I’m a hot mess and that’s fucking ok.

Hy laying down

WARNING: Post-break-up, bullshit post ahead.

Look up “hot mess” and you’ll find a picture of me next to it.

First the good news:  I canceled my date last night with the nice man who liked to climb rocks from a couple of Fridays ago.  He was totally cool with it like a normal person would be.  We may or may not hang out again in the future.  That’s entirely up to me.  Instead I folded laundry and made different bad decisions on my Wednesday night.

Now, the bad news: I solidified my plans with The Lawyer for Friday, so he’s definitely coming down, I texted The Neighbor, and I texted the Bad Texter.


Hot mess.

Yesterday felt like I’d been holding my breath and I needed to break the surface for air.  Not contacting men felt foreign and weird.  I’m the contacter in all my relationships, romantic or otherwise.  I’m the planner, the follow-upper.  I don’t know if I attract people who don’t give a shit, or if my threshold for not knowing what the fuck is going on is much lower than everyone else’s.  I’m not sure what that’s all about.

It’d been a week since I’d heard from The Lawyer, since the 4th with TN, and the 9th since the Bad Texter who had promised to text me when he got back to town after a 9 day trip.  Yesterday was the 15th.

The Lawyer had left me alone, which I appreciated, and the last things we’d said to each other was to set up our second date.  I pinged him with my first sip of vino verde last night and we firmed up our plans.  He said he’s excited to see me.  It’s foreign to hear and know it’s genuine.  I feel like I’m cheating on TN.

Next, I texted TN.  I was two glasses into my favorite summer tongue-tickling drink.  “Hey” was all I sent.  We texted for a hot minute before my phone was lighting up with his caller id.


“Hello, Hyacinth!” he chirped on the other end.  It felt amazing to hear his voice.

We talked for an hour and as each minute passed I sunk deeper into a strange mix of sadness, light and tension.  We laughed, we questioned, we answered, we joked.  Each time he told me about some new amazing thing he’s doing now, some thing that I wished so badly he’d have done with me, I heard my voice change.  “Oh.  You do that now?” I’d squeak.

“Uh, yeah,” was his flat answer.

Before we ended the call I went for self-flagellating-broke:

“I was wondering how long it’d be since you called me.  It’s been two weeks.  You know, you can call me.  It’d be nice.  I don’t have Peyton right now; I can hang out.”  Gasoline, Fire.  Fire, Gasoline. 

I don’t know how he responded because I was silently berating myself for the desperation that dripped from every word.

We hung up and I lit my last cigarette and sat on the balcony in the warm night awash with regret and shame.  Bits of our chat came back to me.

Hy laying down with one breast out

“Why didn’t you invite me?” he’d asked when I’d told him my friends (formerly categorized as “our friends”) had come over to the pool on Sunday.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” I’d said.

“Of course I would!  I haven’t seen Amy in two months!”

“It’s been six months since you’ve seen Amy,” I replied matter-of-factly.  “Since we broke up.”

“Oh, right.”

“And don’t you tell me ‘of course’.  I had no idea you’d be interested in anything like that.”

“Well, I am.”

I wish I’d told him I had thought of inviting him and then decided against it.  He doesn’t get to hang out with me and my friends anymore, right?  Right.

I finished the bottle of vino verde and watched more of season 5 of Seinfeld.  At 10:30 I decided to bring it back around to the last remaining man on my radar: the Bad Texter, the fat guy ginger who intrigued me so.

I never told him anything about my feelings and I never saw him after our bacon date.  He shined me on, gave me excuse after excuse, never took the conversation further, and now was clearly not texting me when he had promised he would.  I wanted to have the last word, as stupid as that sounds, so I simply told him, “I still don’t hate you,” and then, “Take care, tiger.”

He’d worried multiple times that his bad texting and busy schedule was making me hate him.  It would’ve been easier if I had.

Naturally, I haven’t heard from him.

So now I’m filled with anxiety each time my phone chimes with a text.  I worry it’s the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing isn’t actually dead like I hope.   Also, I worry it’s not the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing is actually dead like I hope.  You read that right.

Then I’m fearful that TN will discover The Lawyer at my house tomorrow, in my bed, and that I will then have lost him forever.  That idiotic, hopeful part of me just won’t die though I beat her and torture her in nearly every way I can imagine again and again and again.  I am the definition of a sad, delusional, heartbroken woman. 

I’m worried that I won’t be able to get The Lawyer out of my bed fast enough Saturday morning.  Hy laying down with two breasts out

I’m embarrassed that I’m a hot mess, but I’m also not all that surprised.  I’m also pretty comfortable with it.  I’m a firm believer in that wonderful cognitive zen-y thing that we do that whatever it is that I do is exactly what I should be doing.  I’ll figure out the whys later.

I’m not looking for advice on how to not feel this way; I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’m just sharing because it’s one of the things that I do best: I share myself, I bare myself.  It keeps me fucking honest and seeing it on the page helps me understand it.  Like, for instance, I know I need to chill the fuck out.

I understand that this isn’t fun to read about — it’s not all that fun to live — but I want to explore solutions.  I don’t know how to fix all of this.  All I know is what feels right to me and sometimes it looks like Hot and sometimes it looks like Mess.

Hello, my name is Hy and I’m a hot mess.

Images were taken by me while thinking, “I used to send these to TN, but now I have no one to send these to.”

I need you, Internet Boyfriend.

I am feeling lost and sad and lonely.  The Neighbor’s birthday is this weekend and, being silly me, I offered to take him out for his birthday on Saturday, Independence Day.

“So…” I began, “I was thinking I should take you out for your birthday this weekend.  Tina and Amy are both out of town, Peyton is, too, I’d like to do something fun.  What do you think?”

He looked at me with a quizzical look.

“C’mon!  It’ll be fun!  What else would you be doing?”

“I’d go into work then go home,” he admitted. Then he added, “Lemme think about it.”

I knew that was code for “Let me check with my therapist.”  “Ok,” I said.

A couple of days later he called to say I could take him out for brunch.

As you know, Internet Boyfriend, brunch is a sore spot with me.  He never went with me, hated it, he said.  “I’m not a brunch person,” he’d assert.  No matter my protests, he never budged.  The closest I ever got were a handful of 5 am wake-up calls to go to our favorite greasy spoon. I took it, appeased, but still longed for what brunch represented: a closeness, a lazy stroll through the morning after an intimate night, a declaration of couplehood.

Last weekend I told my dates that I wanted someone to go to brunch with.  Both men got what I meant without hesitation.  Last night my date got it, too.  “It’s special,” he’d agreed.

