Friday, February 27th, is SULTRY Boobday!

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This has been one hell of a shit-tastic month, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy for Boobday!

Yay!  Boobday!

This Boobday I have asked a wonderful, gorgeous, special woman to be Boobday’s featured star: Cara Theron of Cara Thereon (@Thereon_Cara).

Each month I will be highlighting one of you in an effort to say thank you for making Boobday happen.  Without all of you, it’d just be me and my tits.  If you’d like to nominate someone to be featured, email me (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) and tell me why.

I asked Cara to write about what Boobday means to her.  Here are her words:

Sharing on such a level is both erotic and freeing. Yes, it’s scary because as a woman there is so much risk involved to baring my body. If you peel away the fear, beneath it is this joy. It’s appreciated and I like being appreciated.

 

Boobday has become a way to tastefully display our breasts. Mine aren’t perfect, but I like that this is a relatively safe place to show myself.  My imperfections are appreciated and welcomed as is everyone else’s.  It becomes fun and arousing, my body comes alluring and something to be enjoyed.

 

What does it mean to be sultry?  To be recognized as obviously passionate is energizing.  I don’t get to display that many places so I’m glad to have a place to share it here!

 

Yay, Cara!  Thank you so much!!  xx

All your beautiful breasts have made me smile and I thank each of you for that from the bottom of my heart.  I know it’s slipped from many of your minds since it’s monthly now, but I assure you it hasn’t slipped from mine!  You are all so goddamned gorgeous and wonderful and so uniquely expressive!  I feel honored to host Boobday and hold your bodies in my hands, so to speak.  Just know they’re in good hands.

I’ve been wracking my brain for what March’s theme should be.  It’s spring time in half the world, fall in the other, it’s St. Patrick’s Day for us Irish folk, it’s daylight savings for most of us.  What would be a good theme?  Well, I’m going to put it to you all for a week.  Tell me what you want the theme to be for March in the comments and I’ll pick my favorite and post it next Friday.

And I’ll also take this opportunity to thank all of you for all your love and support.  Returning emails and responding to comments is on my To Do List.  You all have been integral to my equilibrium.  You will hear from me, I promise.

In other news, I’ve decided I’ll start to meet people the end of March.  That’s when the ride will begin.  The Neighbor never reads this blog, so rest assured I’ll write like I always have.  Even I’m curious to see what happens.

Don’t worry.  I got this.

xx

Hy

My SULTRY tits:

Hy is a Cali girl

I grew up in California and that’s where my heart will always be.

Hy's a Cali girl

Broken…

Hy's heart is in CA

… or otherwise.

 

NOT my SULTRY tits:

Cara 022715 SULTRY

Cara’s hot ass motherfucking self.

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Miss V 022715 SULTRY

Miss V nails SULTRY in this sexy ass outfit.

Can’t wait to give and get my Valentines Gift!
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Dawn 022715 SULTRY

Dawn sent me 4 pics and this one is my favorite. I love her hips.  Can’t you just imagine grabbing them from behind??

I’m not too sure of the theme so I send you a few, you pick the one you think is best suited.
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Mz. Hyde 022715 SULTRY

Mz. Hyde gets draped with sex — I mean pearls.

For me “sultry” is the beautiful balance between sensuality and innocence. Naked boobs and pearls? Nailed it.

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Beck 022715 SULTRY

Beck’s sweet and innocent face transforms into something else here. Hawt!  @BeckandHerKinks

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Anon Angel 022715 SULTRY

Anonymous Angle gives us quite the sultry eye-full.

I chose this photo because it showcases my superbly pert nipple.

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Kim 022715 SULTRY

Kim’s lace and obvious, yet unseen smile is tantalizing.

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BisexualMinx 022715 SULTRY

@BisexualMinx gets some sexy help in the shower.

SULTRY by definition: 1. (of the air or weather) hot and humid. 2. (of a person, especially a woman) attractive in a way that suggests a passionate nature.

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Zoe 022715 SULTRY

If I’m not mistaken, this is Zoe’s first Boobday! And HOLY SHIT!! I want to hug and hug and hug her! And other things!

To me, sultry is at its core sexy, but there’s more than that. It’s sensual, deliberate, confident, and probably aware of the effect on observers. How to express that without eye contact and a knowing look? Without a well-fitted dress that artfully reveals and conceals? Somehow, mere cleavage will have to serve…

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Veronica 022715 SULTRY

The buddy @Hubman38 submitted his gorgeous wife for Boobday today. Follow her @VeronicaASM.

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LaShonda 022715 SULTRY

As always La Shonna is out and proud and lacy. Follow her at @sunshyne0915.

I felt sultry as I dressed for work. I wasn’t sure if I captured it well, but I can feel it.

I hate this part.

The problem with going to bed at 9 pm is I wake up at 3 with a rather large little person splayed out on pillows on my side of the bed.  And then my mind starts to whir.

I miss The Neighbor.  So much.

It hurts down to my marrow, this process of removal.  I think of him 100 times a day and yet I stay my hand and remain quiet and away.  It feels naturally unnatural.

The Saturday after he ended things was Valentine’s Day and it was the day I reactivated my OK Cupid account.  A couple of days later I made a Chemistry.com account and just last night I finally finished building an eHarmony account.

I spent $45 on OK Cupid for 3 months of anonymous browsing and I’ve yet to pull the trigger on the other two.  Currently they’re just shell profiles since I’m unwilling to spend any money not to meet anyone.  Because the truth is, I’m not even remotely close.

I’ve barely chatted with anyone on OKC and have already decided to not meet anyone at least until the end of March, but what then?  Will I be able to be open to a great guy?  Will I be able to fuck?  Will I want to?  Who the fuck am I if I’m not fucking??

