize I was actually a total shit?  I squirmed at the kitchen table as she continued to assure me she didn’t care and loved me all the same.  As a dissolute, wild woman hearing I am accepted just as I am is a remarkable gift.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.  Thank you, little atoms.  Thank you, Ann.

I don’t know what’s going to happen with all the chemically-charged characters from this long weekend of mine; it’s like we’re all a bunch of magnets.  Me and The Soldier and Shenanigans and Ann and her friends.  The Soldier and I will, for a lack of a better word, soldier on.  I’ll see him when I see him.  Shenanigans and I will likely be a fond memory to one another, perhaps occasional pen pals.  Ann’s friends I will long remember for their amazingly hilarious stories — I hope they remember me as fondly.  As for Ann and me, well, I just hope that when she visits me next I can return all the favors, vacation dick included.


Hy in a striped dress 1

This is what everyone does in a bathroom, right?