Friday, August 26th, is Boobday!

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Happy Friday, everyone!

Be you, be awesome, be phenomenal and stand up for your right to do with your body what you will, including exposing it.

The Burkini ban controversy has highlighted the continuing objectification and politicizing of women’s bodies and proven that it comes from many angles — this one as either religious or personal freedom — and not just a sexual one.

Ultimately, no one, no country, no entity should have control over a woman’s body other than the woman herself and she is the lone proprietor of that body.  Period.

If she chooses to cover it it is no less her right than it is for me to bare it all.  We may disagree with why she covers herself just as she may disagree with our exposure, but we would be colossal hypocrites if we said she couldn’t.

Thank you as always for being a part of this little movement and for showing women everywhere that we have a choice.

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'd forgotten I had this little teddy.

I’d forgotten I had this little teddy.

NOT my tits:

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I love the simplicity of this snap of Lauren (her 2nd here). A moment caught in time. (Click the pic for her blog.)

A pic of me in my new undies.

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I love the close up, the intimacy.

Keeping my husband motivated during the night shift.

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Kate turns to the Universe… and us.

Tired, sad, anxious boobs for you tonight. Feels good to share them so I guess that’s something.
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Mz. Hyde is back! I love the pull and the twist!

Mz. Hyde is back! I love the pull and the twist!

PeekaBoob!  Happy Friday & Happy Boobday!
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Click below to see other amazing Boobday photos!

Being assertive: How domination has taught me to stick up for myself in the vanilla world

The journey towards myself has been a journey of equal measure away from others.  Away from The Neighbor, away from my exhusband, away from my mother and father.  What do I need?  What do I want?  Who am I within those constructs??

As a woman I have been raised to acquiesce, to be demure, dainty, and gentle.  Imagine the struggle I had as a loud, bossy, effervescent, creative little girl who could never be pushed high enough on the swing or spun fast enough in a hug.  I always wanted more than I got and I wished every night to be like the little girls in my class with the perfect pigtails and clean dresses and neat handwriting, to be soft and quiet. But I was an athletic girl and competitive, driven to surprise people who thought my bright blonde hair and love of dresses meant I was afraid to get dirty.

That spirit saved me.  I loved being strong, fast, and impressing everyone — especially the boys — with my skills versus my sweetness, but still I figured out early on that I was a square peg and the world wanted a round one.  Despite abandoning the outward appearance of what was expected of me, I still fell prey to how I was expected to feel.

I was afraid to be angry, to demand to be treated in certain ways, to stand up for myself.  Those were not only unattractive traits, but completely unacceptable in both my world and family, and so I created a life for myself where on the one hand I was big and bold, but on the other meek and passive.  The life of the party and unafraid, yet a complete push-over who would accept any kind of treatment because she so badly didn’t want to be abandoned.

My parents rejected my pleas to be heard, my exhusband was incapable of mistakes, and my last love always had one foot out the door at the first hint of dissatisfaction.  But it was with him, The Neighbor, that the bold inner-side of me began to grow: he wanted me to dominate him.

TN and I never had an open discussion about his needs or wants regarding domination and submission.  From my perspective, one day he started agreeing to my outrageous demands to vacuum while in my panties.  I was confused and turned on all at once as I watched this densely muscled, hung young man push my vacuum cleaner around in my lace underwear.  He was acquiescent, boyish, happy and utterly exquisite.  It thrilled me.

Eventually we semi-formalized the exchange and I would tie a little black velvet ribbon around his neck and he’d kneel with his hands behind his back and wait for me to come home.  In the candle light I’d draw on his pale skin and finger fuck his tight little asshole while he was bound spread eagle to the bed.  His nipples were conduits to his cock and I’d eagerly pluck and suck on them until he writhed and begged me to stop and when I’d worked us both up into frothy messes I’d set him loose on me and cry big, fat tears of  release.  It was darkly beautiful, our little secret, and felt like I’d slipped into my real skin for the first time in my life.  He got me.

But then it went sideways.

He asked for tasks and wouldn’t do them.  He’d pick and choose when he would submit and for how long.  He’d create online profiles on D/s sites and keep them hidden from me.  I took aftercare seriously, but he would reject my advances to care for him.  He didn’t need me.  His submission seemed to be a limit to his sexuality, not a condition of it.  Submission was just a kink, not a state of mind.

I felt off-balance, weak, and used.