But this offer of brunch isn’t any of those things to The Neighbor.  If I had to guess — and that’s all I can do — it’s because it’s the safest slot to put me in.  It won’t be late, there won’t be much drinking (if any) and then he can bail on the excuse of having to do some work.  I could feel the long arm of his therapist in this decision since I had clearly made my intentions known that I wanted to take him out for the evening, as friends only.  “What do you want to do?” she likely asked.  “I want to hang out with her,” he’d probably said, “but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea…”

It makes me sad because the truth is there is a deep, dark part of me that wants him to come back around to me.  Not as we were, obviously, but as I’ve jumped into the deep end of dating I realize once again how special he is, how special our connection is.

Both Tina and Amy have rekindled romances with their exes.  They look at me with surprise when I say TN and I haven’t slept together once since breaking up or even kissed.  They have both gotten reengaged with their men and — despite all the complexities and confusions it’s caused — are happy with their lots.  I want that, too, but I can’t break him down; he has a steel grip on his resolve, never drinks too much around me, runs out of the house if he does, and because my heart is still dripping with loss I rarely contact him.  The chances of us bumping into each other with lowered inhibitions are nil.

I’ve come to realize that his rejection of me is integral to my wanting him.  The fact that I can’t charm the pants off of him, literally, invigorates me.  I want to know why, I want to solve this riddle.  I can charm the pants off of 97% of the men I meet, why not him?  Hell, why not the Bad Texter?  Even he has me on the hook because he is a complete mystery to me.

As I’ve been given the bitch slot of the day on Saturday it’s caused me to wonder why I even bother, but it’s that inexplicable itch I have to scratch.  Man after man I meet as if it’s my job and one by one they fall to my wiles.  It’s so easy, too easy, IBF.

I’m ashamed to call myself charming because it might come off as arrogant, but I don’t know how else to explain that with very few exceptions I manage to make a man want more of me.  Except the men I want; they eschew me, dodge me, refuse to see me.  Those are the men that draw my attention most: the ones who don’t see me.

Last night I sat at the same dive bar as I had with Remington only 3 days earlier.  We nearly sat at the same table, but out of respect for the ghost of that first date I steered us to a different table.  He was a fine looking man, fit and wirey from climbing, self-assured, a little nerdy looking which drew me in.  We began to talk and I found myself fitting to him as I had Remington, and The Lawyer and Mr. Nerdy, and all the other men.

Remember that ridiculous date I had with the guy with the face tattoos?  Or the power-lifter aficionado?  There have been others I never even wrote about because why?  They all went nowhere.  Yet, without exception they all thought it went swimmingly and wanted more of me.  I’m exhausted being their perfect woman and I am forgetting to look for my perfect man.

I’m so busy being charming and winning them over, figuring them out and being wanted that I am completely forgetting to be discriminating.  Why would I want this guy?  Is he the right fit for me?

He loves camping (I hate it), but, I think, maybe I’m doing it wrong and he can change my mind.  He’s a little bit overweight (and that’s not really my thing), but, I think again, he could lose it, it’s not a character flaw.  He’s a recovering alcoholic (and I don’t really want to mess with that being the drinker that I am), but, again, I can’t judge him for getting his life on track.

And so I have these inner dialogues during these dates whereby I dismiss all my red flags, all the things I don’t really want in a partner, because I don’t want to judge and I want him to want me.  And, what if I’m wrong??  God forbid I make a mistake.

I have this thing about me — I’ve noticed it my entire life — that I naturally emulate whomever I’m with.  When I’m with Sharon, I get a southern drawl, when I’m with Tina my hand gestures mimic hers, when I’m with Amy I walk like her.  Studies have been shown that it’s a likeability factor, this emulation.  We are naturally drawn to those who are most like us, who become familiar.  Books have been written on how to capitalize on it.

I suppose this was something I was born with then the skill was deeply stroked as a child in an unstable home.  To survive my mercurial parents, I had to disappear, figure them out and be as likeable as possible.  It’s led me to success in my career, but loss in love.  I rarely know where I start and they end I am so impossibly contorted to be likeable.  This gift of being a chameleon comes at a price: my own voice, my own way.

At the end of my date last night he asked how I was feeling.  I was his first internet date ever (“I prefer analog,” he’d explained) and it was off of AFF.  The truth was that I didn’t find him all that attractive physically, but I had enjoyed the conversation.  So, I did what I always do and kept him on the hook.

“I’d like to see you again, but I have to be honest, I’m a little worn out.  I go out a lot and next week I have my kid again.  Are you a patient man?”

He smiled, pleased I was interested.  “I am.”

I left it at that and we walked out and had a chaste kiss across from my car where, 3 days earlier, Remington had assaulted my mouth and pussy with hidden skills.

I drove home and got texts from Mr. Nerdy.  He’s excited about our date tonight, a traditional dinner and then an activity.  He’s been amping up the sexual content of his messages and I, quite frankly, don’t know if I have it in me.

I am so tired.

David came over Wednesday — yes, the guy who had taken himself off the market was back at me — and had railed me to oblivion.  He’d picked me up and thrown me around, choked me while his hand slammed into me until I puddled around it.  He bent me over and licked my asshole while holding my hands behind my back, fingered me and slipped his fat, unprotected cock deep inside my wet hole.  I’d gagged on his massive cock.

He struck my flanks, my legs, my thighs until I was fire-engine red and fucked me until he came on my back.  We’d laid in the waning light and talked about safe things: our dogs, physiological reactions.  Then he’d pulled me back into him and rolled on top of me and kissed me passionately until I pushed him off of me and tried so hard to get that enormous dick down my throat.

Tears squeezed out as they had earlier in the night, I’d vomited a little and then he’d flipped me over and railed me again until his muscles seized up from his 60k run over the weekend.  I’d fallen back on his cock and he’d turned me around to finger my ass.

How many fingers and how far he was into me was lost as I tried to cope with his penis.  He coached me as I whimpered, mortified and turned on and determined all at once until I’d vomited completely into my mouth and pulled off, stiff and still, looking for something to spit into.  That was it for us for the night.

We found ourselves trapped in the vortex of miscommunication again and I realized it was so easy to fuck him and let him come around because though I had figured him out I didn’t actually want him in my life as an important person.

I lay there, opposite him with his leg draped over me, his hands massaging my ankle and me stroking his calf thinking how comfortable I am with a guy I would never want to date, whereas the men who want me cause me great discomfort.

Mr. Nerdy has no idea that David sucked it all out of me.  I don’t want to have sex tonight, though I’m sure I will.  I will because I’ll mold myself to him and want to win him over.  Plus, I like sex.  It will likely be good for me to be with someone who’s interested in me beyond just my willingness to put out.  And, he wants to take me to brunch.

