Friday, May 27th, is Boobday!

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And ohhhhh what a special Boobday it is!!

I am beyond excited to share what happened after the last session of the weekend for EroticonLive: a little group boobage!

I can’t claim it was my idea — because it totally wasn’t — but I can thank the effervescent Molly for making it happen.  She’d mentioned it a day or two earlier about the two of us taking a pic together and I was open to it, but then basically immediately forgot all about it due to the overwhelming and beautiful weekend.

So imagine my surprise when she waltzed in to the room I was in and said, “Ok, Hy.  Let’s take a picture!” and Livvy, Rachel, Eye, Honey, Rebel, and Monika were right behind her smiling.

I was thinking of how we’d do this.  Seven sets of tits are a feat.  Do we leave our clothes on?  Will it be just cleavage?  How would we stand?  I walked around the room and raised all the curtains thinking about what to do while Molly opened a window or two to let in some cool air.  When I turned around all six women were completely topless, smiling and chatting and waiting for direction.

Ok! I thought.  So this is what we’re doing!

Molly had the idea of a line of breasts so we did that.  Then Monika suggested the circle.  Molly pointed out that she was much too short to get an aerial view so Livvy said, “We could kneel.”  And so we did.  Synergy, I tell you!  Boooooob synergy!

I’ve included my two favorite photos and little quotes from some as to why they decided to play along.

Surprisingly (for me) I’m writing this at 8 pm the night before it’s due up because I’m jet lagged as all fuck and need to sleep pronto.  I may update the post tomorrow as I hear from more of the ladies, so be patient with me.  I also have a stupidly busy work day tomorrow (of course).

I love you all with all my dissolute heart: the readers, the participants, and the women whose gorgeous breasts I saw with my own eyes and hugged just a few days ago.  Thank you thank you thank you as always for helping me showcase beauty in all shapes and sizes.  I couldn’t do it without 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 (and more!):

Hy and friends for Boobday

All I see is warmth.

Hy and friends for Boobday 2

All I see is beauty.

Rebel – Why did I do this? Because it’s liberating to be with like-minded people, to be able to just be who I am – essentially a shy exhibitionist 🙂

Molly – How could I not want to take pictures of such a beautiful group of women who were all joyful and happy about sharing their boobs.The whole thing made me feel warm and fuzzy and I feel very honoured to have been the photographer.

Eye – I jumped at the chance because I have always been so shy about my body and believed that it wasn’t particularly beautiful.  I think the look of pride and joy on my face says it all though, I am happy to be more adventurous and less shy.

Livvy – … there was no doubt that I was going to join in when asked. It was just so much fun and I couldn’t miss the chance to take a photo with so many beautiful women. It was completely in the spirit of Eroticon and the most perfect way to spend an afternoon!

Honey – Why did I do it? I did it because I love getting naked and the opportunity was absolutely joyful. The buzz of community, fun, celebration and togetherness was intoxicating and totally won over any concern that my boobs and body would be a let down compared to everyone else’s. I was happy to hand over the creative control of the image to the boob loving Molly.

NOT my tits:

This is Cindi's first Boobday pic ever. Say Hi!

This is Rose Bliss’ first Boobday pic ever. Say Hi!

This is the first time I’ve ever sent a picture in. I chose this one because it’s the first one I’ve actually liked. I am 65 and this all is still pretty new to me, but better late than never, right?

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Sandy has some news!

Sandy has some news!

Someone was collared yesterday!!!

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Hands on Kate's breast. Lots of hands.

Hands on Kate’s breast. Lots of hands.

My boob, my hand and his hand!

Happy Boobday everyone. 🙂

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

::

I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

This morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.  

Friday, May 20th, is Boobday!

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Bristol and the friends I’ve met here so far has been wonderful and the weather just how I like it, too: grey and drizzly.  I hung out in my hotel lounge with friends until they left then at the bar until my lids stung.  I came up to my room, snapped my Boobday pics, ordered some (shitty) room service, and then wrestled with the laptop clock (I lost) and watched some weird British shit about plastic surgery.