To assert demands which I had been taught my entire life were repulsive meant I crossed into treacherous territory, a landscape of power which was completely foreign to me, and he never joined me there.  He stayed on the sidelines and kept the gift of submission, his presence with me, to himself.  And it gutted me.

Standing in that spot alone, the only thing that could replace the energy lost to get there would have been his compliance, his submission.  Instead I was the asshole with my dick in my hand and he got to laugh all the way to wherever it was he wanted to go.  Without me.

Domination and submission are a symbiosis of energies, one does not exist without the other.  We can throw as many tricks into the ring as we want, but unless someone is there to witness them, to value them and hold them close, they’re useless and invisible and our energy is completely wasted.

That was me: a fool in the spotlight all alone. 

Our relationship failed for many reasons, least of which was his shadyness, but I didn’t limp away empty-handed.  As I’ve left my parents, my husband, and then TN, I have stood taller and understood better what it means to insist on something and through D/s I was given a glimpse — though a very tiny one — of how that could feel in real life.

It’s not enough to just be bold in life outside the walls of my home, I must be bold within them, as well.  If I don’t respond appropriately to bad behavior then I only have myself to blame and if the person behaving badly doesn’t have a reaction I like then that’s the correction point.  That’s the moment to assert myself.

Until recently I’d only dabbled in D/s much like a non-runner might commit to running at dawn each morning.  In other words: half-heartedly and not at all consistently.

I let my lovers toss me around and pull my hair and I tied up a lover, but I had’t invested myself in dominating anyone; it was far too demanding.  Men in general are scary, untrustworthy and dangerous.  It’s why I keep them safely on a shelf with just their hard cocks lined up like so many sausages on a conveyor belt.

Lately, though, a desire deep in my belly has grown to an incessant need: I need to dominate someone.  I need to use him to pleasure myself in an overt way, I want to own him and take care of him.  I want him to know what I’m doing and I want him to revel in it, to be my boy, my pet, mine.  More simply put, I want to state a need and have it met.  And so I have begun the search in earnest.

The wild little girl meets the woman who’s denied her inner self for most of her life and what I hope to happen is to find a partner who can meet me in that ring, to stand beside me and hold my hand even as he kneels beside me.  But this man has proven to be as elusive as any other unicorn.

Men in the D/s world who claim to be submissive, much like TN, seem to be more enthralled with the idea than the practice.  The low hoops I set for them to step through prove too much to bear and unlike the Hyacinth in the vanilla world, the Hyacinth in the D/s world does not allow for such mistakes or false claims.

Domme Hy asks that you reply to her messages in a timely manner.  If you don’t she politely reminds you of this requirement and gives you a chance to improve.  If you do not comply then she ends the connection, period.  She tells the man she has no time for games and is looking for someone who is serious about proving their submission even in small ways as they begin to get to know oneanother.

Domme Hy doesn’t accept ambiguous bullshit or bad behavior and the revelation that it’s not only ok to feel this way but also to to act upon it has stopped me cold in my tracks.  I hadn’t realized how hard I was still trying to fit into that round peg until I found a square hole.

And the light has been shed on all of my relationships.

Instead of telling others how I want to be treated and feeling as though my work is done I have come to understand to the fibers of my being that words really are meaningless.  As much as I love them, they’re literally worth the paper they’re printed on.

If I say I want to be treated a certain way and I am then treated in a different way the only reasonable response I have in the D/s world is to correct it and correct it immediately because that’s what a Domme does.  And what has become crushingly obvious to me over the summer is that’s what vanilla Hy needs to do, as well.

The veil of unattractiveness I have long associated with honesty regarding my feelings has been lifted and I am less afraid of someone abandoning me because I am displeased, angry, or unhappy.  Go, motherfucker.  Go.

Recently a beautiful submissive man hovered over me and sucked on my fingers.  His eyes were tightly shut and my free hand felt the muscles along his ribcage ripple.  “Cum for me, beautiful boy,” I said and his hand began to beat harder on his cock.  He moaned and jerked and I crooned to him, “My beautiful boy,” as hot globs of his subby jizz landed on my belly and breasts.

I pulled him down into my arms and stroked his temple until he fell asleep.  Our play had been very light, mostly vanilla by all rights, but I had bade him to spank my flank and fuck me and directed every candlelit movement.  He slept for a few hours and awoke stiff and awkward.  I released him to return home knowing something was wrong, but he was shut down.

The next afternoon I reached out and asked if he was ok.  He took many hours to respond and when he did he appeared still shut down.  I offered my support and told him he may be experiencing subdrop.  Three days later I still hadn’t heard from him so I asked for him to please let me know if he was ok.  He never responded.