But I will be kicking him out sometime in the night, under the summer moon, because I will have to wash up and be ready for The Neighbor’s birthday brunch and afternoon surprise (I’m taking him to the batting cages).  He says he’s excited and really looking forward to it.  Strangely, I am, too.

I’m looking forward to figuring this out, IBF.  I’m lost.  I’m sad.  I’m lonely.  And The Lawyer wants to spend time with me on Sunday which makes me feel all the more lonely.  I need you.



I’m dating too many men.


The last time i took a pic like this I was training for a fun run with him.

On my run this morning it occurred to me that I’m dating too many men.  Then, under an oak tree atop a picnic table I tried to name them all:

David is still in the picture, the Bad Texter, The Lawyer, Remington, Mr. Nerdy, the guy tonight, the guy tomorrow, another dude — no, two dudes who’ve been out of town, the guy who texted me that crazy shit the other night when Ann was here, another guy, another guy.

The other night I had to write down who and when this week and I still had 6 left over in the sidebar with no time to give.

Nameless, most of them, as I probably am to them.

I had a dream about The Neighbor two nights ago. His giant, turgid cock was all mine.  My hunt was over and he was going to be with me forever.  I was going to feel his fuzzy, muscular body jam into mine and I was going to die of bliss.

It was all a fantasy, even in the dream. He slipped through my fingers when he realized I was still in love with him.  I denied it, but had no proof.  “But look!” I’d shouted into space. “Look at all the other men I’m fucking!”

He could t believe me and so he faded away.

I awoke tortured and throbbing and then cried.

I’m dating too many men and not the right one.

My orgasm made me cry.

I saw The Neighbor last night.

It’d been a while since we’d sat across from each other.  He’d taken up a lot of conversation when Ann was here and then emotional space when I saw his fancy black car speed off ahead of us on Sunday afternoon.  My gut had ached with sadness and loss.

Once alone Sunday night there was a thick stillness about me, about my life.  I went from full-throttle socializing to zilch, nada, nothing.  I felt hungover and desperately alone.  I contemplated texting him.  I contemplated texting the Bad Texter.  But a cooler head prevailed.  I sat with my sadness instead.

And then I sat with it Monday, too, sunken in my mattress surrounded by furry, sighing bodies until it was time to get my two-legged baby from summer camp.  Tuesday rolled around and I was bereft, like an empty cage I felt stiff and skeletal.  Then, yesterday, I went to a friend’s house to sit with her.  Something had changed with her live-in boyfriend, she said.  Sunday, out of the blue, he said he was moving into an apartment.  Monday she changed her will and is now waiting for him to get the rest of his things.

I remembered that feeling the morning The Neighbor told me, “And I don’t want to.”  Those 5 words that ended our relationship.  … and I don’t want to be with you, Hy.  … and I don’t want to be in a relationship.  Just like that.  But I’d known that was going to happen when he’d asked for a break.  Who ever recovers from a break??

So on my way to her house knowing I was going to learn something about the end of her relationship I caved and texted him.  A simple Hi, no punctuation.  Immediately he texted back, “Hey!”

We chatted for a bit and agreed we should see each other that night.  As I sat with my brokenhearted friend I thought about my own broken heart and the man responsible for it.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the 4 and a half months since we broke up, namely I’m capable of keeping my shit together.  After I left my husband I was sloppy, a wet dishrag of a woman.  This time, I was collected and focused.  I waited to date, albeit not long, but I am built for contact.  I wither away out of reach from rays of men.  Collectively, my experiences have been mostly good, but sadness courses through my veins nonetheless.

I’ve also learned that I desperately want to connect dots that might be better left alone.

The knock on my door made my heart skip a beat.  As always.

I opened the door and he smiled and we hugged.

“You smell really good,” I remarked.  “Is that the cologne I bought you?”

“It is.”

“Damn, I have good taste,” I quipped.  It made me happy to know he still wore it.

He declined the wine I opened and we went outside to talk.  We caught each other up and then I said, “So, I thought of you today.”  He looked at my quizzically.

“I used that giant dildo you got me and my vagina burned.”  His eyebrows shot up and we burst out laughing.  “That’s right, I don’t think you’re allergic.  I Googled it and apparently those jelly toys are basically poison.”

“Wow,” he laughed some more.  “Well, that’s nice to know!”

What I didn’t tell him was that I had cried while that giant, poisonous dildo was buried deep inside of me because it reminded me of him, of the way he would twitch inside of me as the Hitachi buzzed on top of me.  It reminded me of his scent and his warm skin, his lips on mine and the way he’d grip my breasts as I came.  I felt the tear slip into the shell of my ear the same moment the orgasm tore through my body and I sobbed with longing and loneliness.  My orgasm made me cry because I still love him; it’s a ghost limb.  A reminder of something that used to be.  It doesn’t exist today.

Watching him across the patio table last night I was reminded of all the other nights we’d spent like that as lovers.  How after a night like last night we would end up tangled in bed, sweaty and filled with lust.  Last night ended with a long, warm hug of promises to keep working on our friendship.

We struggle, but we keep plugging along.  It hurts him to know I’m dating, but he understands I no longer want to pretend that I’m not.  I will let him know if anyone becomes important.  He promised the same, though he hasn’t been out with anyone since our split.  Oh, how I wish I were more like him; to be able to be alone and safe for such long periods of time.

So we keep picking ourselves up and plugging along.  Laughing and learning and hurting and being angry at one another on occasion.  I think it’s worth it 5 out of every 7 days.  I guess those are pretty good numbers.

He’d scoffed a little when I told him how Amy and Tina were both still seeing their exes. “What?” I asked, “We still hang out,” I pointed out.

“True,” he said, “true.”  The big difference between The Neighbor and I and my two best-friends and their ex-boyfriends though is that he and I don’t have sex.  We have maintained that line and I am both proud and saddened by this.

He asked if we could hang out this weekend and I said we could.  I’m hopeful that last night relieved some lingering doubts I had clinging to me about our relationship, both past, present, and future.  I hope he’s hopeful.  And I hope that my ghost love for him won’t present any barriers too high to scale as I look for new love to fill my life.

Because I really do want love.




I exhausted Tinder.


Sorry, girl, Ryan Gosling is taken.

Apparently, when you’re a picky motherfucker like me, Tinder runs dry after so many “Pass” swipes.

Look.  I haven’t heard from the Bad Texter in over a day so I texted hello about 30 minutes ago (I also texted 6 other men).  Of the 7, 4 responded immediately.

Naturally, I only want one to reply, though I’m not sure why.  I’ll just be hustling in the inevitable.

When the stars align.

There’s an eerie balance to the universe.  One thing expires, another blossoms; a door closes, another one opens.  People who are closely bonded find themselves on similar cycles of mood, energy, menses, luck.

For me, the stars have been aligning, one by one, to bring me to my knees on the alter of Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass.

