Friday, August 29th, is Boobday!

BoobdayBanner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  2. an attached pic

  3. a sentence about why you chose this particular photo

  4. if you want to be anonymous or not

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

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

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

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

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

xx

Hy

My OPEN tits:

Hy in her sheets

NOT my OPEN tits:

 

KAYLA 082914 OPEN

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

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

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DAWN 082914 OPEN

Dawn searches beautifully for her light.

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

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BECK 082914 OPEN

@BeckandHerKinks shows off a stunning satin bra.

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TAMI 082914 OPEN

@KinkyBikerMom gets reflective.

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MOLLY 082914 OPEN

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

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

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LSAM 082914 OPEN

LSAM before.

LSAM 082914 OPEN

LSAM after.

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

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SASSYCAT 082914 OPEN

@SassyCat38 has a little nibble with her nipples.

Tea time!

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ANON BLONDE 082914 OPEN

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

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

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RENEE 082914 OPEN

Beautifully painful.

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CARA 082914 OPEN

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

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Original

Tis get’s all Andy Warhol on us.

 Me and my many moods for one set of boobs.

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

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20140828_224151

Elle #1.

20140828_224558

Elle #2.

Coach got involved this time. Attached are some fun pics. My post has a short video. We had a great time just having fun. Good to have Boobday back.
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orgasm1

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

 

Masturbation is a sin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Hy pleasures herself.

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

I live in a sex-positive bubble.

Hy in a cardigan

I love the kitty bomb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never want to leave my bubble.

 

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

He’s funny and he’s hot.

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

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

Me: That is ridick.

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

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

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

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

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

I love this body.

TN milky white

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

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

TNT#6

 

I’m disjointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Check out everyone else being sinful today!

Sinful Sunday

I’m feeling him again.

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

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

And then the phone rang.

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, too, Hy,” he answered.

I have a Boobday update and an apology for you.

July was really great in a “woohoo I don’t have any deadlines!” kind of way and then August sneaked up on me and Bam!  The first Friday was come and gone, then Whoosh!  The second Friday was toast, too.

I don’t know what happened, honestly.  I feel disconnected, discombobulated.  I can’t tell if it’s because of my mental state or if it’s because my blogging community, once at my fingertips, is now sometimes unavailable to me.

My mental state, let’s be honest, is shitty, at best.  I have long inner dialogues with The Neighbor about taking a break.  I imagine tears on both sides as I explain how starved I feel and pitiful whenever I get the smallest bone.  A little hug closer, anyone?

I keep wondering if the problems with my gut this week — which have been the most severe of my life — aren’t someone directly connected to the twisted, painful mess in my heart.  I wouldn’t be surprised.

I’m exhausted and feel as though I’m a giant bag of whiny.  My blog hasn’t been ME all year.  First with Sonofabitch then with telling TN about the blog.  I haven’t really known what to say here.  I certainly haven’t felt it was safe like it was.  It’s felt different somehow.

Then I moved to self-hosted, something I had to do in order to protect my identity.  It was the only way.  And with a few keystrokes I lost so much access to my blogging friends.  I am remote 99% of the time, meaning I use my phone to interact with your blogs, but that has been severely limited since moving to self-hosted.

Do you remember when I was able to keep up with your tales?  All my likes and little comments?  Yeah, well, sometimes I’m not even given a link to open in Safari.  I think, I’ll go back and look it up, just let me scroll down and comment/like what I can first and then I inevitably forget.  I feel like a shit friend to you all.

And that brings us back to Boobday.  Having accidentally missed August has made me realize how much good it brought in my life; hosting a little meme that brought women together, bolstered their self-confidence, and gave a teeny little community of cheerleaders was gold.  I want that back, but less intensely.

I’d like to bring Boobday back, but this time only the last Friday of every month.  That means, Friday, August 29th, will be the next Boobday!  The theme will be OPEN, so be as creative or traditional as you like.

Hopefully I haven’t driven you all away with my emo bullshit lately and you’ll still be willing and able to participate.  Just label your emails with “August Boobday” and we can go from there.

My hope is to sort out things with TN sooner rather than later, resolve my bellyache so I can stop bellyaching, and reconnect with everyone I hold so dear.  All of you who have commented and contributed over the years are all in my heart and my mind.  I can remember almost every single commenter, prolific or fleeting.  You are important to me. And I hope to prove it in the coming months.

xx

Hy

My belly still hates me, but at least my tits are huge or More musings on the Introvert-Extrovert exchange.

I woke up alone today.  That wasn’t the original plan, but the stresses of the week took their toll on The Introvert – er, I mean – The Neighbor and he sweetly begged off.  “I need my Fortress of Solitude,” he explained as we ate the dinner he’d brought over for us.

“I wholly support your need to recharge,” I told him, “But know that while you’re getting what you need tonight, I’m going to need to get filled up, too.”

“What?  This isn’t enough?  I’ve already been here for 20 minutes and plan on staying for a little while.”