Vanilla Hy would be mildly devastated, but Domme Hy recognizes with great clarity the limitations of her responsibility and energy required to resolve this.  I have done everything I can and he has gone to ground.  Whether that’s because it was the perfect night for him or the worst, I don’t know, but we had spoken for many hours about what we wanted and how we would proceed and as far as I was concerned I followed all of those rules.

If he ever reaches out to me again I will tell him I have no desire to interact with someone who is capable of mistreating someone like he mistreated me.  As Ferns has shared with me, many submissive males believe Dommes have no feelings and may be discarded like chewed gum.  Fantasy level: Achieved.  Next!  And it feels all too familiar.

It’s difficult to explain the long road to this place, the odd twists and turns I’ve experienced, but if I could shout to all the corners of the earth to everyone to be unafraid of their feelings and to express them freely and without fear I would every day for the rest of my life.  When you express a need, those worthy of you ask you how they may meet it.  Period.

Whether it’s a friend or parent, or a naked lover at my feet, the people I want to let into my life will accept me in my entirety or not at all and I can’t accept less than that.  I simply don’t need the inconvenience.  I deserve to be who I am — a woman with feelings and a woman with needs — and the people in my life deserve my honesty.

Fuck.

Fuck.

This is so important to who I want to be, I can feel it deep in my heart and I know it’s true because the tears in my eyes tell me so.  Ok, Hy.  You can do this.  Just be you.  It’s ok. 

 

 

 

Friday, August 19th, is Boobday!

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It’s amazing how cathartic it is to be with a child even if they’re fucking nuts.  My week with Peyton has been incredible, filled with so many hugs, less yelling than usual, and some monumental chats about kissy kissing, doing your best, and being kind to others.

This summer really must be ending because I couldn’t have had a week like this one if it weren’t.

I hope you all have a spectacular weekend!

And to the ladies who send me their incredible photos:

Please ALWAYS include whether or not you want to be anonymous.  I can’t possibly remember what everyone wants/needs and I’ve yet to create a spreadsheet to keep track.  So I’m going to call you all Miss _ today until I hear from each of you.  Or maybe I’ve forgotten the pseudonym I typically give you (I can’t remember those either!) and you want me to change it to that.  Just shoot me an email and I’ll update it as soon as I can!

Also, to all the ladies out there who don’t see a version of themselves here, please help me change that!  I know not everyone is a large-breasted white woman and we need to see more of everyone, but I can only post what I’m sent.  Think about it and let me know.

xx

Hy

PS: I’ll update the post later with everyone’s notes; I’m super busy today!

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:

An oldie, but goodie.

An oldie, but goodie.

NOT my tits:

What you'd see of Miss S if you were about to take it in your mouth.

What you’d see of Miss S if you were about to take it in your mouth.

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Kate offers us a little something.

Kate offers us a little something.

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Kim shows us where she wants us.

Kim shows us where she wants us.

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More loveliness from Sandy.

More loveliness from Sandy.

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Sassy here has some gorgeous orbs.

Sassy here has some gorgeous orbs.

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My boob-twin, Anonymous Aussie, has returned!!

My boob-twin, Anonymous Aussie, has returned!!

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Please welcome Miss B, everyone! It's her first time!

Please welcome Miss B, everyone! It’s her first time!

 

 

 

 

Click the links below to see other amazing things!:

 

I don’t know what to do next.

I began writing because I had to.  Words crawled against the underside of my skin like so many marching ants, less like blood flowing and more like an itch that had to be scratched.  And so I did.

I began an anonymous sex blog on Blogger and wrote about the intersection of motherhood and being single, but I quickly realized I didn’t want to talk about my child in that iniquitous arena.  I morphed it into what I really wanted to talk about — my sex life — and wrote with an openness as wide as my legs.  Too wide, as it turned out, because I naively shared the URL with lovers and friends and soon felt the pinch of the gag in my mouth.  Semi-anonymous is not fun, y’all.

I decided to shut it down and regroup, but not before I somehow I caught Rori’s eye way back in 2011.  And thus began my journey to not only continue to write but to improve upon it.  I wanted to create content that was beautiful, yet compelling, thought-provoking yet welcoming and above all else entertaining and A Dissolute Life Means… was born.