I can’t wait to close my eyes and sleep like a real human.

I also got the number of our sexy Italian waiter tonight with the “help” of @domsigns and — fingers crossed — we’ll meet up for a drink tomorrow night after the Meet and Greet for Eroticon.  I’m also very much looking forward to meeting a young pilot in London come Monday.  He’s rather a different kind of young man and he makes me smile.  A lot.  No one has done that in far too long, frankly.

And even then if that doesn’t happen, it’s ok.  I’m here for the adventure, not the pay out.

Thanks for being you, you guys.  I appreciate your patience and love and support and will do my best to make you proud this weekend!

Ladies, thanks, as always!!

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:

Mermaid hair in a stone-colored Bristol bathroom. Or should I say, "loo"?

Mermaid hair in a stone-colored Bristol bathroom. Or should I say, “loo”?

NOT my tits:

Y'all, Kim and Sandy are of a mind this week.

Y’all, Kim and Sandy are of a mind this week.

“(fading) over-loved, bruised boob, if there is such a thing…. LOL” 🙂 xxx

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See what I mean??

See what I mean??

Peek-a-boob

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Selena makes me want to go bra shopping.

Selena makes me want to go bra shopping.

Loving how the girls look in this bra.

Be sure to click below for everyone else who’s decided to bare her breasts this week!

Friday, May 13th, is Boobday!

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Sick as fuck again.

Ladies, those of you who sent me pics this week, I’ll use next week.  Must sleep.  Can barely type  now.

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!

 
Vlick below to see all the beauty:
 

Eroticon 2016: What do you want to learn from me in my session?

When I thought about attending Eroticon this year I had only one clear goal in mind: talk to people about getting published while I’m there.

It’s long been a dream of mine to transform my blog into a book, but I have no idea how to do it.  Do I self-publish like so many of you?  Do I find a publisher who puts it on paper?  What about an editor?  I’m certain I’d need one of those.  I already have a full time job in addition to the tons of work the blog requires.  When on earth would I find the time to put a book together??

Besides just publishing goals to explore while there, there were also all the people I’d finally get to meet. England, London, all the sexy British people.  It’s not exactly the best time financially for me to go, but fuck it.  When is it ever??

I took the plunge and  purchased the tickets and began to poke around the website and saw that Ruby was calling for panelists.  A panelist you say??  Well, double fuck it.  Go big or go home!

I downloaded the form, thought for a minute about what the fuck I was any good at and then came up with the title for my session:

How to write about [real life] sex and not make it sound like a To Do List.

Too often the recounting of a real life sexual encounter can fall into a list of things that
happened. This session will help you identify ways to make it a literary experience for
your readers.

For example, instead of “We removed our clothes and then we kissed,” you’ll hopefully
learn how to pull from real life, art,and movement and illustrate the scene with more
depth and nuance.

Attendees will learn how to dip into a personal experience – possibly unrelated to sex –
to better illustrate it in a meaningful way.

And for some unknown reason it was accepted.

I still laugh thinking about it.  Do I really sound like I know what I’m talking about?!

So, here’s the deal and what you need to know about me: I am NOT an English teacher. I do NOT make a living off of my writing.  I can’t remember all the names of the grammatical things I’m doing even now as I write.  (Wait, I do know this is a parenthetical thought and that last sentence ended with what’s called a period.)  I cannot help with grammar in a specific way or probably even a “correct” way.  I can’t promise you this won’t be a colossal waste of your time.

What I might do is provide a new perspective, a new leaping off point.  I might give you some new ideas or maybe even some newfound confidence.  I might even not waste your time.  Yay!

What I can do — and what I hope to do — is share with everyone my personal approach.  It seems some of you dig the way that I write and so I’m using that as a springboard for the session.  This will not be a How to Write Like Hy session, but a How Do I Write? session.  I can point out the things I like and dislike about a written scene.  I can do my absolute best to answer all your questions.

I also think there are some things that can elevate a writer’s connection with his or her readers that some people might struggle with and I am going to try to put to words some things I just riff.  There are also lots of things people do that push a reader away or make them skip to the next paragraph.  I’ll touch on those, as well, to the best of my abilities.