It’s been an oddly cruel experience to write what I want in a partner, what I’m like, who I am because as I lay the letters down I am really just drawing him and me: us.  I want us. 

The men who are contacting me are these unknown wildcards and I know what online dating is like.  Do I want a man who I met that way?  Someone who’s cracked the code of online banter and first dates?  But then I think, The Neighbor dated online, though that’s not how we met.  And then my stomach clenches thinking of the goldmine some chick is going to stumble upon with him: a talented lover, financially secure, kind, and — if she’s the one for him — his fucking heart.

We’ve hung out and talked several times since the hammer came down on the 11th.  Peyton initiated a couple of those with requests to see him and the others TN and I had planned on checking in with one another.  We’ve cried, we’ve been honest, we’ve laughed.  I’ve genuinely enjoyed his company despite the broken heart and pervasive sense of hopelessness.

The scheduled visits have helped bookend stretches of no contact where it used to be constant.  He wasn’t hit by a bus, after all, so why pretend like he was?

But something happened Saturday night which was out of my control and has thrown me into a twist: I dreamed that he’d been cheating on me.  I awoke yesterday with a deep ache in my gut.  Not only had I dreamed he’d betrayed me, but it had been rubbed in my face by Lina, a former friend of mine who basically introduced us through her prolifically slutty ways (had she not told me he was hung, I might not have ever looked at him in a sexual way).  It was a heartbreaking, humiliating dream.

Normally, I’d have called him or asked him to come over so he could assuage my fears and laugh with me in real life, but yesterday I couldn’t.  I don’t get to do that anymore.  It’s just me and my big fat brain.  All alone in its misery.

Thursday night’s dream also awoke me, though for different reasons.  I saw him walk into my new room, in this new home of mine, stark naked with a proud, jutting erection.  With a condom.  It was reminiscent of what he used to do with me when we were next door to each other, but the condom was a reminder that he is no longer mine.  I masturbated several times that day and night.  At least I’ve stopped sobbing when I cum.

As I finished my ridiculously Christian eHarmony profile yesterday (No, I do NOT think it’s a deal breaker if someone has had more than 10 sexual partners and YES, I do think the Republican party lost female votes based on their stance on reproductive rights) I felt flat, pressed between lab glass, because all I really want is him.

I love him.  I like him.  I want him.

His weird, introverted, yet fiercely loyal ways; his dry with and razor sharp mind; his huge, thick, glorious cock; his stamina; his need to help and his generosity; his accepting, open-minded philosophies; his strength and determination; his fiscal responsibility and earning potential; his handsomeness.  Who and what he is feels so right to me, but the feeling isn’t reciprocated — that I am right for him — and that one thing is what has pulled the thread on this entire affair.  Because it’s the most important thing; he doesn’t believe.

He told me himself on Friday as we sat perched far from one another on my couch after watching a favorite TV show together.  I had told him that the week apart had been strangely calm for me, that I was less hurt in general because he was no longer not really wanting to be there.  He agreed and said he was looking forward to seeing me, too, that his anxiety had lessened some as well.

“The only thing is,” I said, “I’m really having to work on why.  Why don’t you want to do this??  We’re so great together, we love hanging out, we’re great at sex.  I tell myself it doesn’t matter because I’m certain it’s not personal and therefore it’s your problem, but then I wonder if it’s those things you listed so long ago: I’m a mother, divorced, too old…” I let the sentence linger.  “Are you hiding something from me that would help me move on?”

He laid there looking pained.  “No, God, no,” he said.  “It’s just… I’ve never felt you were the one for me.”  He paused and looked truly stricken and added,  “I don’t know what is, though.”  I left it there because what’s the point?  I have to get my shit together and move on from this.  I have to find all those things I love about him — plus this elusive belief that I’m the right partner — in someone else because that’s what we do.  We keep going.

I remind myself that I came so close to hitting the mark with him.  He was a vast improvement over my marriage.  Maybe I’ll get it right next time.

But dating this minute isn’t an option; I’m frozen in stasis.  I don’t need the attention at this point.  It’s almost like a ghost limb thing being back online.  The Downstairs Neighbor discovered my profile this weekend and sent me an email.  It simply said, “Well, shit…”

I couldn’t have summed it up better myself.

At some point, though, I will be forced from my cave to get fucked.  I’ve considered calling some of my better, old lovers, but there was never that thing between us.  Kent, Phillip, and Kevin are three that come to mind.  They are all ok in their own right, but I feel shy and broken, though I’m sure they would certainly help ease my mind if they were available.

Dan, an old high school crush who wears funny looking and ridiculously expensive shoes, will be coming back through town in April and he’s promised me he’ll do whatever I want while he’s here.  Expensive dinners, lavish hotel room, any kind of entertainment I can think of will be his command.  Last time we ordered champagne up to his room and I poured it over my breasts as I rode him 17 stories high.  That wasn’t the worst night of my life, for sure.

In the meantime, I get to just sit here with my thoughts and the ache that’s going strong deep inside of me.  It reminds me of what I’ve lost and also of what I want.

I miss TN.

 

 

The grass is brown everywhere.

It was dark and his skin was warm.  I arched under him and spread my legs reveling in his weight upon me.

My clothes were twisted around me and unceremoniously pushed away until the parts necessary for connection were exposed.  I couldn’t see him, his face was obscured in darkness, but he felt familiar.  A little.

He spread my knees with his and I let him push into me.  His floppy brown hair bounced a little as he began to move and I closed my eyes and felt him inside of me.  Something was missing, but I knew if he just moved a different way, stayed with me, I could get where I needed to go.  But instead he stopped and pulled out.

I curled up and covered myself.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I know what you want me to do and I don’t feel like doing it,” he said matter of factly.

“What?”  I was incredulous that a man would openly admit to being so withholding.