Earning the top spot on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2015 list is what one might consider the pinnacle of my blogging “career.”  It’s what I ached to reach and worked so hard to achieve.  Its subjectivity humbles me, but the position also creates a welcome pressure to prove to everyone that I indeed earned that top slot.  I don’t want anyone to wonder, “Why the fuck did Hy get #1?”  At the very worst, I’d at least want someone to think that I’d worked hard to get there and at the best think it was well-deserved.

But with attaining a goal comes a strange dark side of achievement, the side of the mountain I couldn’t see as I was climbing the other: Now what??

Looking at the seven past #1s I find a variety of things ranging from a continued vibrant internet and writing presence to none at all.  One #1 disappeared shortly after her nomination under a dark cloud of allegations of illegal activity and another #1, Pandora, seems to have disappeared for nearly two years.  The other five #1s (Sinclair Sexsmith, Dangerous Lilly, Guy New York, Molly Moore, and Girl on the Net have all done exactly what I hope to do: grow.

They grew as writers, artists, and activists; they kept going, wrote books, gave talks, plugged in to the community of which they’re such a big part.  Some have even taken over Eroticon such is their dedication to all of us.

There’s a silence here in my life right now; I’m catching my breath.  Maybe I haven’t actually summitted anything.  Maybe I’m only half way there. 

This year has been a strange mix of unbelievable highs (Eroticon and London) and radical lows (health, finances, shitty anniversaries, continued heartbreak) and I have been bereft of my normally easily tappable imagination.  It’s not that writing feels like a chore, it’s just that I can’t seem to carve out the sacred space to allow it to happen.

And I have no shortage of stories to tell: Charlie the “Italian” waiter in Bristol, Poppy, Peter, George with the man bun, the many sub males with whom I am exploring my dominant side.  The men flow like the wine in my life – fast and continuous – but my creative juices not so much.

When I think about where else I want to go here a few things leap out at me: I want to convert this blog into a book, I want travel to London to attend and/or present at Eroticon 2017, 2018 and beyond if at all humanly possible, I want to keep advocating for body positivity and feminist sexual freedom.  And most of all, I want to keep writing.

I want to fill the world with my silly words that connect me to all of you.  I want to make art with these little black squiggly things pretty much for-fucking-ever since I can’t fathom my life without them – that’d be like eating food that tasted like nothing but chalk — but there’s a vacuum that my small success has created and I feel adrift.

I need to look more closely at my surroundings; there’s so much more beauty left to ascend and consume.

In lieu of a creative emotional space I have fallen still on my mountainside.  My exhausting summer of mind, body, and spirit must come to an end; fall, my most favorite, is oh so close.   Things will change because they must, but they’re going to change in the direction of my choosing.  I will regroup and refocus, double-down on my efforts because I’m not done.  Not even close.

I now know what is next for me: More — more art, more community, more Hy — and I will look at my achievements as flags staked along the way, not as stopping points, because I have higher to climb.  Hopefully, a lot higher.

 

Friday, August 12th, is Boobday!

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Life is such a funny thing.   Existence is complicated, but simple.  In a single day we can experience a devastating loss and a massive success; thunderstorm in the morning and blue skies by nightfall.

Every Friday I sit down to write this post and I think Fuck.  Thank god the week is over! and then I think, Do I ever have anything else to say?

To be fair, this summer has been particularly awful for me.  It started in May and seems to still be going strong, though I’m hopeful that once the school year starts in the next few weeks the routine will help my world right itself again.

I hope everyone else is having an interesting time of it, as well.

I love you 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:

I couldn't use this filter on IG because - gasp - you can see my breasts.

I couldn’t use this filter on IG because – gasp – you can see my breasts.

NOT my tits:

I love how Sandy never forgets about us.

I love how Sandy never forgets about us.

Was sharing boobs in a Fet chat room. Now I’m sharing with you.

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Kate has been gone a while.  Say hello, everyone!

Kate has been gone a while. Say hello, everyone!

A kind of peeping solo boob for you tonight! 🙂
I like my skin in this shot.
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Our Kim from South Africa braves the cold for us.

Our Kim from South Africa braves the cold for us.

“These hooters have voted #saelections, note the mark on my thumb, not sure how you guys do it!!”

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This is Miss Lonely's first Boobday!  I'm sure she had a lovely homecoming smooshing those against her sweetie.

This is Miss Lonely’s first Boobday! I’m sure she had a lovely homecoming smooshing those against her sweetie.

My first boob day post for you. I just sent this pic to my boyfriend. We have been apart for a week. I told him my boobs miss him. And they do.