The session is relatively short (only 45 minutes), so I’ll have to be succinct and focused, but I’m also willing to be flexible and go where y’all need me to.

I’ve read that other presenters are bringing goodies (I have to bring goodies?!  Fuck.), slides, handouts, and any other number of accoutrements.  Seeing as I’m flying across a large ocean to get there, room in my luggage is scarce, so y’all just might only get me, my smile, and my words.

So, those are my plans, but I am open to what you all want to learn from me.

What were your thoughts when you read about the session?  Did you think, “Yes!  Sounds great!  Everything I want to know!”  Or did you think, “Hmm, I wonder if she’d also cover _____.”?

Let me know where you think you’re weak as a writer or what you’d like to improve upon or just give me suggestions of things you’d like for me to address.   Seeing as I’ve never done this before any insight whatsoever would be greatly appreciated!

Email me at hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com or leave your thoughts in a comment.

Can’t wait to see you all in 10/11ish days at the Friday mixer at the Radisson!

Woohoo!

xx

Hy

 

Sometimes you miss the one who hurt you the most.

In the depths of my fears I think of only one voice and feel only one set of arms around me as the storm slams against the shutters: his.

I long for his calm words, his thoughtful response, his bulldog ways.  When I was broken he rushed to my side.  Always.  He was my safe place.

It’s been one year and 4 months since he showed up to my house to stay the night and instead asked for a break from me; 8 months since his tear-streaked face left my home for the last time; 6 months since he brought his new woman to my gym class;  5 months since he clutched her in photos and kissed her smooth, smiling cheek; and two days since he last looked at me online.

The knot of suspicion I carried with me like a baby clutched close to my chest left when he did.  I celebrate its absence, dance on its grave each time I breathe with a lightness which eluded me when he was close and yet I pine and I miss.   I miss him.

I am ashamed.

I am embarrassed.

My longing proves my weakness, my failure.  The seasons have changed and I have not.

I have raged against the machine of men clamoring to get between my legs and bellowed at the one or two who have dared to acknowledge my heart.  I have no safe place, I am unmoored and I have no one to blame but myself.

I hate that I miss him still, this soft and sad part of me.  It clings to me like the scab that it is and I want it to be gone, to peel it away with a long, low sting to reveal the fresh pink of health below.  But maybe there is no health beneath all of this.  Maybe I will always be lost and stubbornly stuck in the rot of my life.

::

The gale of confusion and impersonal betrayal I experience in my dating life has worn me down to a bloody stump; doubt in men has seeped into my consciousness and it scares me.  If I lose hope then who am I?

I scour the transcripts of my interactions searching for clues and force myself to put one foot in front of the other only to admit to my own subterfuge.  I am abnormal, extraordinary.  I turn an innocent afternoon of get-to-know-you into a mastermind game of deflection and redirection: do not get to know me, get to know what I’m willing to give you.

Sex is safe, I am not.

::

He will be leaving my life soon.  All the way in the way that the internet can afford us, anyway.

I will no longer be subjected to his fancy black car parked neatly near his building.  Checking my mail will be an ordinary event: I will no longer feel compelled to open the little brass door only if I am sleek and beautiful.  Walking to the office, to the pool, living my life in my little square block will become an empty theater.  My audience and potential critic will be gone.  Not that he probably cared anyway, I’m sure.

Longing for his support when the clouds have blocked the sun is an outright betrayal of myself, of my determination to heal and move on.  I recognize I have no control over how I feel and that this is [obviously] part of the process but I am moved to tears nonetheless.  Why have I found nothing to fill the void he left behind?

I still feel the spring of the curls on his chest beneath my palm, the scratch of his beard on my face, his beautiful cock buried deep inside of me, his taste.

This is an extraction.  Nothing will grow back.  I’ll have to chew around it.

On occasion I find myself in that filthy sess pool we call Facebook.  I slap myself with knowledge I have no right to know and grind on happy thoughts, toss darts on the board of Good For Him.  I walk away stiff-legged and raw, armed with ammunition to continue my quick clip away.  Thankfully.

