Friday, May 6th, is Boobday!

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This week has been horrendous.  My fire alarms malfunctioned two separate mornings at 4, 5, 6, and 7 am, the cat went missing overnight (thankfully he returned the next morning), mother issues, a brutal week at work, two last minute date cancellations.  Naturally all the stress and fear caused me to pass out before 10 last night and I slept right through Boobday prep.

I’ve never thought thank god it’s Friday more than today in my entire life.

A quick CONGRATULATIONS!!! to Kayla and John Brownstone.  I love you guys!!  And a reminder that May is Masturbation Month!  I was going to kick off the month with a Masturbation Monday post, but that was the day the shit hit the fan and I wasn’t able to write a single word until now.  I’ll be joining in the rest of the month.

And, as always, a huge thank you to the women who share their bodies with us.  I’ve been feeling down about my body lately and working hard through whatever changes it is I’m going through.  You are not alone in your struggles, my friends!  Even I have my bad days.

Oh, and for those Star Wars fans out there, happy Revenge of the Sixth day!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

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

My tits:

I snapped this late last night right before I fell asleep on the couch. Nothing says sexy like pure exhaustion.

I snapped this late last night right before I fell asleep on the couch. Nothing says sexy like pure exhaustion.

NOT my tits:

I actually picked this image of Meredith's then made her say why she liked it. The truth is, I find the the dark warmth stunning.

I actually picked this image of Meredith’s then made her say why she liked it. The truth is, I find the the dark warmth stunning.

Topless in pj pants makes me feel sexy.

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Olivia's use of b&w this week brings a an innocence to her nudity. Love it.

Olivia’s use of b&w this week brings a an innocence to her nudity. Love it. (Follow her on IG @oliviatarose)

Happy boob day. This is me feeling excited waiting for a friend to come over.

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I love repeated or related themes in an image. Here Kate's creamy round breast compliments the creamy, rumpled covers.

I love repeated or related themes in an image. Here Kate’s creamy round breast compliments the creamy, rumpled covers.

Tonight I give you my tired, snuggled up, peeping boob. I love to sleep naked. 🙂

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Selina's image invokes a sense of holding your breath, anticipation. I just love it.

Selina’s image invokes a sense of holding your breath, anticipation. I just love it.

Patiently Waiting.

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I adore this POV from Sandy. It's what you see that moment before you drag one of these bad boys into your hungry little mouth.

I adore this POV from Sandy. It’s what you see that moment before you drag one of these bad boys into your hungry little mouth.

I sent 2 pics to the boy toy to make him smile. Asked him to pick one for this weeks Boob Day. His reply,
“Both hot…but!!!!
The second pic is rarely seen! *drool!!!!!!!*”
“OMG babe! Hanging!!!”

Click below to see who else is participating!  Be sure to leave comment love for everyone!

Friday, April 29th, is Boobday!

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I’ve been laying really low this past week.  Last week felt like I’d gotten my face ground into the dirt and I needed to catch my breath.  I didn’t write, I unplugged from IG and Snapchat, and most importantly I wiped the slate clean with the men I was talking to and just stopped.

My head is clear and I feel good.

I have so much more to say, to share, but it’s still percolating.  Let’s just say that after each scorching encounter where I am left blistered and bleeding I heal and that fresh pink skin is ready to face the elements again.  I’m the little sprout in the ashes.  I’m ok.

And as usual, the ladies brought it this week.  Lots of different bodies and shapes.  Do you see their beauty??  If you do, then that means you can see yours, too, and that makes me happy. If you can’t see yours, then look harder, dammit.  It’s there.

Thanks for being you, Internet Boyfriend.  My life is forever changed because of you.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

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

My tits:

I've been feeling not so hot lately, wondering if I'm no longer desirable.  And then I remember desire is a state of mind and I am set free.

I’ve been feeling not so hot lately, wondering if I’m no longer desirable. And then I remember desire is a state of mind and I am set free.  It has nothing to do with that crease in my side.

NOT my tits:

I could stare at Mrs. XOs titties all day.

I could stare at Mrs. XOs titties all day.

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My friend, Meredith is a master of the sensuous shot.

My friend, Meredith is a master of the sensuous shot.

This was taken post-booty call with a lover. I was so deliciously sore…

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Miss Anonymous Knockers stretches long and loose for us.

Miss Anonymous Knockers stretches long and loose for us.

I’m sending you my boobs because I used to be really insecure about having one nipple lower than the other but now I see the beauty in the imperfect.

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Kim has returned to the fold!

Kim has returned to the fold!

Just Chilling…….

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I love Olivia's darks and lights.  (IG: @oliviatarose)

I love Olivia’s darks and lights. (IG: @oliviatarose)

Wish I could stay in bed all day !  Happy boob day my fellow boob girls.