He repeated himself, not kindly: “I don’t feel like giving you what you want.”

My gut clenched and pooled with the embarrassment of rejection.   “Get the fuck out,” I whispered.  “Just go!”

He shrugged noncommittally and rolled off the bed and disappeared into the dark doorway.  I sat there bereft and befuddled.  I had been filled and ready for pleasure only moments before it was taken away.

And then I woke up.

::

I blinked into the pre-dawn darkness and thought about what my brain had just conjured.  The Neighbor would never do anything like that, though the past three weeks has certainly felt as though I’ve had the rug ripped out from under me much as the dream Hy had done to her.  Maybe that’s why my subconscious gave my rude lover long brown locks instead of his shaved head: it wanted me to know the difference between them.

I have successfully survived one week without him.

I have stayed busy and away, true to my heart and open, and committed to a daily check-in with myself.  We talk every other day or so because I want to and need it and because Peyton needs it.  For now.

For now it’s also simple.

Neither of us are doing anything except hurting and our long, open talks with lots of tears are cathartic for us.  We cried in each other’s arms when I told him I was proud of him for ending this when I couldn’t.

I want to be his friend and I need him to be mine; maybe we’ll make it happen, maybe we won’t.  Right now I think that depends entirely on how long we can hold out for sex because at some point we will be forced to go find some and that will change everything between us.  I feel like I’ve swallowed a bucket of rocks whenever I think of it, not unlike the stark loneliness and disappointment I felt in my dream this morning.

Another man’s hands and mouth on me, another cock, another mind wrapped around my own.  It’s all slightly repulsive to be frank.  And I feel desperate on occasion to think of TN’s specialness, our chemistry.  How the fuck do I find that again??

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

::

It was during the break when Noodle and I were talking one night.  This was before the hammer had come down and no one, least of all me, knew what the fuck was going on.  She was being cautiously optimistic while I was being pragmatically negative when one of us said, “Doesn’t he know the grass is brown everywhere??”

We laughed because we’re both well aware of just how fucking hard relationships are and there’s no such thing as green grass anywhere in the damn field of love.  “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Because brown doesn’t mean dead, it means it’s winter, it’s laying low.  Wheat is golden brown before a harvest, before it reaps great rewards.”  I got her point.

Relationships are difficult, brown if you will, because they take near constant effort to maintain and a willingness to let it be seasonal.  If all we ever had was spring, we’d never get to harvest, but that’s a little like what TN seemed to want from us.  He was unwilling/unable/un-something to go through the seasons with me and if it wasn’t going to be green then he didn’t really want it.  My threshold for pain was much higher, apparently.

I told him last night that if we could ever figure out how to really be in each others’ lives then I would want to try, but the truth is neither one of us could crack open to the other.  Yes, I was demonstrative and hopeful, but I was also packed safely away while he was a million miles the other direction and wriggling on a hook in total discomfort.  Despite my love for him and my desire to figure shit out I remained a safe distance away from him, too.

It’s thinking about him wanting to do it for real with another woman that makes my belly churn with despair.  I imagine he’ll figure it out one day, but I won’t be around to benefit.  Hopefully by then though, I’ll have found a new man with killer sack skills, a pretty and delicious cock, a decent savings account, a career he loves, an easy way with Peyton, an open heart, and a love and devotion for me.

It’s a tall order, I know, but I never thought I’d meet anyone like TN, either.

For now I’m committed to celibacy for at least another month, possibly two.  The idea of being sexless makes me hyperventilate, but I’m trying to be reasonable.  I am no longer starved for male attention like I was when I left my marriage; I know I’m desirable, a great catch, sexy.  I have all of you to thank for that.

I think I’ll be leaning on my Internet Boyfriend quite a lot in the coming weeks and months.   I want to be measured and smart about this time in my life, channel the sexual energy into something more useful than desperate texts to uninteresting and uninterested men.

I also have to remain calm and remember I have nothing to prove anymore and this pain and loneliness may actually light my path.  I don’t know why my journey in life thus far has included so much rejection, but I’m determined to figure it out and I believe that if I ignore this latest pain and loss I will only be prolonging this interminable loop of failed love.

I might end up happier if I try.

 

I have done what he did.

Let’s be clear here: The Neighbor is not an asshole. 

He’s not a piece of shit, a loser, or a villain.  He’s not a coward or even selfish.  He’s a young man who realized after many months of internal struggle that not struggling might be better for him.

I appreciate all your love and support, but it’s deeply upsetting to see TN get ripped to shreds here.  He doesn’t deserve it and it doesn’t feel good for me to see it.  It makes me sad and defensive.  He no more deserves critique than any of your friends who might one day do the same thing he did.  He deserves respect for at least finally being honest with me.

I certainly would have preferred to be a part of his internal discussion about what was happening, but for whatever reason he couldn’t offer that to me.  However, I do not believe it’s a character flaw that it didn’t go down the way I’d have preferred.  Perhaps it’s a mark of our development; he’s in a very different place in his life.

I have been talking about TN basically 24 hours a day for the past 5 days.  Peyton has been with my ex all weekend and so therefore I filled my time with loving friends and phone calls, but now I am fucking exhausted and wrung out.  My body aches from inactivity and my mind is firm: TN will not be vilified here.  I’ve never allowed it before and I won’t allow it now.

Just like I told my friends with my own voice I am telling you all now: he’s not a bad man for feeling the way he does.

Yes, I’d have liked for him to have come to me and said, “Hy, we never talk about where we’re going or what we’re doing and I’m deeply uncomfortable.  Can we discuss it?  Maybe press pause for a bit or maybe even rewind?”  And of course I would’ve agreed to talk and then joined him in the “where and what are we doing?” conversation.  Maybe I would’ve seen that he was right that this had to end, maybe we would’ve come up with a plan to stay together, but to say he’s a bad guy for skipping that step is missing and discrediting all the work he did in an attempt to be with the woman he loves more than anything else.