Click on the links below to see other amazing photos!

Money ruins everything.

“Can I see your ID, Hy?” he said suddenly.

“My ID?”

“Yeah.  Lemme see it.”

I dug in my wallet and handed it to him, his thigh pressed against mine in the horseshoe booth. He fumbled with something then pressed it back into my hand.  There was a $100 bill there now.

The tears I’d been holding back for the last thirty minutes sprang to my eyes.  What a relief!  We could finally talk about money now, I thought.

“I want to show you something,” I said and pulled out my phone and opened my banking account.  A little working wheel spun as we watched together.

Checking: -$88.83

Savings: $3.22

“You have no idea how badly I needed a little help,” and then with tears streaming down my face I explained to him the nightmare experience I’d been having with my bank and credit card over the past four days and how I had only $50 in my wallet until that moment.

I felt relieved, safe.  I don’t believe in white knights, but maybe I was wrong.

Will and I met on a sugar daddy site, a place where men seek [usually] discreet relationships with women who, in exchange for whatever kind of relationship everyone is comfortable with, receive monetary support.

The way the site is set up the SDs report their net worth and yearly incomes and what monthly expenditure they’re willing to provide.  The money ranges from “negotiable,” which has no value listed to “minimal” (a $1000 a month) to “high” ($10k a month and up).  Will listed his net worth at $2 million with a $250,000 yearly income, and as with most SDs had chosen “negotiable” as his desired support level.

When we first connected online I wasn’t interested, but his confidence and sense of humor won me over.  He asked why someone as beautiful as me was on a site like that one and I opened up to him like a cheap novel spilling all the dirty details.

How my divorce and staying home to start a family then start a new career had devastated my finances; how I sold stock, cashed out some of my 401k, and take on any and all side-work outside of my regular job I can possibly get in order to cover my bills; how I now make enough money to owe the IRS, but not enough to live off of; and how despite all that, my monthly expenses went up $1000/month last fall and I’ve been struggling to make ends meet ever since.

He told me he was impressed and reassured me that I’d done everything I possibly could.  I liked that this stranger’s sentiment countered my deepest fear of being a colossal failure.  “Life is hard sometimes, Hy,” he’d said.  “I’ve been there.”

When we met after three weeks of emails and texts I hadn’t planned to let him slip bareback into me while bent over my front seat, but I was overcome with passion.  We’d talked for hours and sipped our drinks in a plush hotel lobby and he assured me that he wanted to help in any way he could.  Later that night he’d text me “Don’t sell yourself short.  I can help you in so many ways.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but was encouraged nonetheless that he might be my fairy godfather of finances in this desperate time.

Accepting help from anyone in any form is difficult for me and asking for money is even more revolting; the situation in general puts me on my heel and while talking to potential SDs I felt raw and vulnerable discussing what they’d get from me in exchange for essentially being on their payroll.

Will had set himself apart quickly by not treating me like an object and so far everything he had said and done backed that up.  Everything was falling effortlessly into place: We liked each other.  I genuinely wanted to sleep with him.  He genuinely wanted to help me.

I stared at the $100 bill wishing my life were different, but feeling relatively lucky all the same; it was humiliating, yet overwhelming, a little hopeful.  I might really make it through this with his help.

I had cried en route to meet him, fearing rejection and humiliation at having to finally bring up our financial arrangment, but it was all for naught.  It was going to be ok…

And then, it wasn’t.

“You know, Hy,” he said as I closed my bank app and set down my phone.  “I’m so glad you waited to tell me about your situation until after I gave you the money, because had you opened with that, had you led with needing money, I’d have given you the $100 (because I’d already set it aside for you last week) and walked out and never spoken to you again.  That’s really wonderful of you because now I know you’re genuine and more importantly, you know I’m genuine.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

The next hour the tears continued as we debated the logic of his words.  “I don’t know why you insist on being upset and ignoring my compliment!” he argued.

“It’s not a compliment, Will, because I was only lucky just now.  I came here knowing I would have to ask you for help because I’m so desperate and you’re telling me that had I done that you’d have walked out on me without discussing a thing with me and that’s shitty and wrong.  You have no idea how hard this is for me!”

“But why is it ok to ask me for help and none of the other guys from the other sites??” he asked angrily.

“Because,” I said between sniffs, “I already told you, those other sites aren’t set up to discuss financial situations.  Seeking Arrangement is!  I can’t tell men I meet on AFF, ‘Hey, I need help with my bills this month,’ they’ll think I’m a fucking prostitute!”