I’m finally admitting to myself that, yes, I want a relationship.  

A real thing to nurture and take care of.  I want to be fucking special to someone, not just a fun time — my fun bags be damned.

Admitting that is much harder than you might imagine.

To say I want to be loved shows you that I am soft where I wish to be hard, that I have a chink in my armor.  It means I will have to be honest for a change with both myself and the men I date because right now, I’m a giant liar.

“No, I just want something casual!” I might say laughing, which roughly translates to “I don’t need you to call me, to make plans.  I don’t need you to say nice things or let me know you care.  I don’t need to share myself with you in anyway because you are a blip on my radar, just one vessel of many in my dating sea.”  In other words, I pretend I’m self-sustaining And don’t give a fuck what you do.

But the truth is, I’m not and I do care.  I care very much.

My little relationship with the Bad Texter has taught me that I am capable of developing a connection outside a bedroom and though I wonder that he might not be a good candidate for me in the long run, I’ve decided to practice my truth-telling with him.

I will tell him I am looking for something real and that I’d like to explore that with him.  Because that’s actually the truth, crystal ball malfunctioning or not.

What that means is, I will say that I care about him and that my feelings are ripe to develop and that I want to explore them with just him.  

Well, to be more specific, I want him to date only me.  Baby steps, ok?  I don’t think I could put all my eggs in his basket.  Admitting I have feelings is big enough, thank you very much.

Then I will wait to see how he responds because there are only two things that happen when you tell the truth.  You either hear what you want to hear or you hear what you fear.

I suspect he will tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend at which point I will kiss him goodbye and thank him for our time together.  He won’t have any idea how his easy-going nature and focus on me helped put me back together, but I will never forget our brief time together.  

I’m tired of lying to myself and everyone else.  It’s time for the truth: I want to be special.

Next step will be to look for a man who thinks I’m amazing.

I lost to bacon.

Don’t laugh, but when given the choice between sex and food, the Bad Texter chose food.

We met at his friends’ restaurant and ordered a couple of sandwiches — both of which had bacon — and a couple of ciders.  We sat down and I could see his energy was low, but he was there meeting me long after he normally grabs lunch and usually when he’s napping from an early morning work call.  It was a real show of chivalry and interest.

His sherry-colored eyes held onto my blue ones as we laughed and shot the shit for an hour and a half.  After our second cider he finally cried uncle.  “I have to get out of here,” he said.  I could almost see the little tiny men hanging on his lashes trying to shut his eyes.

We walked out into the blazing sun and I offered to walk him to his car parked a few ahead of mine.  He insisted on walking me to mine, maybe me convincing him to allow me to pay for lunch was enough for him.

I gently grabbed his elbow and walked proudly beside his towering height and when we stopped by my car he put his paw on my waist and pulled me in.  I’d been dying for him to touch me our entire lunch; he’d missed many innuendos that I’d had to lamely point out directly.

“Yeah, bowling isn’t really a sport, so I can’t exactly say I work out much,” he’d admitted.

“Well, there are lots of other, more fun ways to work out, you know,” I’d said suggestively.  But he’d missed it entirely.

“Yeah, but those hurt.”

“Not the clothing optional kind,” I said more bluntly.  He’d grimaced shyly.  “Are you picking up what I’m putting down now?” I asked.

“Um, yeah… I’m kinda dumb like that,” he chuckled looking chagrined.

But out under the blazing noon sun in the street he pulled me into his mass and dipped his head to kiss me.  He wasn’t missing a thing now.

His lips were soft and warm and I melted into him.  He’s a wonderful kisser.

“You know,” I said into his mouth pulling away just a little.  “I want it to be noted that today you chose food over sex.”  I lifted my face back up to his and reconnected with him and we laughed into our kiss.

“I know,”  he paused and we looked at each other.  “I was dying.  Catch me at 11 and I’d be all over it.”  We kissed again and I pulled him against my body before releasing him.

He thanked me for lunch and I unlocked my car as he walked away.  “Text me when you get back in town!” I called after him.

“Of course,” he answered.

Ordinarily I would end my tale — very Hy like — here, but that would be taking a lot of creative liberty to the whole story.  I had planned on today to be our last meeting; it felt right.  The more I like him, the less I feel it’s going to work out.  There are so many logistical things at play that seem insurmountable and completely at odds, but I like him.  I have not felt this at ease with someone in, well, years.  And being turned down for sex, while shocking and not a little disappointing, is so foreign to me I want to know more about this man.

He actually wants to just hang out with me.  What??  Who does that?  (This also raises the question: Is bacon better than sex??)

Men only want a piece of me!  They don’t want to have casual meetings where we snuggle a little and kiss goodbye as we walk out of a building.  My typical dates include a vetting meet-n-greet and then down to business: when and where will we put penis in vagina multiple times?  They never demand more from me and I never offer it.

This guy — a smart, numbers guy, introvert, with a dry sense of humor and wicked intelligence — draws me in like a bee to nectar.  I want to coat myself in his pollen.  No one can argue that I don’t have a type.  Brilliant introverts: I loves them.

I’m ridiculously busy tomorrow and then he leaves for the weekend again and I will wait patiently for his return.  I will suspend any attempts to connect via text because I have learned that the best approach with him is to keep it to a minimum and treat it like a telegram.  “When do you want to hang out.  Stop.  I’m free Friday at 5.  Stop.  Bring beer.  Stop.”  Attempting a natural conversation with him via text is perilous to my psyche.

I really want to learn more about the man that put bacon ahead of me.  I hope he wants to learn more about me.



I had sex with a fat guy.

The Bad Texter, for lack of a better word, is fat.  I’m not using that word in a derogatory way as it’s come to be held in casual speak, it’s simply a fact.  If you carry a certain amount of extra weight on your body in the form of fat — well, you’re fat.

He’s also sexy, confident, smart, tall as fuck, and hilarious among other identifiers.

I’ve been worried since I met him how the mechanics of sex would work with someone of his size.  I even Googled “How to fuck a fat guy” with some interesting results.

There were some How To’s (missionary might not be best if he can’t support his own weight) and some personal accounts of lovin’ the extra cushioned pushin’.  Mostly what I learned was to not pretend he wasn’t fat and to work around any physical limitations as I might anything else that could limit a partner.  I wouldn’t expect to ride a guy if he had a sunburn on his back, after all.  Likewise, I wouldn’t expect a fat guy to get all acrobatic with me like a fit fireman could.

He arrived a few minutes late carrying a nearly empty box of Bud Light and his cap on backwards.  We hugged awkwardly in the entryway and I invited him into the kitchen where I was prepping our lunch.  We made small talk for a minute before he came around behind me and began to touch me.

His big belly pressed into my back as I leaned into him.