It just failed.

I’m not at all saying that we weren’t salvageable with two willing partners.  What I’m saying is that he wasn’t willing and therefore we couldn’t be saved and him not wanting to figure it out does not make him a bad man.  It’s painful to embrace this, but none of us have control over our feelings and he is no different.  I won’t blame him for how he feels.

I desperately wish his heart was in it, but what’s the point?  It isn’t and now I have to pick up the pieces.  And despite hating how it all went down and feeling madly out of control I have to respect him for finally doing what his sad inner voice has been saying all along: let her go.

He didn’t do a fake Valentine’s Day for me, he didn’t buy plane tickets to a March ski trip with me and my friends, he didn’t solidify plans to go to the beach in May or even where we’d be at Christmas.  He saw that this year was me planning our future a bit more and he knew it wasn’t right for him and he got out.  I can’t and won’t hate him for that and I can’t and won’t agree with any of you about what a piece of shit he is.

I understand that you all love me and that you’re hurting on my behalf, but it cuts me to the core to see him spoken of in such a way, therefore I’m going to remove all the comments from my last post.  I know you were all only trying to help — and you have — but I have to look at this from TN’s perspective, too.  He truly did the best he could and I can’t hate him for that.  I can only look for a new partner who can do better.

If he were your friend you might be telling him what a selfish woman I am for just assuming a certain kind of future with him without ever discussing it.

I know that TN has some grand notions for our post-relationship life and I may or may not be able to make those come true, but that will be a decision I make on a daily basis with Peyton in mind.  What can we handle?  What does my baby need?  I respect that TN doesn’t want to abandon the little friend he made while with me and that’s important, too.

Irrespective of his relationship with my child what I can promise to myself is that I’ll work really hard to heal and move on and do whatever it takes to make that happen.  What I won’t do is tear him down to do it.

Part of my compassion and empathy stems from how I felt when I left my marriage.  My exhusband was horrified to learn one day — “out of the blue” — that I was having divorce fantasies.  Of course it was after months of business travel and depressing, difficult times together, emotional and physical neglect, and an unhealthy division of labor at home, but to him it was from out of nowhere.  He’d had no idea the work and effort I’d been putting in to our marriage so that we were only that miserable together.

Of course that confession wasn’t the end of it and we spent the better part of that year in therapy trying to hammer out our problems, but for all those months I had been unraveling and never told him the truth I wasn’t being fair.  I believed in my heart of hearts that he couldn’t change anything; I attempted to tell him my feelings, but I hid my true pain and anger in order to protect him.  I failed us and I failed him because I couldn’t bear to cause him any pain, possibly invoke his anger, or to maybe have him fix it because the truth was: I was done.  I had conducted an entire argument all by myself and didn’t include him.

The therapy we experienced was nothing short of depressingly sad.  I avoided total honesty and I suspect so did he.  It’s true that ultimately we weren’t compatible and he’s probably a million times happier with his bike-loving, camping-obsessed new wife, but I never experienced what it’s like to really crack myself open to him.  I just wanted out.  It only helped that I believed in my core that he truly didn’t like me, but looking back I ruined my life as I knew it: I lost my child, financial stability, and a man who did love me despite all our problems.  How is what TN just did any different?

Maybe one day he’ll either evolve to the point where I am today, or find a woman who wants only what he can give and not one drop more, but for now he’s exactly where I was.  Except he did the thing I never could: he got out when he knew it was the right thing to do.  He was brave and strong where I was weak.  I married the wrong man because I let him carry us forward into phase after phase without ever discussing it and without ever admitting to myself that I wasn’t truly happy with him.  TN saved us from that.

My heart is shattered and broken because I love him, but my mind has been set free because I just witnessed something brave.  He performed an act of kindness that I was incapable of at his age and I prefer to focus on that rather than the clumsy, painful, and surprising execution of our union.  He is a good man who did a sad thing.

Of course I still love him and I’ve cried 10 times while writing this because I wish none of this were true, but I see it clearer now.  It was an act of kindness to let me go.  Now I just have to wipe my tears and let my heart stitch back together.  Take deep breaths and take care of myself and my baby and look forward to my future with a new love.  Maybe one day, based on experiences like this one, I’ll find the right one.

Love isn’t perfect.

Hy broken hearted

I have been heartbroken before, but not like this.  This time I am bereft, alone, hopeless and helpless.  And I am keening.

I heard a thing on NPR today, the TED Radio Hour or some such, and their whole program was about love.  Turns out some people did some studies on the chemistry of love — and of heartbreak — and it all centers in the same parts of the brain.  And because it is all encompassing, totally twisted around our marrow, when it leaves us it plummets us in as much depth as it does exalt us when we have it.

Since he told me quite succinctly that he didn’t want to date me anymore Wednesday morning we’ve had 3 conversations.  The details aren’t important, but the message is: he wants to be alone, he’s always felt uncomfortable with our relationship, it’s not me, it’s him, he desperately doesn’t want me to hate him, he might have sex with other people (I’m allowed to, as well, we just can’t tell each other about it), he has felt like leaving me for a very long time, he loves me, I’m his favorite person and best friend.

I think I have done a very good job of being honest about our situation.  There were many things that I was unhappy with, but because we loved each other I was willing to accept.  I wasn’t blind to the writing on the wall, but he swore to me it wasn’t anything serious when all along it was very serious; our relationship was always on the line until it was over it and I couldn’t do anything to save it.

His loss, right?

Well, no.  My loss, too, because I love him.