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I love this photo for its realness.  The little silvery streaks that run along Sandy's abdomen remind me of the lines drawn in the sand from the surf.

I love this photo for its realness. The little silvery streaks that run along Sandy’s abdomen remind me of the lines drawn in the sand from the surf.

4:30 am shower boobs.

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Click on the links below to see who else is participating this week!

My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

I had a magical night with a beautiful, charming man Thursday night.  A tall, lean welder.  I leaned in for a kiss at the bar and breathed in his woodsy soapy scent.  “You’re a good kisser,” he said smiling, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

I texted him my address and we jumped in our cars.  Back at my place he stooped to kiss me and turned me around and pressed his body against my back.  His hands reached around and squeezed my breasts and I pushed my bottom into his hot jeans.

He pulled down my panties and curled his fingers into me.  “Harder,” I coached.  “More, faster!”  His hand obediently slammed against me and I filled his hand with my juices.  He groaned and ground his mouth down on mine.

We half-assedly pulled our clothes off and let them hang on our ankles and waddled awkwardly and hornily into my dark room.  He said he had rubbers except we didn’t use any.

I sucked on his chubby — it was only two-thirds hard, I could tell.  I was shocked that he could possibly be intimidated, he was stunning.

Six-foot-three, loaded with muscle, bald as a cue ball with a trimmed beard.  This man had no reason to be afraid and yet there he was at half mast.

To take the pressure off — and to possibly turn him on more — I sucked and slurped on him.  I stuffed all of him in my mouth, a very full mouthful.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a Magnum condom in his hand.

He pushed me off of him and spread my knees apart.  “Please don’t suck,” I told him.  “You suck on me and I’ll die.”  He tried it anyway and I yelped and pushed him away.  “You can only lap at me.  Like an ice cream cone.”

His bald head shone from the moon outside and he lapped willingly at me.  He slipped a finger in me and I educated him to a climax – twice – then hauled him up and grabbed my Hitachi.  He still wasn’t 100% hard.

His pretty face latched on my nipples and I rode the vibrations to a crushing orgasm.  He rolled on top of me and began rubbing his bare cock on me.

“No,” I panted.  “Don’t do that.  It’s not safe.”

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

I was out of my mind from orgasm and lust and wondered if forcing him to wear a condom wouldn’t kill the rest of the night.

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

He pushed into me and instantly got hard as steel.  And big.

We fucked and panted, gripped each other’s pale skin and I came and came again.  I writhed on him, willing him to lose his shit, and suddenly he did in a long, low, undulating orgasm unlike any I’ve ever witnessed.

He shuddered and humped and groaned and cried out and finally fell limp.

“Holy fuck,” he panted.  “That’s… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?” I asked, my arm covered my eyes and chest heaved.

“I never lose control like that.  I can always wait to cum, but you…” he searched for words.  “You have a magic pussy.”  I laughed.  I’d never heard that before, but ok.  “You wanna take a shower?”

I was startled.  No one has asked me to do that in a decade.

In the shower we kissed and held each other.  I noted his back tattoos and felt shy in the light of the bathroom until he kissed me harder and turned me around.

I spread my feet and let him reenter me, 100% steel once again.  I came with my hands on the cold tile, his hot cock pushing into my body.  “Will you cum?” I asked, my head hung low.

“No.  I’ll have to wait until morning.”

I hardly slept.  The animals decided to make every obnoxious noise in their repertoire and I never sleep well with a stranger in my bed.  Before dawn his alarm went off and he rolled over and fondled a breast and fell back asleep.  I was happy he was able to sleep, the bastard.

But I wanted more and so I stirred and he rolled onto his back.  His abs were hard and rippled even asleep and I marveled at this warm, marble statue beside me.  I dipped my hand below the covers and felt his hardon which jutted almost past the waistband of his underpants.

“Mmm,” I said.

I kissed his nipple and stroked the heat beneath the cotton.  He was fully erect this time, way more than I could fit into my  mouth.  I lathed on him and he moaned and said beautiful things.

I crawled up on him and sunk gingerly down and immediately came.  He gripped my hips and we moved together and I came like a monster on crack, his cock hitting me in all the right spots.  My hands went numb and my hair swung in long blonde sheets, my breasts bounced like manic beach balls and I cried out along with my squeaky bed.

Twice, three times.  Each time I collapsed on him and heaved for breath in his neck.  The fourth time I sat up and giggled, bashful and greedy.

“Do it again,” I said sheepishly.  I felt like a child asking for yet another scoop of ice cream, more sprinkles.  Just more. 

He laughed and bucked into me while his hands pushed my hips down and back and forth.

I came with a hot blue swell and fell forward and half-sobbed into the pillow as he continued to fuck me from below and then with a long, protracted moan, peppered with shudders, he came deep inside of me once more.