“Is it ok if I touch you?” he asked huskily.

I nodded and turned around to face him just as he bent to capture my mouth.  His soft lips plied mine apart and his beard tickled.  He massaged my breasts and moaned and I put my arms around his expansive waist and pulled his softness into me.

I held his face in my hands and wondered at the padding that was present even on his neck.

“I want to be inside of you,” he whispered against my mouth.  “Where can we go to do this?”

I laughed and told him there was a secret room in the back and led him to my bedroom.

He deftly untied my bikini top and pushed my dress and bottoms to the floor and set me back gently on the bed.  I spread my knees and he knelt between them and his ginger head dipped below my line of sight.

His mouth, hot, wet, and soft licked me and played a sweet tune.  He’s the first man in years that has spent every chance he can get between my thighs this way.  The Neighbor actively avoided it — it intimidated him — and my other more recent lovers have been much too busy throwing me around the room and fucking me senseless.

Cunnilingus has its place on the menu, but for my lovers it’s never been a main course.  For BT, it’s his forté.

I laid there and thought about it, thought about how different this man has been for me already and I pressed my thighs against his face in pleasure and felt him groan against me.

He stood up and made a move to stick his uncut cock in me.

“Do you have a condom?” I asked.  He shook his head.

“I can pull out if you want,” he said.

“Oh, no.  I’m not afraid of pregnancy.  Safety first.  There’s a box under my bed.  I might have some.”  I prayed I had some regular condoms in there.  The last I knew The Neighbor had left a bunch of Magnums behind two years ago.

He bent over and pulled the box out and there, shining like Willy Wonka’s Golden Tickets, was the strip of Magnums.  He chuckled, I groaned and shuffled giant dildos, butt plugs, lube, and silk ties around until I found a regular condom. “Don’t judge me,” I said handing it to him referring to my cardboard box of debauchery.

“No, never,” he replied with a smile.

I could see his erection flagging under the condom application.  “I have a hard time staying hard in condoms,” he explained.

“Who doesn’t?” was my reply.  There was no way he was sticking it in me without protection.

As he worked it on I took a closer look at his hulk, his ginger-colored body hair masked a vast network of freckles, his thighs were thick trunks of bone and muscle, and his belly creased over in a soft, swell of white skin.  I liked how he stood tall in the daylight and blocked out the sun.

He dove back down between my thighs and worked his cock with his free hand for a few seconds before standing up and climbing on top of me.  His belly pressed on mine as he pushed in, slow and deep; I couldn’t lock my ankles around him, but his warm bulk thrilled me as I helped to pull him in closer with my heels.

I opened my eyes to see him staring at me intently.  Our gazes locked and he pulled out and flipped me around.  I backed up to the edge of the bed and he thrust back inside.  His big hands were gentle on my hips; he whispered how good my fucking pussy felt.  “Hy, Hy, your pussy feels so fucking good.”

I gripped the covers and pressed back into him wishing he’d hit me or grip the skin beneath his hands in a meaty fist, but he seemed unsure if that would be ok and the last time I begged him to suck harder on my nipples he shied away from going the distance to cause me a little pain.

I moaned about his fucking cock and relished the feel of the slide and my pulse quickened when he told me he was about to cum.

“Please cum,” I said as my nipples scraped against the bedding and I rocked back on him as hard as I could.

He came in rolling waves and I felt him quiver and tremble behind me.  I rolled to my back and he stood towering above me breathing heavily.  “I’m a little out of shape,” he said to no one.

I laughed and answered, “It’s all cardio, man.”  He laughed at that, too, and went to toss the condom.  When he returned I patted the empty space next to me and turned on my Hitachi.

“Grab my breasts, please,” I told him.  He squeezed them in great handfuls and pinched the dark pink nipples hard enough I could feel it.  I quickly roared up to an orgasm and fell limp in his arms.

We laid like that for several minutes not talking, just panting and feeling one another’s skin.

We got up, got dressed, and continued working on lunch prep.  Down at the pool we chatted easily then slipped into the water.  I hovered over him on the steps and we kissed a little.  It felt natural — strangely natural — and I thought “Of course I have this normal, lovely dating scenario with a guy whose sexual proclivities might not match mine.”  Why does everything have to be a compromise?  Why can’t this guy be a maniac in bed and all these other wonderful things?

I haven’t written him off, but I am leery of a future between us.  There are obstacles I can’t share without giving away our identities, but suffice to say they exist.  I’m also not sure he could ever get on the same page as me sexually speaking and it has nothing to do with his size.  Also: bad texter.

He’s out of town this coming weekend and I’d love to see him again, so I’ve offered to make him dinner since I have Peyton this week.  It seemed like a great idea at the time, but when I woke up stone sober without his charismatic smile or my Vino Verde fogging up my brain I’m not so sure anymore.  We’ll see.

I’d like another go at this guy.  That much I know is certain.  I feel compelled to kick the door open for him in some way.  I almost begged him to touch my asshole as he softly held onto my hips and ground into me, but I didn’t want to scare him away.  Maybe next time I can make it clear that he may do nearly whatever he likes to me.  I thought for sure cumming on my face at the end of our last date would have been a dead give away as to my disposition.  I guess not.


Dating is awful: Wherein I state the obvious.

Some troll on IG thinks my tits are "terrible."  God, I love men.

Some troll on IG thinks my tits are “terrible.” God, I love men.

The Neighbor ended things with me on February 11th and I waited until March 27th before I sat across a live man again.  Since then I have been out with 11 men on approximately 29 different occasions in 10 weeks.

I’ve had sex with 4 of them 12 times and did a whole bunch of oral fun with a 5th man.  I can’t even count the number of men with whom I’ve interacted with online and text.  I’d guess 100+ if you include brief replies, shut downs, and quiet fades.

I’m sure one of you could crunch those numbers better than me, but according to my poor math skills I have close to a 50/50 chance of sleeping with a man when I go on a date and I spend a little less than half my waking time on a date.

Except that isn’t even remotely true.

Less than half the men I’ve gone out with have seen me naked or gotten to touch me and I have a very lustrous life outside of meeting strangers for drinks and the furtive hope of chemistry.  This isn’t all I do, but it is my past time.

I was on another date with the Bad Texter on Tuesday and it’s the first time we’d seen each other since he left for London the morning of my texting mistake 3 weeks ago.  He asked what I’d been up to.  It was so good to see his smiling, bearded face and light sherry-colored eyes.  But I couldn’t answer him, not honestly.

I couldn’t tell him I woke up the other day with cum dried in my eyebrows or how I’d been on a ton of terrible dates or how I’d hit 10,000 followers on my Instagram account that’s connected to a sex blog that is a true labor of love and a huge part of my life.