This has always been a challenge for us: my need for connection and closeness, face-to-face time and activities and his exact opposite need for alone time.  It does not compute with him that an hour and some change is not at all what I’m looking for.  While appreciated, my heart needs deliberate, concentrated attention for longer periods of time.   If only I were more like him… but I digress.

I explained my thoughts to him and he nodded as if he understood and we made plans to hang out tonight with Peyton at his place: unpacking, pizza, a movie.

I stretched and fondled the kitty, thought of fondling my other kitty, but then felt ill and my hope was dashed.  I was frustrated, a little lonely, still sick.  I stood up and my breasts pulled at my chest, much heavier than usual.  I walked into the bathroom and they pulled against the fabric of my tee making three folds.  For photographic evidence, I snapped some pics and instantly felt better.

Hy's big boobies

It’s not just me, right??

I decided to stop by for an unplanned cuddle with TN on my way out.  When I called to wake him up to unlock the door I could tell he’d been deeply asleep.  “Hullo?” he mumbled.

“Good morning!” I beamed, ever the morning person.  “I’d like to come over for a cuddle.  Unlock your door.”

“Mmmkay,” he murmured.  We hung up.

Ten minutes later I passed by his boxes and strangely placed furniture to find him beneath the cotton ball clouds of his comforter.  I quietly slipped in next to him and stroked his warm milky skin.  He purred a little, grumbled and stretched, pulled me closer and seemed to doze. I lay there thinking how small a gesture as that — pulling me closer — made my heart cease her constant twisting.  It felt so fucking good.

I let my hand fall beneath the covers and follow the contours of his muscles until I found his hot, half asleep cock. I squeezed it gently and it came to life.

The pillow covering half his face couldn’t hide his little smile.  Despite my temperamental belly I couldn’t resist falling on it with my mouth.  Nothing spectacular happened other than I loved on something I love a lot and he got to feel my soft, wet, expert mouth on him.  No fireworks, but I was ok with it.  It’s the act, the journey, not always the destination, right?

It was time for me to go and I stopped my slurping and lay on his chest again.  When I tried to leave he snatched at my hand and wouldn’t let me go.  My heart melted a little more.  It felt so, so good.  I thought, Maybe I need to catch him in the mornings more often.

Hours later I took a nap to gear up for tonight’s festivities.  Lust laced through my dreams as Dream TN lay on my couch with a massive erection, ready and waiting for me.  I tried to reach him, but couldn’t.  He begged me to come to him, but still, I couldn’t.  I broke through a dream in my dream and felt such relief that finally, I could go to him, but alas, another foggy wall lay between us, but this time I could feel his hands on me, the pull of my sex as my body reacted to him.  Maybe he even got a chance to slip into me, I don’t know, because I woke up for the second time, this time into reality.

The nap had done its job: I felt ok!  I thought about the missed opportunity of last night, of that missed connection, of his dreamy giant cock inside of me and decided to send a quick text.

Me: OMG CAN WE PLEASE STICK IT IN TONIGHT?!?!

Him: K

I laughed and thought, We’ll see.  The Universe has been conspiring against us for weeks now it seems, this week in particular.  I also thought, Men are robots. Cute robots, though.

Cross your fingers for me tonight that my dreams really do come true.

 

 

[Ed. Note: I have the most beautiful picture of TN naked and milky white wrapped up in his bedding all ready to share.  He approved of it this morning, but when it came down to the final approval he balked and said it showed too much of him.  I found that confusing considering some of the images I've shared for TNT, but of course agreed to not share it.  A man's prerogative, right?]

 

 

 

I got a fortune cookie with a bright idea. And a pregnancy test.

Hy shares some cleavage

Boobs for dayz.

This week my iron constitution has thrown up her hands and walked away and I’ve been reduced to turning down softball, sex, and booze.  Such a sad, damn week, y’all, when all I can eat without immediate stomach cramps is white rice.  I’m miserable, weak, forgetful.  A general mess.

Today my chiropractor — who’s selling herself short with that label, she’s really a holistic healing shaman  — suggested I switch to the rice.  I swung by the corner Asian restaurant and left with, “Yes, just 3 cups of plain white rice.  No, I’m not making something else with it.  No, no sauces, thank you.  Ok, I’ll take the cookie.”  I inhaled half the rice and went to “lunch” where all I “ate” was some San Pellegrino.

My breasts have also been tender.  And enormous.  The Neighbor and I have been marveling at them all week while I wince when he touches them.  He came to cuddle last night and when he flicked a nipple straining against my tank top I shrieked a little.   “Maybe you’re pregnant,” he said.

“Well, then that’d mean it’s Baby Jesus,” I retorted.  “I’ve been religious with my pills and you haven’t cum in me in months.  And that’d make you fucking God.”

“No,” he laughed.  “That’d make you fucking God!”  Such a comedian.