He had to be at work by 7 and it was at least a 30 minute drive so while he showered alone I made him coffee.  I debated on what mug to send him with and landed on a travel mug I’d brought home from my folks’.  I’d be seeing him Saturday night and could get it back then.

::

The next day was Saturday and I texted good morning.  He texted back an hour later saying how busy he was at work and how they’d worked until 10 pm on Friday.  A few hours later I texted again to ask if we were still on for 7.  He didn’t say yes or no, but said he was currently “stuck at work.”  It was 5:30.  I told him my night was his and I was happy to be flexible.  If he was too tired to go out after work (whenever that was) we could chill at my place.

I never heard from him again.

::

The night I met The Welder I had a date that nearly cancelled on me.  I’d yelled at him about trying to bail 40 mins before a date and he’d agreed to one beer.  He stayed for 2 then left.  The second he left a short, older, round man invited me to sit at his table where for the next hour or so they grilled me about my dissolute life and then he asked me out despite knowing I was waiting for Date #2.

The following night I went out with a 21-year-old who’d also tried to cancel on me due to cold feet.  I’d told him to go to hell and he’d begged me to meet him after all.  I couldn’t call him a man unless you judge maturity solely on how big one’s Polo shirt is.  I sent him home with apologies, but I wasn’t able to bridge the age difference gap.  He was too childish.

An old friend, a man whose wedding I’d attended 9 years ago, was at the bar where we’d met with a work colleague and so I went and sat with them.  They were drunk and became increasingly inappropriate with me; their jokes thinly veiled sexual advances and filthy innuendos.  I felt masochistic sitting there wedged between them and then I began to receive texts from the rebuffed 21 yo.

Honestly I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking your tits the whole time [sly winky face]  Sorry for being young.

I responded with, “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t get beyond the age thing.  I am impressed with your gumption, tho.”

The men I was with howled with laughter.  “He’s propositioning you!” they claimed.  I didn’t believe them until he sent this:

As a 40 yo you need to figure out how to get past [the age difference] so you can be sexually satisfied.

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

I kid btw… But really I would like to have some fun sexually [eyeballs looking left] IM 21!!! Plenty old [indignant-huffing emoji]

I didn’t respond until the next morning to give another hard NO.

::

This morning I felt wrung out.  I’d spent my Saturday night quietly optimistic about The Welder and filled with hope that he wouldn’t do exactly what he did to me.

Last Monday Bones “got lost in a book” and forgot to come over when he said he would.  I told him he was a dick and he agreed.  We haven’t spoken since.

Remington hasn’t returned my texts in days despite his last text being an emphatic “Yes, please!” to hanging out this week.

Men fall into two columns in my life.  In one, they utterly disgust me.  I am buried under an avalanche of men’s lust and equally repulsed by their methods.  The equivalent of them hunchbacked and jerking off all over me like fiends with their foul words and hideous pictures.  Unsolicited dick pic after another, gross come-ons and pathetic attempts to hump me virtually from all sides.  Me, Hy, just my very person in any incarnation I have.

And in the other they use me and lie.  My attempts to counteract such abuse are pointless, however.  The second I step outside the safety of my home I am contaminated.  The Welder claimed to be a human male, but was actually a fucking punchline for online dating and hope that anyone around here besides me acts like a grown up who respects others.

 

Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

I fought tears as I purged the darkness of my feelings to a friend earlier.  Surrounded by hipster coffee-drinkers I tried to be invisible.  I feel trapped and hopeless; I can’t not be me, but this level of disregard is more than I can bear.

There is no “fix” to this other than never dating again.  This is dating.  It’s a fucking war of the senses, of the heart, against the clock and all rational thought.  You’d think that finding a man who’d like to be cool and fuck would be easy, but it’s about as equally hard as finding love.  If I wanted to find callous, greedy men then I’d be in luck.  Those are everywhere.

I am distant, I am private, I have issues with intimacy.  I am not looking for a boyfriend.  I am asking to be acknowledged as a human being who doesn’t want anything serious. Why do men think it must be either a serious relationship or a one-night stand?  Why is there nothing in between?? 

I don’t want to be cast away again and again and yet I am.  Repeatedly.

My new approach will be less subtle: Some hoop-jumping and Magnums.  No exceptions.  Since I’ll be used up and tossed in the bin regardless of what I do I will no longer suffer through inflexibility or soft, little dicks.  I will demand what I want and move on, expect only one night with each man who meets my criteria and put my hook back in the water the following day like a good littler fisherman.  And lord knows that I seem to have the fattest and juiciest worms, so I’ll have no shortage of men flopping into my bed, their dead fish eyes staring back at me.

These are the new rules.

 

Friday, March 22nd, is Boobday!