He talked to me slowly and calmly, like I was the village idiot; I shut down.  Nothing I said could convince him of my vulnerability or how what he said was so belittling, disempowering, and outright appalling.  A woman he met on a sugar daddy site is not allowed to discuss her financial situation with him first lest she piss him off and he take his ball and leave.  Screw you, Hy, for having needs and making them known to me before I asked.

I absentmindedly watched the bartenders do their busy work and wished I were somewhere else.

He reminded me that we’d only met twice and to have some perspective when I couldn’t stop crying. But how could I possibly stop the river of emotions that had spilled over the dam?  Humiliation, degradation, guilt, rage, helplessness, embarrassment, sorrow, fear.  Each one a torrent in its own right.

I felt deflated as I sat beside his bulk.  Something had just been bludgeoned between us, the little flame of hope and friendship was now a black, pulpy mess.  He was mad that I seemed to be deliberately missing his magnanimous attitude towards me and I was crushed that I was treated like an ingrate with no agency.

Numbly, I let him walk me to my car.  He made an inappropriate joke about fucking me by my car again.  I kissed him and tried to flirt, but I felt broken and listless.  I sobbed on the way home and opened a bottle of red wine.

Deep into my cups I reached out.  “I’m free Friday after all.”  He laughed and said he wished he was fucking me right then.

I felt lost.

What was I doing??  What was I trying to salvage?  This is not the arrangement I seek, to hope that the guy I’m seeing will toss me some cash because he’s in a good mood.  If I were financially stable, that would be fucking amazing, but I’m terrified each month that I won’t be able to pay my bills and I had made that abundantly clear to Will.  I want a friends with benefits who understands his cherry to the situation sundae is money as I understand my cherry is discretion and companionship.

Money is a delicate, powerful thing and it reminds me of anthrax.  It rips families and friends apart, destroys business partnerships and marriages; I’ve been reduced to tears because of it all week.  Money isn’t everything, but when you don’t have enough it’s all-consuming because it equals survival.  Money equals safety.

One thing that has become abundantly clear to me through all of this is I am wholly unprepared for how other people feel about their money as it relates to me.  Will became defensive and dismissive because I suspect he feared I was only there for his money and the irony of where and how we met appears to be completely lost on him.  It appears I wasn’t cut any slack.

In that booth with him, weepy eyed and defeated, I watched helplessly as he moved away from me, my tears and ingratitude driving him away and I felt even more sorrow because in that moment I realized that I had somehow also hurt him.  I didn’t hear from him the entire next day.

Clearly, neither of us are fit for this sort of arrangement.

e[lust] #84

Elust 84 header
Photo courtesy of A to sub-Bee

Welcome to Elust #84

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #85 Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Lightweight
About Those “Apple Thighs”
Why the Hell Haven’t I Rebelled Yet?

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

IDENTITY – hiding the evidence
friday flash–service

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Good In Bed

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

 

Erotic Fiction

Ride
Pubic Disturbance
Colds and Lust
Sex Machine
Chemistry
A Dirty Bathroom Floor
Tether
I’m Sorry I’m So Silent
S’il Vous Plaît
Edge of Morning
Dancin’ (Most) of the Night Away
Airport Arrivals

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

42 Kinds of Casual Sex
Living in Fear – An Essay on Male Entitlement
Pride

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How To Give A Bare Handed Spanking
Reconciling dominance and love
She’s a Very Kinky Gor

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Run the good race
IUD DIARY #1 (1.5 WEEKS LATER)

Erotic Non-Fiction

We Made A Resolution To Make Love Everyday
The 20 Minute Orgasm
More on cunt, corridors & Schroedinger’s cock
Stoned Birthday Sex
Room with a View
I’m Not Done With Your Throat Yet
It’s a strange path to trust.

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Poly and Pets
mono-poly

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Why Write Erotic Fiction?
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Take me as I am.

I laid upon my dark sheets, a pale doll0p of cream on a blackberry compote, and imagined what his big bear hands would feel like.

Warm, strong, the pads on his fingertips slightly rougher from years worth of the kind of manual labor all able-bodied males are roped into doing.

I hiked up my shirt and grabbed a mound of breast.  Perhaps he would do the same.  I smiled, stretched, got out of bed.  The shirt caught on my breasts.

Then there was a knock at the door.  That would be him.

 

Hy coming for you

I am unfit for a relationship.