This morning — while dying a little in the bathroom yet again — I Googled “diarrhea and sore breasts pregnant.”  Turns out I’m not the first to have this particular confluence of symptoms (those poor ladies).  The conclusion?  Possible.  So I bought a pack of three tests.

When I got home from the drug store I knocked out the rest of the rice and snatched up my fortune cookie.  I peeled the wrapper, cracked it open, and found one of the loveliest little notes I’ve ever gotten.  My “What if” brain went to, Well, if I make that happen I can certainly support a new baby! 

Hy's fortune.

“You have a charming way with words and should write a book.”

I’m not too worried about being pregnant, honestly.  My breasts are less tender today and it would basically be a miracle if anything got fertilized, but it’s always good to have a couple of tests laying around just for peace of mind.  I’ll wait until tomorrow morning to pee on the stick and this weekend before I start on the book.  It’s good to have things to look forward to.

I wish I knew more.

Hy in her moment.

For the first time in a while I woke up and thought of taking a picture… and of writing.

The Present.  We talk about it like we know what it means, how it’s supposed to feel.  I suppose it could be the absence of longing (The Future) and regret (The Past), that feeling of awesome timelessness we felt as a kid with the grass beneath our backs and ever-morphing clouds above us which told an epic story that has always been the backdrop to our lives.  That this moment, while fleeting, is the most real thing in our lives.

I remember distinctly wanting to break up with my exhusband about two months into our relationship.  I received awful advice from a friend — who to her credit was taking it herself — who told me to push through my misgivings because on the other side lay happiness.  Basically, that just because it didn’t appear to be what I really wanted I might be surprised to find it was good enough.

I don’t have to tell you how her relationship is today; I personally wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

So I listened intently, took a deep breath, and shut down all my misgivings about him.  Ten and a half years later I see that night with her at some shitty bar with an even shittier cover band as the night I decided to do the wrong thing.  I should have ended it.

I obsess over that night and try to weigh all the decisions after it.  Of course a lot of what I hold dear would never have happened had I listened to my gut, namely my child.  Actually, only my child.  I tell myself there was no way of knowing, that he had us all fooled into believing he was stronger than he actually is, but I still feel responsible for choosing a man who chooses himself and his new woman over his own child.

My friends, with solemn, sad faces, have told me that Peyton will be ok because I am the mother, the mama, but my heart still breaks.  Peyton loathes going back and forth between us and longs for us all to live in a house together.  I might add that includes The Neighbor, the new woman (Kathy), all the besties and their mommies, too, and my mom and step-dad.  Peyton’s Commune, we’d probably call it.  The regret, the first of my life, is at times crushing.

Enter TN.  A man whose limitations may be their own Litmus Test.  Will he ever melt into me and my life?  Can I really sign up again to be with a man who can’t connect in the ways in which I think I want to?  I can’t even say definitively if I’d like it better.  I’ve never dated anyone all the way.

I’ve never had anyone beg me to get closer, to spend time with Peyton, just the three of us or even just the two of them for ice cream.  I’ve never dated anyone who wanted to meet all my friends and loved to plan fun things for all of us to do together.  I’ve never dated anyone who missed me and brought me love notes and flowers.

In the very beginning, TN used to do little chores for me and to a small extent continues to do so, but he is over there, across the metaphoric way, doing his own weird, solitary, introverted thing.  I have noticed that lately I care less and less whether I see him or not.  It’s not a good sign.

When we touch, I am transported to the old Hy who used her body to connect, to slough off the pain and sadness she was wading through after she moved out.  It feels familiar and I’m happy.  TN is as ravenous as ever in these moments, but they are fewer and farther between.  His 70 hour work week must be laughing hysterically at us.

I wish I knew what I should do here.

I have always hung on with him and I have always been rewarded, but this time it feels different.  This relationship began backwards, without me thinking things through.  I wasn’t ready for a real relationship so I wasn’t picking men who were ready for me and my life: my parents, Peyton, my sister.  I wanted a guy who was ok with just the little bits I was willing to give and I found them in spades, TN being the biggest consumer of all.

But now I’ve changed the game, I want a real relationship with someone who comes up with fun kid-things to do on the weekends and who happily comes to dinner to help me manage my mother and step-father, who can’t wait to travel to Pittsburgh to meet high school friends or just a weekend away to a lake to fuck like rabbits and sit by a softly lapping shore.

I feel this longing, this Future, so keenly my body aches with indecision.  Will TN ever be that man?  Is it really all that important?  Am I determined to be unhappy or are these feelings real?  I’d probably be better off ignoring both The Past and The Future and examining my ever-changing Present, right??  I just don’t know anymore…

What I can tell you for certain is that TN gets the keys to his new apartment today and I’m strangely happy about it.  He is, too.

All my worry and self-flagellating doubts about him have fallen away like a spaghetti-strap slip beneath his hands.  I trust him, I got past my fear.  Mostly because I’ve become honest with myself:  I don’t know where this is going.  I wish I knew more — but I can’t — so I will sit and watch the clouds for a while instead as I help him move in three buildings away.