In that moment I realized I have an arguably very large and secret double life, so I only answered, “Not much.  I’m pretty boring.”

The truth is I’ve been very busy over the last 3 weeks and particularly the last 70 days.  Let me fill you in.

Blake – He was the first man I went out with after The Neighbor.  We hung out about 3 times and on our first date he asked me what my deal breakers were.  Not what I held to be true about other people, but what a man would find about me to be a deal breaker for him.

The first thing that popped into my brain was, “Well, I have a secret fucking sex blog, so there’s that,” but what I said instead was, “I need a lot more attention than what a single man can give me.  He’d need to allow me to get feedback from elsewhere.”

I was up front about my sexual proclivities, he gave me some nice bruises once, and then he very oddly opted himself out one day as he spun out in a frazzled mess and broke a date citing stronger feelings for me than I had for him.

Tall eHarmony Guy – We texted for a month leading up to our date scheduled for March 28th and spoke once on the phone.  He’d offended me twice and shown himself to be insecure and close-minded, but I liked that he was watering a little seed with me with his daily check-ins and obvious interest.

The day of our date I met with Troy and Jack beforehand for drinks even orchestrating our destination to be within drop-off distance of the shitty restaurant TeG had chosen.  An hour before we were to meet he texted to say that the first reservation available was at 10pm.

He thought I was seeking perfection when I told him I wasn’t interested in driving around with him – a stranger – looking for another restaurant at 7 pm on a Saturday during a festival weekend.  He figuratively huffed off out of my life and phone and I merrily waved goodbye.

The Little Marine He was intense and we clicked until suddenly we didn’t and I left him face down and naked, crushed, on his black sheets.  He knew I wasn’t returning.

He was diligent in scheduling sex and I obliged a time or two, but something was off.  Our sex was never as good as that first time when I realized that desirable sex did, in fact, exist outside my broken heart.

It ended for two reasons: 1) he was pressuring me to schedule too much and I found myself leaning towards untruths about my availability and 2) our last date was a semi-disaster.  He arrived drunk, rushed me out of the hotel bar across from his apartment, didn’t listen to a goddamned word I said, and at some point smacked my ass in the basement hallway of his building.  It wasn’t the smack that bothered me, but the aftermath.

He insisted it’d pissed me off, I asserted only surprise.  He wouldn’t drop it, even after I begged him to.  My attraction for him was evaporating as quickly as he formed his words of rebuttal.

We attempted sex — I was there to get fucking laid, after all — but it didn’t work.  Neither of us were into it.  He didn’t want me to go, but I said I had to.  He asked what he could do differently, could he have avoided this.  My simple reply was, “You could have listened to me.”

David The fireman with the giant hose.  We met for beer and made out in my car a little so I could feel his beer can cock for myself.   The sex has been subversive, challenging, and unimaginably hot for me, but I struggle to communicate with him.  I avoid arguments because, like with The Little Marine, an argument is a sure sign of an imminent exit and I still really like fucking this giant, crudely funny man.

Ray – A man I met on Tinder who explicitly stated he wasn’t looking for anything physical.  Intrigued, we met for a casual meal where I discovered it’s actually possible to have zero chemistry with an incredibly good looking man.  We haven’t spoken since, though I’ve seen him at my favorite coffee/bar place a couple of times.

Incidentally, Ray was the man I was off to meet the night I ran into The Neighbor for the first time in weeks which tipped the scales for us in so many ways.

Ginger Viking Tall and with a beard the color of a redwood, GV talked at me animatedly for 2 hours one day across a picnic table.  He was funny and had an easy energy and I didn’t even mind that he spoke mostly about his masters degree program.  I was able to interject here and there.

He sent me lots of cock shots before the Sunday morning he came over to fuck.  He grabbed me in the entryway and kissed me with a loose, wet mouth, and backed me into my bedroom.  We peeled off our clothes, he rolled on a condom, put it in for 3 to 5 thrusts then froze.

Apparently, he’s a quiet cummer.

He rolled off of me, said he needed a nap, but didn’t leave for another 2 hours wherein he told me all about his multiple DUIs and subsequent non-drinking life.

He recently hit me up for some “non-mommy time,” but I have let this one slip away.  Premature ejaculation and quiet cumming are not fatal flaws, but quitting once you’ve orgasmned and not giving me anything, even a sign of pleasure, is.  Also, all the jibber jabber.

The Bad Texter – This man is figuring prominently in my thoughts these days.  I met him May 1st and felt an instant connection.  He’s very tall, bearded, ginger, and about as guarded as a mother fucker can get.  He’s also 75 lbs overweight.  I’ve never been so attracted to such a large man and when he touches me I feel small and safe, two things that rarely occur together.  The former, sure, the latter almost never.

We’ve been out 4 times and we haven’t fucked.  Tuesday night I straddled his face and pulled his hair,  his big paws clawed at my back in long, heavy swipes.  I came with my head against the giant, padded headboard his mama made him.

I climbed off of him and sucked his uncut cock and could feel the foreskin slide in my mouth.  He moaned my name, coached me.  I came up to kiss him and asked where he wanted to cum, he could do it anywhere, I said.  He whispered, “In your mouth,” then even more softly whispered, “and on your face.”

I knelt below him and looked up at his towering, hulking body.  His face was glazed with passion as he watched himself disappear into my mouth.  I leaned back and let him finish all over my face and held his pulsing cock in my mouth.

We lay together then, me cuddled up in his nook, and he threaded his big fingers through mine for many minutes on end.  I couldn’t remember the last time a man played with my hand.

We’re going to see each other again on Sunday.

Randy – The exceptional date who has proven to be a nice young man, but is apologetic about his sexuality.  He liked me a lot very quickly and I have been gentle with him to put distance between us.  I am not here to teach anyone about the coolness of their bodies and sex.

Chase – My sexual brother, who as I predicted, told me just last night that he’s going to stop playing around.  He and the Bad Texter are the only two men who have shared the conversation with me.  I’m going to miss him.

Mat – His name was misspelled from birth — that should have been an indicator of something.  He withheld very important information, such as having 4 children with his ex, and never once asked me a question.

The entire experience pushed me far off balance, but I have recovered.

McSweeney – This Monday’s date blamed me for over-dressing and discussed power-lifting for the first 20 minutes of our date before sticking his head up for air.  When I was able to interject he would react negatively or argue with me about my own beliefs and feelings.  Oh, and then more power-lifting talk.  Good times.

We kissed by my car.  He must know by now that it’d be his first and last with me.  His cologne was cloyingly musky.

