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.



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.]



I’m disjointed.


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.



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.


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.

The cosmic joke is on me.

I’m sitting on my balcony, half drunk, tears running down my face.  I’m pretty sure people walking their dogs could just hear me crying as I lay on the couch, clutching a pillow, and moaning like an asshole.

Here’s the thing: I am sad.  Very, very, very sad.

I deny it every day, but all it does is make me feel antsy; full when I’m empty, empty when I’m full.   I can’t tell which end is up.  The heat here makes my skin prickle, but I’m cold inside.

My exhusband is marrying his girlfriend — no, fiancée — in the fall.  It happens to happen the weekend before Peyton’s birthday and they’ve conveniently planned it so they’ll be out of town not only for the big day itself (old enough to notice, if you must know), but they’ll also be gone the weekend before and the weekend after is their big “wedding party.”  Sorry, Peyton, but your dad and future step-mother are selfish sons-of-bitches who know no ends to their narcissism.   They have yet to break the news.

Secondly, I am barely making ends meet, yet my ex continues to go on love-trips with his fiancée every other month.  Expensive excursions, though not luxurious, but I know even a weekend trip by car can cost hundreds of dollars let alone a plane ticket away.  Of course they leave  the kids at home, leaving Peyton thinking there’s something on the child’s end of responsibility to that.  Oh, did I forget to mention the kids (hers and mine) are not invited to the wedding??  Nope.  It’s just the two love birds “and an officiant.”  Good for fucking you, exhusband. 

Thirdly, while my ex is off getting married, moving in, and sending rejection messages to our kid, I can’t even get my boyfriend to stay the night or go away for the weekend with me.  He absolutely refuses most nights and the trips aren’t even an option.  Forget it, Hy.  I hate traveling.  My parents dragged me blah blah fucking blah.  The truth is, he’s ok with hanging out in our apartments for the rest of our fucking lives.

They’re not connected, I know, but yet they are.  I can’t fucking help it.  The Neighbor says he’s forgotten his “slut kit” (a.k.a. contact stuff, toothbrush, etc.) but when I buy him his own he still goes home.  “I just really like my own bed.”  A pause sits between us when he breaks the news last night.  “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No.  But I’m sad,” I say, honest as can be.  Why won’t he stay with me???  Why does it seem there’s something wrong with me that I want him to sleep over?!

Tonight we had plans but he begged off earlier saying he needed to pack and hole up in his man cave.  What-fucking-ever.  Fine.

Lastly, my sister is pregnant with her third baby.  I wanted 3 babies.  That was my dream.  My ex and I tried for a second but the anxiety meds he was on fucked up his sperm.  Even an artificial insemination didn’t take.  She’s living her life — the life I wanted.  Babies everywhere, toddlers in pjs with wet hair from bath time with a strip of sonogram pictures laid out between them on mommy and daddy’s bed.  The perfect little batch of kiddies.  Who aren’t mine.

I am heart-broken a million different ways.  Alone and sad and wanting.

I think half the time the best thing to do is to cut TN loose so I can find someone who expects and wants to spend entire weekends with me.  And holidays and birthdays and friends’ things and to whisk me away on road-trip-weekends and introduce me to his family in Seattle or Burbank or Long Island.  Instead, I have a guy who loves me, but leaves by 11 pm every night, hates sleepovers, travel, family & friend things, anything whatsoever remotely resembling a commitment or a life together.  Like together.  Just fucking dating “together.”  I’m not even talking “forever together”!

Half the time I think I’m nuts and off my rocker, the other half I think, “No woman would put up with this bullshit, you’re either a genius, a saint, or an asshole, Hy.  Anyone would want what you want. There’s nothing wrong with you.”   But I’m not convinced and I haven’t figured out which one I am, yet.

Ok, I am in my cups, and feel sadly clear, like the tears on my cheeks.  I bet they’re see-through, too.

But, I will be silent for a while longer and see what happens.  I will never have 3 babies, nor will I be getting married — possibly ever –, but maybe my boyfriend will finally want to spend the night with me more than 2, 3, 4 times a month and want to be a part of my life — my real life — and if that’s the case, then maybe this will last after all, because as it stands today, all I feel is what I don’t have.  Not what I do have.

All day I dream about sex.

The Neighbor has been adorable lately.  While I’ve swung from left to right with my emotions — do I stay or do I go? — he’s crowded in to cuddle me and be cuter than a pile of puppies on a carpet of kittens.

Tonight he brought us dinner, two bottles of wine, and encouraged me to do a “TN Tuesday” post with the pics I’d taken a few days ago.

“What do you want to do tonight?” he asked, standing in my kitchen with my little green shorts on, his cock nearly hanging out the pant leg.  He ate while standing at my kitchen island.

“I dunno…” I was tired and non-committal; it’d been a long, rough day of not making money and wallowing in my rage for my ex.  You know, the usual.

But it was as if a gun had gun off.  He flung his arms out in a clearing motion and said that I could do whatever I needed so long as I wrote [about him].  Did I need my laptop?  My desktop?  Should the TV be on in the background? What did I need to be creative?

I told him laptop, Long Island Medium, glass of wine.

He made it all happen then took a quick nap on the other couch.  His mouth hung open like a little bat cave while I downloaded pics and thought about what I’d share about him this week.

So, here it is:

He loves wearing giant underwear.   Like, biker shorts/long-johns underpants.  Personally, I hate them (mostly), but then every so often he’ll bust out with a pair of these and I can’t help but allow it.


TN in his ADIDAS.


I mean, wouldn’t any woman in her right mind??


TN in his ADIDAS.


[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend.  All photos will 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.]