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So… another late Boobday, but I have a really great excuse: I was busy getting railed last night by an unbelievably beautiful and sexy new fella and this week has also just been incredibly hectic.

I should have written it on Tuesday, but even then I got 3 pics from the ladies yesterday, so I’d still be playing catch up even if I’d had it all together.  Guess I just have to accept the fact that I’ll never be as organized and on time as Molly, Rebel, Kayla, or K.  I’m the wild child of the bunch, apparently!  Ha!

Thanks, as always, to the women who share their bodies with us.  I’ve also been getting some interest by men to participate somehow, too, and I’m thinking about it.  I want y’all to be able to get positive feedback, as well, but there’s a power dynamic there I’m not sure how to address, exactly.  I’ll figure it out.

I may end up just doing something along the lines of helping men take better cock shots (Lord knows y’all have asked me and I’m always game to try!), but I’m not at all certain I could handle the influx of penises in my Inbox.  We’ll see.  Suggestions are welcome if any of you have any.

Lastly, someone sent me a pic recently, but it was past the deadline.  I promised to use it the following week, but I can’t find it anymore and I can’t even remember what week it was or who sent it to me!  If that was you, I’m sorry!  I haven’t deliberately NOT posted it, I’m just overwhelmed and lost it so please resend it!

Happy Friday, y’all!!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

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

My tits:

A little BTS and a little meta shot for you. Also, I still smell like him.

A little BTS and a little meta shot for you. Also, I still smell like him.  Mm…

NOT my tits:

Kate's got quite the juicy handful there.

Kate’s got quite the juicy handful there.

A little shot of my girls soaking up some spring sunshine! Happy boobday!
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Kim is back, guys! Yay!

Kim is back, guys! Yay!

“I’m back!!  Bedtime boob, hoping for a bit of action….;-)”

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Sandy's pic this week reminds me of ones that Kayla used to submit. They have the prettiest jewelry!

Sandy’s pic this week reminds me of ones that Kayla used to submit. They have the prettiest jewelry!

Boy toy is in law enforcement so I had these lovely clamps special made just for him.
http://www.subsensuals.com

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Selina nailed it with the half-clothed look. Love it.

Selina nailed it with the half-clothed look. Love it.

Getting ready for work.

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See who else is participating by clicking on the links below! Be sure to leave lots of comment love for them on their pages!

 

I’m done being the Cool Girl.

Last night Bones got lost in a book and forgot about me.

An hour plus after he was supposed to arrive he finally pulled his nose out of his pages and texted me back, “lol I’ve been studying.  Sorry.”

This was after he’d said he’d “try” to make 8:30, but had some reading to do for a job he was gunning for.  I’d said ok.  At 9:30 I hadn’t heard a peep from him and texted him.  I texted again at 9:45, “WTF??”

“Kind of caught up in this book,” was his reply after his little lol text.

“So you just wasted my time, basically” I replied.

And then, “I’ve been waiting around for over an hour and not a peep from you!  Not like you and totally not cool  Book or no book.”

He apologized, said it was a dick move, etc.  We went back and forth, me asserting myself and my anger.  “Tonight sucked,” I wrote.

“I was distracted and lost track of time…”

And then he said, “You’re absolutely right.  This new job is super important to me and my career.  I was heavily focused because of that.”

I told him again it was a dick move and then scoffed.  “Hey, don’t do that to me.  I had no way of knowing how important studying was to your career – but I’d have been more than understanding if you’d just rescheduled because you needed to focus.”

He admitted that was true.  He asked me how he could have made it better when I told him I was going to bed because it was obvious he wasn’t going to try.  “Well, the second you realized what you’d done you could have apologized and said you’d be right over with a bottle of wine.”  He agreed with that, too.  But nothing happened.  I’d wasted an entire kid-free night.

I’d spent my precious time on a man whose value of me (and my time) were nil.

Yes, he apologized, yes he admitted it was shitty, but I can’t get that time back.  Nor did he offer to reschedule or make it up to me in anyway.  An entire evening was lost.

I’ve been impotently raging against this devaluation for years by means of not being disrespectful.  I am always available when I say I am, I never forget a commitment, I’m not late or get lost in a project and lose track of time.  That has never happened to me in my entire fucking life and therefore I can’t extend any kind of understanding to others.  It’s simply unacceptable.

I set alarms on my phone if I’m worried I’ll lose myself in something because I value people’s time.  In fact, I don’t do things I’d rather be doing (such as writing) because I’ve made a commitment to someone, someone who hasn’t actually earned a goddamned thing from me — and that’s on me.  If there was ever anyone who gave the milk away for free… well, it’d have to be me.

I’m not bashing Bones — he fucked up, big deal, moving on — what this has demonstrated to me are two things: 1) I devalue my own time, and 2) being the “cool girl” only hurts me.  Gone Girl, anyone?