We are wonderful partners and compliments and with some tweaking and elbow grease we could have lit up the world together.  Granted, we could not go on like we were forever, but I felt like we were in a place to take stock and regroup.  Apparently I couldn’t have been more wrong.  It wasn’t the moment before the plunge, it was the moment before the withdrawal.

I am disappointed and devastated.  This entire blog has been nothing but about him.  I have new lingerie he will never see.  Every time I cum I cry because it reminds me of him.  The gym class that I love reminds me of  him and I can’t go.  Everything reminds me of him.  It all feels hopeless and sad.  He doesn’t want me and I can’t understand for the life of me why he’d want to be my friend — “You know, we hang out once or twice a week, I read to Peyton occasionally, we go to a movie, watch TV together, have dinner.”  That’s him getting everything and me getting what??

I’m looking at anger.  I haven’t embraced it, but I can see it and why it might benefit me.  This may not work out in any fashion whatsoever.  The thought of him sticking his beautiful cock into some other woman makes me want to vomit, but I’m supposed to hang out with him while he keeps it from me?  He knows that’s a tall order and I could see him shut down and move away from me as I pointed that out, almost visibly.

I still think this whole thing is a giant, stupid mistake, but I also know there’s no turning back.  He’ll never come around and say he wants me.

The world turns, as they say, and we’re all just supposed to hold on.

So here I go… holding on.

 

 

 

It’s over.

That’s all that needs to be said right now.

It’s over.

I am filled with hopelessness.

Today has been a very rough day.

I woke up and took Peyton to school and on my way in and out of the apartment complex I hid my eyes from looking at the cars parked next to the gate.  I don’t know if you were parked there or not.

When I got home I was filled with a restlessness, a curling, clinging feeling that I’d been fighting for days.  With Peyton gone and no work ahead of me I decided to succumb to the urge scratching beneath the surface of my skin.  I felt guilty, but helpless to fight it.

Hy in CA

I left my heart in San Francisco.

I walked into my room and dragged the Hitachi out from under the bed and pressed the buzzing head against the wedge of my legs as I leaned against the wall.  I wore my California state flag shirt and pair of panties.

As the orgasm ripped through me, so did a cry.  It was guttural and primal and I began to sob.  I dropped the vibrator and cried against the wall for a few moments.  The orgasm reminded me of you; it was painful and heart-wrenching.

I miss you.  I miss you so so so much.

Two more times I returned to my sun-filled room and brought myself to a sobbing orgasm.  The sensation split me open and broke me apart; I imagined you doing the same thing for the past two weeks and I sobbed openly with my face in an ugly, pain-filled grimace.

I felt at once lighter and much darker; I had seen a clear image during my ascent to climax:  I saw you come to my house carrying a box.  A box of my things.

In about 26 hours I expect you to make contact for the first time in two weeks and then all my wondering will be finally put to rest.  I’ll know what’s going to happen.

Saturday I became a little angry with you as I imagined you really loving this time away while I wallowed in complete and total misery.  But it quickly dissipated within hours and I was filled again with doubt, remorse, and worry.  It has since morphed into total hopelessness, a numb helplessness.

I don’t believe you want me anymore.  I just don’t.

I come from a marriage background where when things suck and are difficult you hammer them out.  You don’t.  You’re still of the dating mind: it sucks, you leave.  At least that’s where I think you are.  I don’t know…

I looked at my little ovulation/sex calendar on my phone today and I can see exactly how we’ve petered out.  The last time I made you cum was in December of 2013, approximately 2 weeks before I told you I loved you.  It broke my heart to see that.

Hy's calendar

I’ve been sleeping with your Ohio sweatshirt for days.  All balled up like a teddy bear.  And today I wore a pair of your underpants.  I liked how the legs gripped my thighs and with every stride I took I thought of you.  I also wore my new bralette; you’ve never seen it.  You don’t even know it exists and you might never know.  That also makes me sad.  So very sad.

And I packed up all your things, everything I could think of.

Your DVDs, your pizza pan, your clothes, your cups and plates and spoon, your drill and flip flops that I bought you just for my house.  When you say the things I’m almost certain you will I don’t want to look around and see any reminders.  The heartache will be plenty.

I don’t want to be unprepared tomorrow night at midnight or the following morning or whenever you’re going to bring the hammer down.  If you end things I will hand you your bags and tell you to leave me alone.  Maybe for ever; at least for a very long time.

I hope I’ve proved something to you during this time, TN.  Namely that I’m immensely stronger than you ever thought (but I always knew) and also that breaks aren’t real.  This just feels like a preliminary breakup to me; I don’t think “a break” can exist in a relationship, quite frankly.

Unless you think of it as breaking someone’s heart, in which case I fully believe.  You can break a heart.

Hy in TN's underpants

I admit that this is awfully pessimistic but I am really struggling with being hopeful.  Fourteen days of no contact from you.  You didn’t end it early, you haven’t left a crumb, and the last time I saw you your eyes were red with tears and heartbreak that we caused you.  How could I possibly be hopeful?

Though, like sunlight hitting the floor of a forest, there is the tiniest wedge of hope in me.  I wouldn’t be me if it were all hopelessness; I am an eternally, relentlessly glass-half-full kind of girl.  I’m shy to admit that there is  a sliver of hope in my heart about this.  It really and truly is there — I swear — but it is so starkly terrifying to admit to that I’m really just whispering it.  A spider’s shadow.

It scares me.  My hope scares me.

The hopelessness is so very huge and looming over my little spider of hope its presence seems woefully small — so small — but it’s there, I can’t deny it.  And it makes me feel a little brighter than I probably should.  The wiser side of me says I should expect only the worst and none of the best, but the Hyacinth deep inside of me won’t let the darkness take over.

Behind my vision of you carrying a box of my things to me on Wednesday to leave me forever  is also the hope that you’ll come to me with renewed love and commitment.