The Chemist – Wednesday’s date.  Let me just share what I told a friend about him:

shorter than me WITH cowboy boots, thinks his mother is a shitbag, told me how much money he makes, he’s got Crohn’s but doesn’t care because he knows he’ll die from it anyway, he dips, he didn’t ask me one question, he argued with me about metaphysics v existentialism, hates bjs and thinks they’re degrading to both parties, has an exfiancee who put all the dicks in her unbeknownst to him, hasn’t seen/talked to his parents in 12 years…

That’s just what I wrote to her.  He is also in the process of getting his face tattoos removed.  I’m sure I’ve forgotten more gems from the evening, but that’s plenty of red flags for me.

Take from these tales what you will.  I’m certain there’s a How not to get laid message in there somewhere.

I might have a date with someone else tonight, maybe another Friday and Saturday and then the Bad Texter is Sunday.  This could possibly be the busiest dating week of my life, but I feel light as a feather.  The force is strong with this one, as the saying goes.

Dating is inherently awful.  The Chemist called it something like the “reconciliation of vulnerability,” that we all just assume we’ll be hurt by the strangers we continue to meet online.  I call it an exercise in futility because no matter what it is you’re looking for — be it love or lust — you’re offering yourself up for rejection and to attempt to avoid it is futile.  I also have my double-life to think about.  I’m lying right out of the gate if you include omission as a fatal character flaw.

I really like the Bad Texter, but the current rules of dating mean that he’s probably talking to half a dozen girls on any number of platforms and therefore I don’t have 100% of his attention.  Ever.  It’s certainly true of me.

Focusing on one man doesn’t increase my odds of a successful connection, either.  That’s the sad part.  We all play the field because it’s deceptively easy (thanks, online dating!) and it seems like the right thing to do, but what we’re really waiting for is the Big Kahuna, the one that takes us out of the churning waters of singledom and into the kiddie pool of a stable relationship.

Having said that, I don’t know that I’m fit for a relationship.  I wonder all the time if I mean that for right now or for always because the idea of letting my guard down, of actually being vulnerable enough to say, “Hey, I need this from you,” and risk this person not stepping up and therefore forcing me to end it with him as any healthy adult should and would makes me itch.  Also, double-life.

I’ve told the Bad Texter his way of communicating has really bothered me.  That was a baby step to real vulnerability, but I can’t say that I’ll be able to go further.  The Neighbor is a closed book, but if I could rewrite our chapters I would have left him last summer without question, but I was incapable of admitting to myself that what he was doing was unacceptable because then I would be forced to end things and it is nearly impossible for me to stick up for myself like that.  The loss of someone I love, despite them not treating me well, is akin to raw abandonment.

I don’t want to find myself trapped in that place again and until I trust myself enough to admit to when things are indeed not ok, then I will be swimming in the deepest pools of men I can find, because here I am a strong swimmer.


Go to the sex category for the pervy stuff.  Not all posts here contain explicit sexual content, but a lot do.  If I mention someone in a post, I put it here.  Sometimes.  I’m not really all that organized, though the Virgo in me demands at least a semblance of it.

All names are pseudonyms — except those that aren’t — and  I have gone to great lengths to protect the identities of all the men written about here — and my own — but I understand that anyone intimately engaged with me might think, “Hey!  That’s me!”  Don’t be shy if that’s the case.

If you are reading this and recognize yourself please email me and we can discuss what to do next: take it down?  change anything you feel is identifying?  send me hate mail? ask me out again?

All I ask is that you reach out to me first before emailing my mother or boss a link to this site.

 Current Lovers

Internet boyfriend (a.k.a. IBF) – this is the mysterious, all-encompassing boyfriend that is you and everyone else who reads this blog.

  • He is kind, loving and knows me inside and out. He is patient and wise, but also loves to hear the gritty details of my dissolute life.  He isn’t jealous, but he is protective and wants only the best for me.  He is my champion and always happy to get a sext from me, always willing to come over to fuck  me till I’m inside out, always willing to listen any time of the night or day.  His support is inexhaustible, his humor droll, his intellect sharp.  I need him in my life as I learn to walk again as a woman and a sexual being.

It’s hard to have an accurate and current list because men come and go so quickly, but basically no one is a steady in my bed except the dog.  However these fellas aren’t completely off the table.

– Ben (5/16) – 16 years younger at a tender 24, Ben offered me a place to stay while I was in London for Eroticon.  Our 36 hours together changed me. I hope to see him again.

– David (4/15) – 8 years my junior.  Fireman who likes to choke me with his giant cock.  We don’t communicate well, but the sex is boundary-pushing and a thrill and so long as we keep the talking to a minimum things are good.  He keeps coming back for a savage fuck.  His new year goal is to fuck me in the ass, apparently.  Not sure how that’s going to happen seeing as I’m basically an ass virgin, he’s as big as a beer can and we never see each other, but a man can dream, I guess!

– Poppy (8/16) – 10 years younger, from Long Island, tall and beautiful, like an Adonis.  Also limping along from a messy breakup and a shattered heart.

– Franklin (9/16) – 15 years older than me and a wealthy single man looking for an uncomplicated sugar relationship. 

– Brad (9/16) – My age, chiseled from marble and a joke book; shorter than me.


It took a little while for me to get my ducks in a row after the break up, but I got back at it eventually.

– The Little Marine (4/15) 10 years my junior.  A good way to get back in the game, but it was brief.

– The Ginger Viking (4/15) – 5 years my junior.  Honestly, I don’t want to count him.  It lasted less than 90 seconds.

  • Hrm.  Not even really worth a post.

– Chase (5/15) – 6 years my junior.  Compelling and a kindred sex-spirit.  And like I suspected, he decided to devote his energies to the two women with whom he liked the most.  He texted me a few weeks later to confirm I was into being a couple’s 3rd.  Maybe he’ll be back in my bed one day, along with his girlfriend.

– Bad Texter – (5/15) – 6 years younger.  He ignited a different side of me completely by accident.  His rude texting behavior eventually forced me to politely walk away.

– The Lawyer (6/15) – 10.5 years my junior.  Tall as fuck, sweet as pie, lived an hour away.  He tried a few times to pin me down, but I couldn’t commit to a second date.  He did the quiet fade, sadly.

– Never named this guy (8/15) –  A couple years younger than me we hung out 2 or 3 of times like real human beings.  We decided I’d go to his house and he’d make me dinner.  It was when I realized sometimes I sucked.

– The Soldier (9/15) – 9 years younger, tall, tattooed, stupidly beautiful.  We met on AFF and met 24 hours later and had our first date 24 hours after that.  A week later he disappeared, reappeared, and a couple of days later he vanished completely.  A few weeks later he returned, apologized and we’re talking again.  I have whiplash.  As of February I haven’t heard from him since wishing me Happy New Year.

Petya (11/15) – 15 years younger; a Russian immigrant who had a perfect American accent.  He was like the Tazmanian Devil.  I ended it because he wasn’t together enough.