This cycle of need, burn, and retreat is like the earth around the sun: there’s a summer when it’s hotly uncomfortable and a winter when I am cold and distant.  How many times do I have to go around him?  How many seasons must pass before I break loose and no longer taste him?

The gift of hindsight left a present at my feet: I have never loved anyone as much as I loved him.

When I loved him, when the loving was a thing I did every day, it became a part of my fiber and when it was stripped away I was left bereft.  A tree in the dead of winter, naked and bare.  Starving for a spring that has yet to come.

Instead storm after storm and a longing for a man who didn’t want me, who never wanted me, pounds at me.  I foolishly throw myself to the wolves hoping one of them will recognize me instead of devour me.  I own that.  But I must rest.  I must stop.

I must surround myself instead with my other anchors.  The batwomen and sisters I rely upon, the one or two or three men who encourage me to be sensitive, the sister who now knows that I write and is proud of me.

To look at me you would never guess at my continued heartbreak.  To read me you might not guess it either, but it’s time to be honest. It’s true: I am still heartbroken.

I still feel his absence.  I still wish that things were different, that someone, anyone cared about me, but most of all him.  I am terrified of attempting to find someone new.  In fact I feel wholly ill equipped to do so.  I am a big, fat faker.  I only go through the motions because I derive some sick purpose out of it.  I am a masochist to a frustrating degree.

::

Longing and heartbreak are the same as it was a thousand years ago.  I am blathering on about nothing, as usual.  I wonder what their advice was then all those long seasons ago.

 

 

 

 

I’ll show you mine – Eroticon Live 2016

So, I’ll be taking my happy American ass off to England in roughly a week and a half for Eroticon.  HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  Go ahead and ask me if I have my presentation ready for my panel.  I dare you. I’m basically in denial about the trip meaning I have no where to stay Thursday night or Monday-Wednesday.  I’ve had a handful of offers from kind souls, but for whatever reason(s) I haven’t accepted. I sort of want to just be footloose and fancy free, I suppose, so I’m going with it.

Anyway, Molly has put together this little Q&A for all of us who are attending in the hopes that we’ll all get a sense of who’s who.  I can’t believe I actually get to fill out one of these things!

NAME (and Twitter name if you have one)

Hyacinth Jones.  @adissolutelife

If you had the opportunity to rename yourself (or your blog) what would you pick?

Nope.  Love the name and my pseudonym!

What are you most looking forward to at Eroticon Live and/or is there anything you are nervous about?

I’m looking forward to being Hy as a real person, not just as a two-dementional person with lots of words to say and tits to flash.  And of course I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in the flesh and sharing a bunch of hugs.  I’m a hugger.

I should be nervous about presenting my session, but I am painfully aware that I’m lacking any fear or nerves.  Perhaps they’ll hit me later, but I guess I’m confident in how open and non-judgmental everyone will be or maybe I’m just really excited about what I’ll be presenting and it’s wiping out any jitters.  Either way, I’m nothing but excited at this point.  Ask me 30 minutes before I go on, though.  The answer might be very different.

Have you planned which sessions you will be attending or are you more of a spur of the moment kind of person?

Not even a little bit.  As my lack of lodging arrangements should tell you, I’m pretty much just winging it.  Naturally I’ll be attending the two I’m on, though.

What essential items to your life will you be bringing with you to Eroticon Live? (you can have a maximum of 5)

My phone, my laptop, an international converter plug thingy, two pairs of contact lenses, and an open mind.

A new cocktail has been made in your honor.  What would be the key ingredient and what would it be called?

Gin, because ever since my grandmother gave me my first G&T when I was 19 I’ve had a love affair with it, and I’d call it the Hey, Barb.

And finally… Complete the sentence; I have yet to…..

…see the faces of so many.

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!

hy_tits_banner

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.

::

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…

::

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.

::

Kim has returned to the fold!

Kim has returned to the fold!

Just Chilling…….

::

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.

::

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.

::

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.