And then our love will blossom and glow like a tender ember.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just be left alone in my living room taking raunchy pictures of myself in your underwear for thousands of strangers.  Oh wait, that’s already happened.

Please don’t leave me, TN.  Please… I’m exhausted and sad and hopeful and a whole lot scared and all I really want from you is to not unilaterally decide what happens to us now.  I want a say in all of this.  Yes things will have to change if we stay together, but I think it will be a colossal loss to discover I have no recourse here.  I want to make things right between us for the both of us.

I believe in us, TN.  I really and truly do.  That flame isn’t afraid to burn; it’s confident and proud.  I’m afraid to hope, but not afraid to say I’m competent enough to figure shit out.  There’s a difference there, I think.

Twenty-four-and-a-half-hours now…

With all my broken heart,

Hy

JB

 

 

All I do is think of you.

I’m in your Ohio sweatshirt again.  It’s not very warm; my nose is cold in my apartment.

I went to bed last night with the tiniest glimmer of hope that I’d wake up to a midnight text from you ending this break of ours.  I didn’t.

Then I let the glimmer return until I saw it was past your alarm time this morning.  You didn’t text me then, either.

I know you well enough that if you were to end the break today those would be the two times you’d do it.  I mean, why wait?  Why prolong the misery?

I’m not spending too much effort on trying to figure this out anymore.  The thought occurred to me that if you knew you wanted to dump me today, you’d do it now.  I don’t think you’d make me wait an extra 7 days just to hear some of the worst news I could imagine coming from your beautiful, bearded face.

Your car was parked by the gates again this morning.  I imagined you’d left to get food or to work out because I also saw a car that resembled yours at 3 pm yesterday outside your building.  I wasn’t going to go verify it was yours — it was an accident that it’d caught my eye in the first place — but my brain did mean things to me.

If it was you, some ideas crossed my mind as to why you’d be home so early: you were heart-sick, you were actually sick, you met a woman and had a nooner, you pushed back on work and stayed home/came home early, you were depressed because you’d decided to dump me later tonight, you were taking care of yourself for a change and played hookey, you had some kind of apartment thing to do.  Just ideas…

It’s hard not to sound crazy right now.

I slept with your wadded up sweatshirt cradled like a stuffed animal in my arms.  I’m not ashamed of that.  I feel empty, lost, and I’m too fucking busy this week.  I feel like a robot about to short-circuit.  Move here, type there, do this, do that, must complete, refuel, rest, repeat.  Oh and: don’t fall the fuck apart.

I am numb from holding my breath. My hope ebbs and wanes with every passing minute.  Twenty seconds of hope, 40 of despair a thousand times over since you left my sight 7 days ago.

I’ve been taking some pics for my Instagram account.  It feels ridiculous, like a cosmic joke.  Normally I send you those pics.  I’m just going through the motions, a robot again.  I don’t feel sexy or beautiful or desirable.  My orgasms are orgasmic.  Nothing more.  I’m almost too sad for that, but cumming makes me think of you and us in happier times.

I think of you stroking your cock and spurting hot semen on your hairy belly and I get jealous.  Of you.  Of your ability to be there with you for that.  How ridiculous is that??  I’m jealous of you for getting to be with you.  I guess this is where I start sounding crazy again.

The idea of anyone else being with  you, of making you feel like I once did makes me want to scream.  It’s how I know I’m not ready for this to be over.  I’ve never cared about others moving on before and so I turned my back on them and blithely walked away with swagger.  With you I will walk woodenly, jilted and wounded, but walk away I will, of course, if that’s what you want.

I told Peyton last night that we’d likely not see you this week due to busy schedules.  It went over well, but there was disappointment.

I’m empty again. 

I’m  trying to connect the many dots that you’ve scattered out there.  I can’t.  They’re simply everywhere, TN.  Which is when I hug patience tightly to me.

I keep wondering why I’m not mad at you for this.  I’m not.  At all.  I feel a gaping space of fear and bewilderment, a little hope and a lot of strength, but I’m not angry.  I feel badly for you that you are hurting this much to require such a drastic thing as pushing me out of your life completely for two weeks.  I know how much you love me and how important I am to you.

Should I be mad, though??  I just can’t be.  I wouldn’t be mad if you’d broken your leg and couldn’t walk.  Your heart is broken about your life right now and you can’t be you for a spell.  I get that, I really do.  Heal, think, learn, be and hopefully you’ll come back to me.

Hopefully.

Tenderly,

Hy

JB

 

 

Somehow I feel even worse.

Broken-fucking-hearted.

Broken-fucking-hearted.

I saw your car today for the first time since our break.  It was in front of the office, just past the gates.  I’d had to park down the hill by the mailboxes at 7:30 last night, so if you’d come home after that I can see why you were forced to park there.  Or maybe you were out having fun.  That stupid thought crossed my  mind.  Not that you aren’t allowed to do that.

There was something very jarring about seeing proof of your nearby existence, though, and it really sucked.

Peyton asked when we were going to see you last night.  I wasn’t expecting it, though I don’t know why.  I just stammered something about you being busy and I didn’t know.  I missed you terribly last night even though I don’t normally see you on Mondays.

On my way back from my morning hike with the dog my eye was drawn to the make and model of your fancy black car.  Two times, two different cars.  When I got back home yours was gone.  I suspect you were one of the two I saw.  I felt like I’d missed a golden opportunity to at least lay my eyes on you as I passed through the gates, but the Universe had other ideas.

I’m nervous about tonight for some reason, and for tomorrow.  You might call the break off because it will have been one week and I am filled with doubt and worry, hope and love.  I’m jittery and scared.