I am a single mother; I take Peyton any time my ex travels for work or leisure and I pick my baby up from school every day of the week even on my ex’s custody weeks and stay busy until he’s done with work around 6.  The divorce decree says we have 50/50 custody, but we don’t — it’s more 75/25 — therefore my free time is extremely rare and highly valuable and yet I treat it like I have a ton to give.

I have to stop saying yes to every heavy breather with a hardon who asks me out after 5 lines of text; they haven’t earned it.

The last time I was child-free I had 6 dates in 7 days and the accumulation of my efforts was one above-average date where I came under his slamming hand, a dud, road head and an awkward fingerbang, a mis-fire, a drunken chat, and date number two with Mr. Magic Hands.  In other words: nothingI could have been writing, is all I hear when I look back on it.

If I don’t value my time, then why will anyone else?  This is somehow connected to my eternal hope for a connection, to never say No because maybe the next guy will be a great connection, a great love.  But it’s gone sideways.

I find myself saying yes to complete strangers, men who’ve only met the standard of catching my eye and not offending me.  The bar can’t get much lower at this point.

Which brings me to my second realization: Being the Cool Girl doesn’t affect the outcome.

Have you ever tried to fill a bucket with holes with water??  Yeah, that’s the Cool Girl effect: useless.

It’s also the same effect as trying to make someone else happy or to control a situation.  The outcome will almost always be that the one who’s trying to make the things better will end up exhausted with no better outcome than had they done nothing.  The bucket will remain empty and leaking.

As Gillian Flynn writes, “Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”  I’ve always been afraid to be honest about a man’s bad behavior.  Telling Bones he was a shit was monumental.  I’m not the Cool Girl anymore; it only exhausts me.  I’m leaving the bucket dry.

I can’t make someone respect me or my time, I can only act in a reasonable fashion (don’t misinterpret this as “in a cool way”) to their treatment of me.  That doesn’t mean pretending I’m not pissed or disappointed.  That takes 10 times as much effort on my part as it does to behave authentically and say, “Hey, man. That was shitty.  Fuck that.”

The difficulty for me arises in the foreignness of this behavior.  I have never been able to be truthful about my upset with anyone, almost ever.  Not my family, not my friends, not my exhusband.  Certainly not my boyfriends and definitely not my lovers.

Being that honest and vulnerable equates to emotional death to me: I am wrong, I am unworthy, I am not good because the person I’m sharing this with will say it’s so.  I truly am an easy going person — I rarely take things personally —  but I’ve taken it too far.  I’ve set it up where no one has to work to earn my time and when they disrespect me I act as if I’m unbothered, neither of which are even remotely true.   My time is valuable and I am bothered.

So when I told Bones that my night sucked it wasn’t just me pointing out the obvious (that he was a dipshit) it was me saying I’m not going to work so hard to make bad behavior ok anymore; I demand and expect more.

I don’t expect to ever see him again, quite frankly — or 4 of the 5 men from the other week – and even though it bums me out, I can’t honestly feel real loss about it.  How can I??  He’s given me no reason to care other than feeling self-conscious about my battered ego.

I have told a couple of other men in my orbit that my time is valuable and I’m not interested in chasing them down and that’s a new approach.  Some have ignored my message and others have promised they understand.  I’m not holding my breath about any of it; their behavior is irrelevant.  It’s about what I do.

Truthfully, I don’t give a fuck anymore.  It feels as though the cross-ties have been unhooked and I may walk freely now, do as I please.  I am no longer interested in pretending and no dogs are in the fight.  Call me, don’t call me, but I’ll figure out some personal line in the sand and when we cross it I’ll do the next thing I need to do.

Haven’t heard from you about our date tonight despite texting to confirm a few hours in advance?  Well, I’m just going to find something else to do.  You don’t show up when you say you will?  I’m leaving.  You take 3 days to respond to a question?  I’m going to delete our thread and forget about you because that’s how you deal with bad behavior.

I would never put up with a friend doing to me what Bones did last night or what any 100 other men have done to me over the years.  No question, absolutely not.

There’s got to be some effort, some benefit to me sharing myself with them beyond just some raw hope that they’ll come around to my side and treat me like I’m valuable.  Like, real effort.

I’d like to meet someone who’s put some sweat into getting me there and keeping me there.  I don’t even want a fucking relationship, just someone who’s respectful.  I had no idea that was nearly as impossible as finding love.

I can’t quite reconcile the amount of positive attention and heartfelt letters I receive almost daily online from Internet men claiming they’d worship me if they only had the chance with the amount of real life men who ignore me in equal measure.  The dual reality is almost too much to bear.  Which am I?  Special or not special??