It’s Friday night and I’m binge watching Frasier.  Peyton is at my parents’ and I am at once exhausted and angsty.

The week has taken the piss out of me.  My credit card company is inept and drafted an enormous payment without my authority.  As I type I’m currently $275 in the hole.  That’s -$275, in case you think you’ve misread that.  I bawled out everyone and their mother, but still they said, “You’ll be reimbursed within three to five days, Ms. Jones.”  Three to fucking five days. 

Work has been intense and particularly stressful and I have ignored moving my body which is the most important thing I do each week to maintain my sanity.  Instead I swim in golden bottles of Sauvingon Blanc and get lost in my baby’s eyes as I do our bedtime routine.  The love I feel as I look into those blue eyes overwhelms me, fills me with light and this eternal ache, a mother’s love mixed with stark raving fear for the future of my love.

But tonight I am alone and I have none of that love to anchor me, just the wine to float on

Will, the sugar daddy, was forced to cancel our plans to consummate our relationship in a bed instead of over the front of seat of my car and The Artist’s attempt at a booty call fell on deaf ears.  I can’t be bothered, honestly.  I have bigger fish to fry.

Something keeps coming up for me, this sense that I am unfit for a relationship, and it’s been all consuming these past few days and weeks.  It’s been a real revelation; it all makes sense now.  I’m the square peg and a relationship is the round hole.

Yes, I want to be treated with respect and loved and adored and all of that, but the honest truth is that I cannot give anyone much in return.  I am a decent human being and treat everyone with kindness, but that’s not giving much.  That’s the bare minimum. 

 I am able to skate by with men because I’m charming and sexy and “busy” — oh, so busy.  And everyone thinks I’m open and that they know me, that they’ve learned a secret about me, but I’m performing to such a degree they don’t notice me hiding over there.  And I have no desire to come out.
As a young man recently accused me, I’m good at “the game.”  And fuck it if he wasn’t right.

I dance away and twirl just out of reach time and time again.  I am transfixed by others just like me, shiny objects shimmering in the distance just as I shimmer in the distance for someone else.  No one can catch me and as I’ve cried and lamented over the past years of my life at my bad luck it’s been because I choose the wrong men to focus on.  I can accept my role in my own misery.

Like I said the other day, I don’t trust myself.  It’s like I’m drunk on trust issues: my judgement is impaired.  I shouldn’t get behind the wheel of my love life.

I like men who are falsely close, those men who resemble Labradors and who feel like old friends immediately. Petra and The Soldier were like that and this new man Poppy, too.  Or I like men who can never commit to me like The Neighbor or the sugar daddy, Will.

There have been an extremely small number of men who’ve wanted to be present with and for me, but they’ve gotten no air time either in my life or here.  I found them to be unstable, strange, clingy — which may actually have been true, but the thought of blending our lives together gave me hives and choked me.

I maintain that the man I will ultimately want will know me as Hy and as me and will love me all the more for watching me soar away and yet circle back to rest with him because he is my safe place, my rock.  I’ve never had a rock before.

I am drawn again and again to the age-old saying of, “Youth is wasted on the young.”  Truer words may have never been uttered.

I spent years suffering poor body image and low self-esteem in general and suffered an even greater strife of not truly knowing myself until now.  At 40 I understand my wounds as if I had held the knife myself.  At 20, 25 or even 30 I knew only a fraction of who I was and my marriage was doomed to fail because of this; my life was always on this trajectory though there was a part of me that tried mightily to solve for it, to be traditional and monogamous.  But I don’t think it’s me.

I am wild and wanton, I push boundaries and crave newness.  I have grown accustomed to my aloneness, but I recognize that if I had a base to return to I would again and again; happily.  Like a toddler leaving her mother’s hip to explore further and further each time.  

My own mother didn’t appreciate that kind of exploration, it was threatening to her and so I pretended to be the daughter she needed and wanted.  And then I pretended to be the friend people needed and wanted, the wife, the girlfriend.  Today I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore and being alone isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

I’m not a religious woman, but I believe in magic, the magic of coincidence and observation.  What makes me notice these things now?  They’ve always been this way, but now it’s like seeing The Matrix; I am me.  And so I find it no small coincidence that this blog is named A Dissolute Life Means… for I am dissolute.  Completely, utterly, beautifully.  It’s like past me knew exactly what future me needed to embrace.

I am not ashamed of this and I am not trying to be anything but.  I am a good person, a perfect person in my own flawed way.  I have carved out the smallest little corner of the Universe for myself and I feel decently enough about it; it feels good, warm.  I’m happy here with you all.