Kevin (1/12 for a few months then we picked back up 12/15) – 11 years my junior; pretends to be an old man.

21 yo (12/15) – 19 years younger.  He took a selfie of us at the bar, which I found odd, then blocked me the next day.  Perhaps it was because I made him download Lyft to get home at 3 am.

Bad Tuesday Night Lay (12/15) – 10 years younger?  Can’t remember.  He booty called me a couple of times after to no results.

Bearded Guy (1/16) – 7 years younger

– Clark (1/16) – 15 years younger; stylish AF, smart and sweet.  First guy in a long time to take me out on a proper date.

– Captain (3/16) – 14 years my junior; a captain in the Marines.  Tall, burdened with the troubles of the world.

– Bones (1/16) – 9 years my junior; short-ish, hung, archaeologist with a dry, easy-going energy.  Mad kisser, bad at darts, Jenga, and communicating.

– Remington (4/16) – 15 years my junior; tall, blond and beautiful.  A musical virtuoso and a fellow artist I decided to trust.

– The Welder (4/16) – This was the experience where I began to unravel.

– Nameless Friends With Benefits (6/16) – Men who never got named.  Part of the Summer of ________.

– Will (7/16) – My age, married man I met on a sugar daddy site.  Our attempt at “an arrangement” failed miserably, but I learned some valuable lessons.

– The Artist (8/16) – 7 years younger, Viking-looking, sensitive.  Too sensitive in the end.

– The Sub (8/16) – 13 or 14 years younger we met on a D/s site and emailed for weeks exploring our needs and wants.  I pressed “pause” on finding a sub after our time together, but not why you might think.


The Neighbor

The man from whom I’m [still] recovering.

The Neighbor (TN) – 9 years my junior, the man I loved.  We dated from November of 2011 until January of 2015.  He broke my heart, but in the end, I absolutely agree it was the right thing to do.  I just wish I’d done it sooner.

Click here to read from the beginning or here to read posts only about him in whatever order you choose.

During The Neighbor

TN and I weren’t monogamous for a long time.  It wasn’t until the middle of our second year that I focused only on him.

– Jason (10/11) – 11 years younger, a PhD student.

– Phillip (10/11) -9 years older than me, a business man who fucked the shit outta me.

– Casio (12/11)– goddamn he had a purty body.

– Bulldozer (1/12) – chick with mocha colored skin and big, juicy lips.  She used me and Kevin and skipped out with a smile on her face.

– Tuesday (3/12) – couple of years older than me, maybe; dude caught in the crossfires of my desire for The Neighbor.

– Beefcake (a.k.a. Beefy, but nerdy) (7/12) – a few months younger than me, tall and beefy, but nerdy with lots of tattoos.

After I left my husband

After my husband and I separated I hit the ground running.

– Jimmy (9/10) – ex-lover who got an epic blowjob.

– Matt (10/10) – 4 years younger; ADD, dental student who took advantage me.

– Ethan (10/10) – 4 years younger, a contractor who liked to make big promises he had no intention of keeping.

– Dave (11/10) – 2 years older, a single dad with whom I never really felt a lot of chemistry.  I introduced him to Lina and to my knowledge, they’re still dating  married today.

– Troy (11/10)–  2 years older; loved to suck cock. We dated non-monogamously for about 8 months ending all communication in November of 2011. We had several group sex experiences together including my most loved MMF combo.  He was a very talented lover who opened my eyes to truly great sex, but could also be cruel.  Years later, we’re good platonic pals and I value our special friendship and special bond.

– Alan (12/10) – 5 years younger, a dude who looked like a dockworker.  I told him I needed a savage fuck, he said, “Come on over.”

  • I like my men to talk less and keep their tongues in their mouths

– Jack (12/10) – 10 years younger; identifies as pan-sexual. He fucked me and Troy several times with various other partners, but then schedules got in the way and we drifted apart. He’s a Dom with a loving streak. I’m still friends with him and his fiancée, Emma.

– Dan (1/11) – a couple of years older than me, he was an old high school crush who came through town and stayed at a swanky hotel.

  • I poured champagne on my tits

– Emma (1/11) – 18 yo at the time, I felt like Mrs. Robinson but a dirty, filthy one.  It’s no fun fucking someone to whom you could be their mother.  She was great, though.

– Zed (1/11) – a couple of years younger than me and the best friend of a graduate school friend of mine.  He wore tweed the first time I met him and was a killer kisser.

  • I wish his dick matched his bravado

– Lina (2/11) – 11 years my junior;  I loved how accessible she was to me (she was always up for fun), but she was cruel and an unapologetic racist.

– Geoff (3/11)  – 30-something dude who shaved his entire body.  He was fun, then he disappeared until he brought Ross over for a disastrous MFM a month later.

– Tennis Pro (3/11) – a year or two younger than me, 6’2″, gorgeous.  When he saw me in the coffee shop I could see him catch his breath.  He was nice.

  • I won’t let you cum on me on the first date, but you can fuck me on the second

– Giant (3/11) – 10 years my junior he was 6’6″ and nerdy.

  • I’ll ask you if you want a bologna sandwich with Cheetos

– Kent (3/11) – a couple years older than me, 6’1″, he was the color of a coffee bean and built like a track star.  I teased him about being a tripod because his cock was magnificently huge and he claimed to have been a scrawny little teenager.

– Ross (4/11) – the nice friend of Geoff who got his rocks off on my balcony after the shittiest threesome ever.

  • Homophobic men aren’t sexy

– Lou (5/11) – early 30s.  We fucked only twice because the second date he accidentally slammed it into my asshole twice and though I was clearly in pain, he was unapologetic or concerned.

– Mensa (6/11) – 2 years younger; claimed to be in Mensa.

– Hunter (6/11) – late 30s, 6’4″; charming as all fuck.

– Ryan (6/11)- late 20s; he was on the DL with his other female lovers, but I got to see him suck cock.

– Becky (7/11) -barely past drinking age, Ryan’s girlfriend.  She had the figure of Brittney Spears and a sweet disposition.  We loved each other’s bodies.

– Pianoman (7/11) – 30-something single dad who played piano for a living.

  • I blew someone away

– Jake (8/11)– He got a surprise.

– Roy (8/11) – 4 years younger, a special ops kind of guy. We first met the end of the summer of ’11. He was marvelously generous with his jokes and his money.

– Max (9/11)- My birthday present.

– JohnJohn (10/11) – 30-something entrepreneur who wore those funny toe shoes.

  • I fucked a guy while my friends fucked in the other room  |  If you fuck my face too hard, I will vomit wine on you

– DeRouge (10/11) – 30-something traveling man from out of town.

  • Traveling men are fun