I’ve been going over the past year with a fine-tooth comb and I can see why you’re where you are today.  I couldn’t even make you cum once.  That breaks my heart almost more than anything because to me it speaks to a much deeper chasm between us.  Something truly happened to me and you when we admitted our love for one another.

I got mad at so many things.  I just didn’t feel important; I didn’t know.  Maybe I was, but I wasn’t getting the message.  If transparency is the high-level rule, the one below it, the one that predates it is feeling important.  If I knew how important I was to you, even the transparency wouldn’t be as important.  I never knew and you were always so hurt by that.  And look at where we are now…

I’m in a very dark place today.  I’ve been up since 4 am doing my damnedest to NOT think about everything.  Eventually I just got up at 5:30, made breakfast, took care of all the living things relying on me to keep my shit together, ran the dog, got ready for work and now I’m writing this, avoiding my tears, wearing your Iowa sweatshirt you gave me.

Friends have advised me to wash all your things or to sniff them with pleasure, but the sad fact is none of your things smell like you.  Somehow your scent disappeared in my closet.  Maybe that’s the problem in general: you disappear when you’re near me and all my complexities and buzzing, busy, complicated life.

I am so sensitive about all of this that I have been virtually unable to respond to any of the wonderful people reaching out to me with love and kindness and incredibly thoughtful, intelligent things they’ve shared with me.  Their own stories, their own takes.

Not one person has missed the mark about you and therefore I feel like I have done you justice on the pages of my blog and the stories I’ve shared with my in-person friends.  I think I know you, though you like to correct me any time I make a “TN statement.”  It’s true, though: I know you.  And I still love you.

My therapist asked me a powerful question last night.  She wondered what I was trying to heal by dating aloof, elusive men who are apathetic and uncertain about me.  I told her that I learned that rejection came with real love as a child and therefore I must be rejected and loved in order for it to reach me.  My exhusband rejected me as a person and insisted that if only I did X differently he wouldn’t be anxious/agitated/stressed/whatthefuckever.

You, at least, never blame me.  You love me and like me and accept me as a person, though, I suspect, you reject all the swirling madness of my life.  I have so many complicated moving parts as part of my package.  It’s that unspoken rejection that I am drawn to.  I’m not sure how to resolve that at this moment.  I told you all this years ago.  This is no surprise.  It blew my shrink away, though.  So that was fun.

She was upset with me that I hadn’t called her sooner.  “Hy,” she said, “If you’ve been like this for 5 days you need to call me!  That’s what I’m here for!”  I had burst into tears the second the door shut behind Peyton in the waiting room.

I’ve never called a shrink in my life; I’ve always waited for our appointment.  I’m tough, right?  Her upset with me was enlightening.  I truly have issues with asking for help and admitting I’m in pain.  I don’t typically get a good response from people in my life when I do.  I’m certainly struggling with it with you right now.  You know, all the little Hey, don’t do that, that hurts my feelings chats.  They’ve sort of backfired, no?  Oh, well.  I can’t take those back, nor would I.

I want so badly for you to come back to me and say, “Hyacinth, I’ve searched my soul and I want to try to figure this out.  It may end up that we can’t be together, but I want to pledge to you a real effort to figure it out first.  With you.  I’ll be ok, I can handle it.  I think we are worth it.”  I’ve never had anyone fight for me before.  I’ve never fought for anyone before, either, but I know I could.  For you.

I can’t believe it’s already been 6 days.  Unfuckingbelievable.  They’re all a blur of tears and Friends.  Everyone keeps checking in on me and I feel loved, so supported.  How are you feeling?  Are you ok?  I’m so worried about you.

As much as I hated seeing your car come and go this morning it was a relief to know you were still breathing.  Yes, the unthinkable has crossed my mind.  I don’t know what’s going on with you and this is all so drastic and desperate.  People do horrible things to themselves sometimes, as you are well aware.

I’m a little horrified to think you might actually read these letters, too, but I’m not writing anything I wouldn’t say to you in real life.  You get to see my more theatrical, lyrical side certainly, but I’m not ashamed.  I love you.  This is what happens when I’m filled with emotion: I emote.

I hope this all ends happily and I hope it all ends soon, this not knowing.  I suppose I have one more long night ahead of me tomorrow before I know what I have to look forward to: will it be another 7 days?

Till then my feelings for you have not changed, though self-recrimination has increased as has my hopelessness for the future.  Please don’t judge me for being filled with doubt.

Your ever loving and [kind of] hopeful,

Hy

JB

 

I write you a letter.

TN,

Every day I wake up, my room filled with fresh, peach-colored sunshine, and sink into a bleak darkness.  There is a hole in my life and in my heart, melodramatics notwithstanding.  I miss you.

I think about you countless times throughout the day and feel a gut-wrenching loss alongside a strange, unstable hope.  I believe that if you choose to stay then all the things I know remain between us which cause me grief may be up for change.  You’d really be in it with me.  But that is the hopeful girl in me.

The woman in me knows that real love, the unconditional kind that my child and I offer you, is an emotional hurdle for you.  You don’t want to hurt us, my baby especially.  I’ve latched onto the idea that it is the beauty that we could have that is most frightening for you though those words never left your lips.

You told me that you are stressed and have no pleasure in your life.  You said that you used to look forward to seeing me with great urgency, but that is gone now, too.  You are weighted down with sadness of your own.  You never see the sunshine.

I will continue to give you this gift of space because I want to show you how strong I am; you believe such odd things about me sometimes.  I am devoted to you and I want you to feel better, I want you to be happy.  But I also believe that happiness is much like health: you must pursue it, it doesn’t just happen to you.  You must eat right and move your body as much as you must surround yourself with good people and exercise your mind, clear away the clutter and heal emotional wounds.

I know how to do that while loving you.  Maybe you don’t, maybe you aren’t as good a juggler as me.