Men have become like ocean waves since my feelings have begun to shift, crashing on my shore relentlessly.  I have to be more careful about poking around out there because they will want me if I say I’m available and the truth is, I’m not.

Not to the guy who lost the condom in me and came silently and not to the guy who disappeared for two months after our date and then I couldn’t remember him (or the date) when he texted again finally.  Not the guy who popped up after weeks to tell me that his lifting buddy pointed out my apartments as we drove by and said, “Hey, I dated a girl named Hy who lives there.” and the guy texted me to tell me “Small world.”  Not the guy who won’t let me wriggle away and pinned me down for a date.  Not the other guy who wouldn’t let me wriggle away and who also pinned me down for a date.

I’ve named Hy after Samantha Jones from Sex and the City.  She was always the character who was criticized the most as being one-dimensional, but I found Samantha extremely complex.  What female character has ever been lauded as sexually free without being a caricature of a desperate woman?  She just plain liked to fuck and wasn’t interested in anything more, unlike so many other slutty female characters out there who were ultimately looking for a boyfriend.  There is nothing wrong with not wanting a boyfriend and I do not want a boyfriend. 

I want to be free to do as I please, to go where I want with whomever I want.  I don’t want to answer to anyone.  Most importantly I don’t want to worry about anyone else.  I want to focus only on my child and myself, my career, my health, my animals whose needs are so ever-present it’s a miracle I even get to sleep.  One is beside me as I type, his black fur over-heating my thigh even as he purrs softly, ignorant of my discomfort.

There are risks to this route of course: if I don’t care, they don’t care.  My time is less valuable and thus plans are more like suggestions rather than commitments.  Fades are the name of the game instead of graceful goodbyes.  It’s the tax for the reality of the situation but it’s all I want to spend.  

Watching Frasier I’m reminded that 20 years ago we we talked to each other more, dating was a relational exercise more than just words on a screen.  We heard each other’s voices, expected someone’s complete attention.
There were endless debates on how long to wait to call a boy, etc., but that was so easy compared to today’s dating challenges and I want to return to basics.  I want to do only what I really want to.  I’ll walk *this* far and no more.  If no one is there where I stand then I will change direction and I suspect that I’ll make a beautiful pattern in the sand as I walk here and there trying to discover which way to go, deliberate and mindful of what feels right for me.

I might be alone tonight, but I’ve never felt more by my own side.

 

 

 

 

Friday, August 5th, is Boobday!

hy_tits_banner

Thank god it’s August already!!  And as I write this, August 4th, it’s exactly 7 months before Eroticon 2017 in London!

So, please, if you have a minute, click here and contribute to my travel fund.  I need all the help I can get!

Or, click here, and buy tickets of your own to attend and learn amazing shit and grow as a writer and I’ll give you a hug in person!

(Or click on the appropriate lips in the sidebar if you’re on a computer, or at the bottom if you’re on your cell.)

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There’s been a lot of talk in the media lately about body shaming — too skinny, too fat, too something — and it’s reminded me of why I host this little meme each week: to prove that confidence is a choice and a skill, not something bestowed upon anyone.

I choose to be confident and have practiced it for many years.  Sharing my body on my terms exemplifies this, it contradicts the idea that anyone else but me has a say in how I feel about this body of mine.  I’m the only one in it — well, you know what I mean.

Today’s pic of me is one of my all time favorites.  Why? you might ask?  Because of how my breasts look loppy, full and juggly.  I know those aren’t really words, but just look at the picture and tell me you don’t think they’re the perfect words for them.

There was a time in my life when I would have been horrified to share this image, but today I am proud and I hope other women see it and the beauty in their own loppy, full and juggly breasts.

Or their toony, scanty breasts.

Or their sloopy, lushy breasts.

You get my drift…

We are more than the sum of our parts, but we should also celebrate those parts for being a part of us.

Happy fucking August, 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:

Hy lopsided

I posted this a couple of weeks ago, but completely failed to do it justice in my comments.

NOT my tits:

Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.

Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.

ops, forgot my shirt….. 😉

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I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.

I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.

Napping in my car during lunch I realize I forgot to send a pic!!!

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This is Lauren’s 2nd Boobday and also her 1 year Boobday Anniversary. Welcome back, Lauren! Click the pic to see her blog.

Here I am lazing in bed before a busy day.

Click below for more amazingness!