My only conclusion is that people everywhere – men and women alike – are being overlooked by those nearest them due to some strange proximity phenomenon: we never seem to want what we can have and can’t see what’s right under our noses.

Regardless, I am no longer interested in low standards or seeming cool. The bar is going to be raised up and I’m going to be as uncool as the situation warrants.  I expect this to feel at once terrifying and liberating.  At the age of 40 you’d think I’d be past this point of resistance, but you’d be wrong.  I’m just now breaking it down.

 

 

 

 

Friday, April 15th, is Boobday!

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This week has been a great one and not for any particular reason except I’ve worked out hard, been super busy at work, Peyton has been here, and I had a nice little fuck with Bones last night.  Bad news about that was that Peyton heard us and was terrified that I was being murdered, basically.  I’m sure my Mother of the Year Award is on its way now.

My baby is ok now, though, and one day I hope to have the type of relationship where we an laugh about this.  Quel horreur!

This week also introduces us to a couple of new participants to Boobday, which as you all know just makes me so proud and excited.  I wish I’ve kept track of all the women over the years who’ve shared themselves with us.  Maybe one day I’ll take it upon myself to tally the numbers.

I hope everyone has a fan-fucking-tastic weekend!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

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

My tits:

Plain and simple.

Plain and simple.

NOT my tits:

This is Aluv's first photo for Boobday! I love how achingly soft her skin appears in the light.

This is Aluv’s first photo for Boobday! I love how achingly soft her skin appears in the light.

I enjoy my breasts, in any form, in any way, with their imperfections, and scars.

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Terrie sent in two pics for her very first Boobday and this one was my favorite. I love the round white swell at the top and the draped shirt makes me feel naughty.

Terrie sent in two pics for her very first Boobday and this one was my favorite. I love the round white swell at the top and the draped shirt makes me feel naughty.

“Morning coffee break reading Hy”

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Kate's miles long cleavage. Mmm.

Kate’s miles long cleavage. Mmm.

Time got away from me last week so sneaking this one in quickly before it happens again.
Here’s to all the boobs in all their shapes and sizes!

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Olivia's dark hair draws my eye down to her lovely breasts. Can you imagine lifting one to your mouth? I can. (Follow her @oliviatarose on IG)

Olivia’s dark hair draws my eye down to her lovely breasts. Can you imagine lifting one to your mouth? I can. (Follow her @oliviatarose on IG)

My boobs released out of their bra at the end of the day. Free girls.

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I think I've said it before, but I'm a huge fan of the uncovered photo. A lifted skirt or pulled down shirt. Lyn creates a moment where I think I'm special.

I think I’ve said it before, but I’m a huge fan of the uncovered photo. A lifted skirt or pulled down shirt. Lyn creates a moment where I think I’m special.

A little bit of colour for me as I tend to post in black and white..

I chose this pic because I’m back on IG where nipples are not an acceptable feature and they are allowed to feature prominently here!

Click below to see who else is participating today!

The last time I went to England I fucked Peter the Swedish bartender. I wonder what will happen this time?

I'll definitely pack this for my trip.

I’ll definitely pack this for my trip.

In late spring of 1999 I flew to Heathrow International Airport and took one of those funny, old-fashioned looking taxis to meet up with my family at some flat my father had rented.  It was above a pub (everything seemed to have a pub below it) and within mere hours of close proximity to everyone I found myself downstairs without one cent of UK currency.

The pub looked like the Irish-themed bars in my city: dark wood, brass touches, a long, polished bar from years’ worth of elbow-rubbing.

I sat at a gap at the bar and listened to two ruddy-faced men with caps on.  Their accents lilted, their laughter rumbled.  The tall, curly blond bartender who looked to be about my age loped from one end of the service area to the other as they called out his name, “PEE-tah!  PEE-tah!” and he deftly filled their orders calling them by name with a foreign accent of his own.

His partner behind the bar was a short man with salt and pepper hair and darting eyes.  He missed nothing.  “How can I help you, miss?” he asked me.

I explained to him I’d just arrived and had no British money.  “That’s alright, I’ll give you one on the house.  What do you want?”

“Gin, please,” 24-year-old me answered.

He gave me a drink called the Virgin Mary, a triple gin and tonic in a very tall glass.

By the time I hit the bottom of it I’d tried to talk to the two gentlemen beside me in my best British accent but had failed miserably.  “Where are you from, lassie?” they asked.

“Guess!” I said coyly, worried they’d know I was faking.

They talked quietly amongst themselves for a few seconds before they began guessing out loud to me.  “Denmark?  Finland?  Sweden!!” they blurted all the Nordic counties.  They were convinced my bone structure gave me away.

I don’t remember which of those countries I picked — maybe it was Norway — but they were very impressed with my grammar!  (I still laugh thinking about it.)  I told them I’d spent a summer in Los Angeles recently to work on my English.  They bought it.