I am not at all ready to let this go, but I am very aware of my powerless position.  If you decide you can’t do this with me then I will let you go.  I won’t want to, but that’s not the point.  I won’t beg you to stay.

I will, I’m sure, tell you how stupid I think you are because I will be ferociously angry and hurt that you’d be willing to throw away what we have.

And then I’d probably apologize because I never call anyone names and that just isn’t me.  Who knows, maybe by the time that happens — if it does — I won’t even be that angry and I’ll just let you slip away like a leaf on a river.

You’d be proud to know that I have neither drunk myself into a stupor, eaten my weight in food, or broken our agreement to not pursue anyone else since we’ve last spoken.  I haven’t even bought cigarettes.  The idea of confessing to you on the 11th that I fell apart has kept me from my usual self-medicating haunts.

Though I did eat pizza for dinner two nights in a row and bummed a cigarette or two from Amy Saturday night after a couple of bottles of Prosecco.  But I wasn’t alone and I wasn’t out of my mind.  It was just a [slightly sad] Saturday night with a girlfriend who was trying to cheer me up.

The idea of another man near me, in me, or on me makes me want to vomit.  I can only think of you, your scent, your weight, your cock, your sounds and voice.  I have no idea what I’ll do if you leave me.  I’ve never been alone before and not immediately a heat seeking cock missile.  I’ve never been dumped before.

When I left my husband I was devastated — my life was completely over as I knew it — but I wanted it.  I don’t want this to end.  I’m not ready to give up.  But maybe you are…

You see your therapist today and so do I.  I have no idea what mine will say or yours.  You say she’s a ball-buster.  I hope she asks you what the fuck you’re doing and tells you that relationships are hard, that you can’t just walk away without working on it with your partner, that I am an amazing woman and girlfriend and that despite how it feels to you I am an exceedingly good match.

None of my friends would date a man with all of your restrictions; none of them could handle it they’ve said.  They think I’m a saint, but can see why I do it when we’re together.  They love you and think you’re great, have remarked on how much you’ve opened up since knowing me and growing closer.  But they also see how sad I am that you have kept such an enormous distance between us and they hurt for me.

I tell them not to worry because the trade-off is YOU — I get to have you — and that is enough for me.  And it really and truly is.

Last summer I nearly broke it off with you several different times.  I was frustrated and confused, angry that every little thing I did set you off or shook you up, that I wasn’t allowed to be pissed at anything you did if it didn’t make sense to you.  You need a Hyacinth Code, but sadly there isn’t one because sometimes I’m ok with you being late and other times deeply hurt.  It’s contextual; be transparent with me is the only rule I have.

But to you, that kind of transaction, the missed opportunity at transparency and my negative reaction, deeply unsettle you.  It’s another little bean in the scale of Hy and TN Don’t Get Along.  For me, it’s a bean in the Relationships Are Work jar.  It’s not a scale for me, it’s all just part of an Us.

These are the things I’ve been thinking about.

It seems things took a turn for the worse around October, but I’m not sure why.  You became much more distant and sex happened less and less.  You were anxious and upset about your impending trip home for the Christmas holiday and, I suspect, spending Thanksgiving with mine.

When you came home you seemed different, but in a good way.  You were more affectionate with Peyton, you seemed to have settled into our little routine.

Every Monday we had “off” and would just chat on the phone then Tuesday and/or Wednesday you’d come over for dinner and maybe stay the night one night.  Thursday was up in the air and Friday we almost always spent together.  Sometimes you stayed the night, sometimes you didn’t.  Saturday mornings I went into work and you headed to the office in the afternoon for a few hours.  When you were done we’d figure out what we might do that night.  Sunday I had off, but you went back into the office for a few hours and might pop over for a little while that night, you might stay the night. You worked out every night after work; your goal was 7 days a week.

You felt like you were on a loop: work, gym, Hy, [fitful] sleep, repeat.  I didn’t want to become a chore, but I think somehow I did.

You turned me down a lot for sex and I learned to let it go.  I also stopped trying.  You used to be filled with a buzzing, virile energy, but you have stopped buzzing.  You are sad and tired and overwrought.  I am so sorry for that, TN.

I want you to be vibrant again and happy to see me.  I want you to be excited about us for the first time probably ever.  I want you to see the great thing we have together and fight for it.  I want you to fight for me and for us and say to me that we are worth it!

I have some hope that you will, though I am not filled with it.  I have lots of room for doubt.

I miss you so much and know that this is probably as awful for you as it is for me.  This letter sounds so stupid to me when I read it again, but it’s all true.  I’ve been yelling at the dog a lot lately whenever he gets worried I’m going to leave.  Ha.  I find that kind of funny, actually.

Today I have a lot of freelance work to do and a gym class I want to attend, then therapy, then I get Peyton from school and it’s extracurricular fun times for a little while, then the chiropractor, the grocery store and finally getting to hug and hold my big little baby, dinner, nighttime routine, then bed.  It’s been brutal being alone these last 5 days.  I wish it were all over already.

I’m out of real coffee and have a disgusting mug of instant instead sitting beside me.  I’m on the couch in my pajamas, the dog is sprawled out on the end of it, and the cat is in his kitty tree basket in front of the window spilling over the top like a loaf of bread, his tail hanging over the side like an icicle.  I can even hear his kitty snores.  It’s a beautiful moment, yet I am filled with sadness.

I have lost things before, but never anything I wanted to keep, TN.  I want to keep you.  Please come back to me.

I confess I have a secret wish that you will end this break after one week instead of two.  It’s what you wanted until I insisted on the 2.  I wanted you to feel like you were getting all the space you could possibly need, but I am ok with you ending it sooner.  It’s all for you anyway.  I don’t need more time to know I want you.

With all my love and wishful hoping,

Hyacinth

jb