I am Hy.

Smith found me on Instagram.  His weird, dummy account told me nothing about him, but his good grammar and smooth words did.  We chatted for one long early morning when I woke up before dawn and checked my DMs; he was at work, I was in my underwear.

It quickly became clear that he had a banging body.  Images of six-pack abs flooded my feed, a glass sink bowl strategically hid his penis from view, and I openly drooled.  He laughed.

Because of my IG catfish experience I asked him to verify his realness with a kiss to his middle finger.  He obliged.  I wasn’t exactly expecting a picture of his face, but I got one.  He was dark-haired, manly, damn fine looking.  Reassured, I kept talking and discovered he lived in my state, not too far from me.

I keep my location top secret for multiple reasons, but the main one is I don’t need any crazy people fucking up my shit.  I know it’d be pretty difficult to figure out who I am just from my pseudonym and my city, but I’d rather not chance it.  Smith was calm and cool and quickly earned my trust.

“I’m not far from you,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” was his reply.  He didn’t ask to know.  He seemed to understand I’d tell him when I felt it was right.  When I eventually did we discovered we were a little more than 3 hours apart.  Not bad, but definitely not easy to meet up.  We shelved any imminent meeting and concentrated on being occasional penpals.

A while later I got a direct message from him.  “Looks like I’ll be coming to your town soon for my friend’s bachelor party.  Will you be free for lunch or dinner or anytime, at least to meet? ;)”

I checked my schedule.  I’d have Peyton, but my folks are often on kid-duty on Fridays.  I told him I hoped we could make it work.

We switched to text and fantasized together what it’d be like to meet.

He would be the second person to meet me that I met off of IG, the 3rd to meet me as Hyacinth Jones.  I was nervous.  Would I measure up?  Would the fantasy overshadow the reality?  The first man I met was just a friend, a Twitter friend first and foremost, then we’d moved to Skype.  When he told me about some upcoming travel and it happened to be in my town I took the plunge and revealed my whereabouts.  The night was fun and it’d been especially thrilling to me to be called Hy all night.

The second man is the fella with the beard and “complicated relationship” (read: marriage) I’ve mentioned here and there over the last few weeks.  He’d DM’d via IG something smart and respectful and when I clicked on his profile I discovered he lived in my town.  I kept our proximity hidden for days until I felt comfortable enough to share (he wouldn’t ruin me seeing as he had much to lose himself).

So Smith would be the third man to know me as Hy, the first with whom I fully expected a physical encounter.

We texted off and on throughout the day he arrived and realized that the plan for the night would be one neither of us had counted on: we’d meet a strip club.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yep!  It’s fine with me!” I replied.

I worked in a titty bar after college as a cocktail waitress and have frequented them off and on over the years during more than usual debauched nights out with friends.  I consider them dens of iniquity, the worst of all of us under one roof, but there’s something thrilling about being so base.  What did I care what people did with their time, money, and bodies?

I wasn’t nervous as my Lyft bore down the dark, streaky streets.  Despite the rarity of the situation itself, meeting someone new wasn’t.  I live for this shit.

I wore what he’d asked me to, a black and white striped mock turtleneck that clung to my body, black tights and boots, a short black skirt.  The deal was I was supposed to be braless for him, but I still wore it when I arrived.

“I’m here,” I texted.

“Be right out.”

I walked up to the doorman and got waved through; no cover for a single woman, I guess.  Lights flashed rainbows and I blinked trying to adjust my eyes in the busy foyer.  I looked up and there he was.

Average height, shirt pulled tight across his bulging pecs, dark hair, dashing.  We hugged hello and he drew me into the belly of the club where I pushed him against a wall and kissed him.  Music thumped and girls writhed all around us, but my eyes were closed to it all as I tasted his lips and pressed my breasts against his hard body.  We broke apart and smiled.

“Lemme buy you a drink,” he said.

At the bar I took off my jacket.  He admired my shirt.  “I still have my bra on.  Sorry.”

“You need to fix that,” he said loudly over the music.

I deftly undid the clasp and pulled it out through the bottom of the turtleneck, held it up for review, and dropped it into my large shoulder bag that I’d brought exactly for that reason.  His eyes widened and he laughed.  I turned in the flashing light this way and that, my breasts clearly outlined by the clinging fabric.

“You like?” I asked.  He liked.

He led me back to the VIP section where his friends were buckets deep into beer and babes and soon I was on his lap, my breast in his mouth, the fabric hot and wet between us.  We kissed and ignored the world.  I don’t remember a single thing we said to one another.

The agreement had been from the beginning that we would meet for a couple of hours and then he’d peel off to spend the rest of the night with his friends.  Their proverbial carriage showed up and we said goodbye.  I called a Lyft and rode back home thinking about his lips on mine and aftershave on my skin.

Was this something I would do or just Hyacinth?  Would I meet a strange man and his friends at a strip joint and make out with him, say goodbye, then leave?  Or just Hy?  Would I push a stranger against a wall and kiss him 30 seconds after meeting him?  Or was this strictly a Hyacinth move?

It may be surprising to learn that having a double-life, a pseudonym as important to me as mine, means that I wonder if one is enabled by the other of if they’re independent of each other.  Before Hy existed I’m pretty sure I’d have done the same thing, but the opportunity to meet someone and do this would be slim to none.  I’d be “looking for a relationship” or some such.  Being Hy gives me the freedom to literally do whatever I want whenever I want.  Funny thing is, if I’m honest with myself, I kind of do the same thing.

Pushing Smith against the wall and kissing him branded me Hyacinth in a way that the other men I’ve fucked and kissed and talked to haven’t.  It symbolized to me that she is me and I am her in all the best of ways.  She is my freedom much as I am her sensitive side.  Together we are me regardless of whether or not you meet me as Hyacinth or me and it’s about time I accept this.

The next morning I texted him to see how the rest of his night had gone and we both lamented that I wasn’t there in his big hotel bed with him.  Maybe I will be for the next bachelor party he attends.  As both me and as Hy.

 

 

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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13 thoughts on “I am Hy.
  1. I so can relate. Eva is fearless, and as Eva I can do anything. It kind of gives me permission to do outrageous things. But, sometimes Eva and I do something together, and it is so delicious to free myself.
    Eva St. James recently posted…Silly WineMy Profile

  2. This is one of my favorite posts of yours ever! The first that has made me comment… Figuring out/knowing who you are is so essential to everything else and feeling like you’re somehow integrating all the parts of you is a beautiful thing. This post filled me with hope for you and for me!

      1. No double life, at least not in the same way, but many sides (hypersexual, passionate about my work, Christian, capable of being totally detached, also capable of being super vulnerable and loyal…) that I am just beginning to live into fully on a consistent basis – and that I hope will someday all be fully appreciated by one man.

  3. This is a beautifully written piece, erotic and personal in the right sense, that you explore yourself and your feelings. We all have alternate personas (mine is sadly just a poet!) but they are intensely important for the way we decide to grow and be alive and divine our futures, learn and act when the opportunity arrives. A delight, my lady.
    fridayam recently posted…Bare SarkMy Profile

  4. I had a week of my sis calls slutfest, and though none of the men knew my specific blog, I told them that I write about sex and post photos. I would never see these men again, and there was something freeing and liberating about being able to just embrace the part of me that is so spotlighted on the blog and yet so shadowed by who most know me by.

    I love how you embraced both parts.
    Cammies on the Floor recently posted…I am reduced to a bodyMy Profile

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