Peter, however, didn’t.  

He’d been hanging around our end of the bar and listening surreptitiously as he washed barware.  “Where are you from?” he asked me directly.

I didn’t even try.  “America,” I giggled.

He winked at me and I left.

A few nights later I returned with money in hand and a plan in mind.  I wanted to hang out with Peter.  Several days with my divorced parents, grandmother and judgmental sister had driven me to need time alone to be myself, to be Hy.

There were two American kids in the pub with me and the three of us chatted with Peter throughout his shift.  When it was over  they invited us to their rented flat across the street to get high.  Sure, why not go somewhere with 3 strange young men and smoke weed?  Sounds like fun!

The room was strewn with backpacks and travel guides and a little bong was on a coffee table.  We sat around and smoked and laughed and if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you the names of the other two Americans; I only had eyes for Peter.

He was Swedish and well over 6 feet tall.  He’d been in England for several months while he tried to figure out what to do with his life.  His accent reminded me of snow and blonde braids and his smile was large and toothsome.

We decided to leave together and find another place to drink.  His pub had closed at 9 so we walked some distance to an even darker pub below street level.  We drank and made out, sloppy revelers in the bowels of a London neighborhood.

That pub closed at 10 and we staggered on to yet another and when that one closed at 11 — Why do all the pubs close at random times and so early?! I wondered noisily and repeatedly to Peter as we lurched down the street — he suggested we go home to his place.  Above the pub.

“I live there for free and work below and Jimmy my manager also lives there.  I’m not allowed to have anyone over.”

We sneaked through the darkened pub with only the shiny bits reflecting the street lamps outside as our guiding lights.  “Shhh,” he reminded me as I began to laugh.

“Here.  Get on my back.”  We were at the base of the narrowest staircase I’d ever seen, tucked behind the bar.  “He’ll only hear one set of footsteps.”

I jumped up and clung to him as he ascended each creaky, screaming step.  I nibbled his neck and he giggled, told me to stop.  He tripped and we muffled our laughs as he caught himself.  Up three flights of stairs we were at his carved, wooden door.

His room was dark and shadowy and his window was eye-level with the street lamp.  Light poured in and illuminated a window box with a cushion like a block of pale, artificial sun.

We were all over each other.  Drunken, half-strangers.  Our height difference made my neck hurt and he split his stance like a giraffe at a watering hole.  My face in his hands, his mouth on mine.

The window box was long and we moved to it.  I straddled him, the window to my right, and pulled my shirt off.  My little 34B breasts were pierced then, perky.  He moaned and took one in his mouth and I clutched his curls to me.

Our clothes peeled back to reveal our yummy bits and I sucked his deliciously uncut cock.  “They don’t do that in Europe,” he explained in his loopy Swedish sound when I remarked on it.  Literally drunk with lust I asked him if he had a condom.  He shook his head.

I thought for a split second about it and decided to throw caution to the wind.  I peeled off my jeans and pressed his naked body back on the cushion and sat astride him, his cock pressed against me, but not in me.

Above him like this I saw a beauty, a lithe young man heavy with passion — and me — bathed in light on his left side and melting into darkness on his right.  His nose had a bump in it, his mouth a Cupid’s Bow.  I cupped his face and felt his blond scruffy cheek against my palm.

I bent down and kissed him and wrapped my hand around his cock and slowly guided him in.  This was me, this was what I really wanted to be doing in London.

He gasped as I sat back on him, my mouth locked on his, his air mine.  I slowly sat up and wiggled him into me and he said, “Hyacinth, you are so beautiful.  You are like an angel spreading her wings.  I cannot bear it…”

I smiled and felt as though everywhere the light touched my skin and us I shimmered, and where we joined in the dark was cool and quiet.  I felt alive and humming, utterly beautiful.

Sadly, Peter couldn’t go much further than just that.  He was overwhelmed he said.

Instead, he pulled me down onto him and we cuddled in the window box beneath the city lamp.

Eventually, I had to head back upstairs to my family, but I gave Peter my email address before I left and for a number of years — nearly 5 — I would get an email from him saying he wanted to come to America and see me.

But I had moved on from that night and that place, though Peter would forever remain one of my fondest memories.

::

I’m returning to London in roughly a month for Eroticon where I’ll be speaking on a couple of panels.  I’ll be in Bristol for the first few days of my stay for the convention itself and then will flit about after that until it’s time to come back home on the very next Wednesday.  It’s not a very long stay, only a week, but I had less time than that my first time over.

I wonder if I’ll have as much fun this time around.

Friday, April 8th, is Boobday!

hy_tits_banner

You’d think that by now I’d be over it, all the body shaming and self-consciousness, but I’m not.  Nothing’s happened in particular to shake the leaves loose, but some have fallen to the ground regardless.

Typically this first week after my period I am beyond amped up and feeling on top of the world, but not this week.  This week I’ve struggled.

I posted a story on Snapchat (adissolutelife) earlier and could only hear one well-meaning follower’s voice in my head: “I love your chubby body!”

Chubby?!  I mean I know I’m not skinny, but am I “chubby”??  UGH. 

And then I felt immediately awful for even caring, like a massive backslide.  Chubby or not, it makes no difference.  Plus chubby is not a character flaw, it’s a physical state.  Perhaps I am chubby.  That won’t make me any less of a human being, any less of me, would it?  No.

All this to say I’m in a weird place.  Lots of hungry men in my world, lots of hot trysts and sex, I’m working hard on my fitness, I’m feeling strong.  And yet, this chink in my armor exists nonetheless.

I know I’m not alone in this and that’s why I chose this week’s photo which shows my stretchmarks both on my breast and my hip.  The pose is flattering overall and it bolstered my confidence as this exercise always does.  Consider that every other woman who participates here has also gone through a similar struggle to end up with a photo.  Funny how that works.

As always, I love you all and am so proud to host this silly little meme each week.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

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

My tits:

Hy sideboob

NOT my tits:

Sandy's knockers are indeed some serious weapons.

Sandy’s knockers are indeed some serious weapons.

These things look dangerous

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I love feminine things inside a dress shirt and Kim does a fantastic job of illustrating why.

I love feminine things inside a dress shirt and Kim does a fantastic job of illustrating why.

Hanging free and the last of summer’s tan. Have a beautiful weekend y’all 🙂

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My IG friend, Meredith has graciously decided to share her luscious boobies with us again!

My IG friend, Meredith has graciously decided to share her luscious boobies with us again!

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I love this stunning image of Olivia, the curves, the skin and light. Delicious. (IG - @oliviatarose)

I love this stunning image of Olivia, the curves, the skin and light. Delicious. (IG – @oliviatarose)

    This is a pic I took after finding about about a potential threesome.  Yum!!!  Happy boob day !

 

Click on the links below to see who else is participating!

I told him I’m Hy.

His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside.  He moaned and I pushed in all the way.

His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box.  I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.

I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger.  My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.

The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic.  I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body.  I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.

We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept.  I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.

He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth.  That was fucking hot.

Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again.  Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car.  Dog walkers passed by unimpressed.  We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch.  And then he got a girlfriend.  “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said.  He hadn’t forgotten.

Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was.  A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness.  We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.

On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more.  I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street.  His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face.  He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.

I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms.  “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked.  Well, well, well!  As a matter of fact, I do!

Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up.  We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.

The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood.  “Mmm,” I said.

“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.

I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon.  I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.

At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly.  “Let’s do this again,” he said.

“Yes, definitely,” I answered.

A week later I texted, “Hey!  Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”

His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”

That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.

I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him.  We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar.  It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.

When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub.  We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.

Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso.  A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist.  As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony.  He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.

As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing.  I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something.  There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression.  I knew he wouldn’t judge me.

The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one.  As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing.  But I am tired.  I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.

Click here for a litttle Snapchat Hy and Remington movie.

“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.”  We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.

I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).

He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine.  Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful. 

When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”

“Remington.”  He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”

“Ok, do you say where I live?”

“No.”

“Then I’m ok with it!”

His smile took up half his face.

“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??”  I felt shy, expectant.

We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.

“Wow.   You’re really good!” he said when he was done.  I preened.

We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo.  He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed.  It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out.  Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.

I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog.  “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.”  He nodded.  “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”

He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again.  I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.

The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30.  I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work.  I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog.  What if it had been lost in our cups?  Should I bring it up and remind him??

I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men.  I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.

As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.  Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements.  I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone.  People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most).  No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him.  After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him.  Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.

Not only that, but what if it was a mistake?  What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me??  Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know?  That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy.  It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life.  I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??

Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.

All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone.  I wish I weren’t so complicated.

Hy and Remington on the couch

He gave me permission to put this on my Instagram.

 

I wash it away.

Hy's favorite: morning 1

I am one of those people who wake up happy; I love the morning.  Cardinals sing from the little forest outside my bedroom window, the cat’s whiskers vibrate against the window screen, the dog presses his warm body against my legs.  It is a pale, breathless moment filled with potential.

And I am cleansed for it, renewed.

The dissolute acts from the night before are washed from my skin, though my sheets may still bear the iniquitous proof of my debauchery.  The morning light purifies, it forgives, it says, Hey there, little lady.  Go do it again.

And so I do.

Hy's favorite: morning 3

 

 
Click the lips to see who else is being Sinful!

Sinful Sunday