My houseboy does the dishes for me.

We laid in the dark, my birthday-Hitachi switched off beside me, Faisal purred on his chest.  “Thank you, Hy, for dinner tonight.  It was absolutely delicious.”

I rolled over, still in my orgasm hug, and kissed him full on his bearded mouth. “Thank you for letting me cook for you.”  We smiled at each other in the dark and I rest in his nook and played with his feather-soft chest hair.

I could have added many other Thank Yous:

  • Thank you for interrupting my blogging with your big, giant hardon and reminding me what’s most important.
  • Thank you for letting me push you down on my bed in my dark room and slipping you out of your underwear.
  • Thank you for letting me suck your big, fat cock.
  • Thank you for telling me how much you’ve missed my magical mouth and thank you for letting me sit silhouetted at your side and cradle your balls in my hand.
  • Thank you for flipping me on my back and shoving yourself inside of me, of rocking into me until I panted and cried out.
  • Thank you for sucking on my nipples, telling me to twist and grab them.
  • Thank you for getting my wand and growling deep in your throat as I writhed and moaned and cussed for lack of actual words.
  • Thank you for being a part of orgasm after orgasm.
  • Thank you for stroking my brow and kissing me like I’m someone special.
  • Thank you for being my muse.
  • And thank you for doing the dishes.
And for letting me take this amazing picture.

And for letting me take this amazing picture.

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


TN is my houseboy.

The Neighbor vacuums for Hy

In the beginning.

Six weeks after giving birth, my baby was round as a seal pup on my fat-laden breastmilk and the result was a massive, roll-covered infant.  Adorable, yes?  Convenient, no.

Silly, naive me didn’t think twice about my body and what it’d been through pushing a baby out of it, so when I bent over the middle backseat of a sedan (the safest place in a car, natch) while holding a 20lb baby in its 15lb carseat I wasn’t prepared for the pop and ting I felt from my lower back.  But there it was.  I was fucked.

Months of chiropractic work, physical therapy, X-rays and MRI’s later, it was determined that I had two bulging discs — not the worst diagnosis ever, but certainly not great.  It was a relief to be told there really was something wrong with me, though my exhusband never seemed to really believe me and, I suspect, suspected I claimed constant back pain just to get out of certain chores.

Anything that required lower back strength threatened my back (mowing the lawn, lifting a heavy trash bag, emptying the dishwasher) I would ask him to help with about every 9th time lest he feel overwhelmed by my injuries (I wouldn’t want to put him out, after all).  And the #1 chore that I needed help with the most was vacuuming.  Pushing that stupid, heavy, upright thing would send me in spasms in about a minute without fail.

The sad thing about that was that I actually loved to vacuum.  I loved to see the bits of debris disappear beneath the roar of the engine and the clean tracks left behind.  Far more rewarding that cleaning toilets, to be sure.  It was work accomplished!

By the time I moved out 2 and a half years after my diagnosis and near constant pain, I had just resigned myself to the pain and the obligatory chores that caused them, so imagine my surprise when my young lover first offered to vacuum for me when I told him of my cleaning troubles.

First he did it in his shorts, then just his underwear, then I required nudity.  Eventually, there was a dress code — which still stands today — of my panties.  I pick them out according to my mood.  Sometimes they’re lacy, sometimes they’re not.  It’s whatever I want to see him in.  Like big, fat stripes.

It’s worth mentioning that since I met TN in November of 2012, I have only vacuumed for myself maybe three times (to truck loads of regret, I might add).  He has never complained and always done it cheerfully.  For being so young, he is extremely grown up in ways I’ve never experienced (my ex is 14 years his senior).

Other things he does without complaint include taking out my trash, reaching high things, helping me make the bed, moving furniture, and being my financial adviser.  I’ve never been with anyone so generous in my life, so stalwartly devoted to taking care of me.  It’s kind of incredible.  Almost as incredible as TN in my panties with a vacuum handle in his hand.

I’ve totally hit the Houseboy Jackpot.

The Neighbor vacuuming for Hy in red and pink panties

See what I mean??



I write a loving tribute to my houseboy.

You said you didn’t want me to ask Downstairs Neighbor to vacuum, you’d do it. You didn’t say when, but I knew you would keep your word. I put on my new white linen night shorts and a men’s Hanes tank-top, see-though and delicious on my heavy breasts. I can’t figure out if you’ve seen me more dressed in day clothes or night, but you’ve given me inspiration to look sexy before bed for months now.

Your knock came around 9:30. You were dressed for the gym, no smiles, just your vacuum cleaner in hand and a look that said, “Let’s get this over with.” I felt guilty. My floors were covered in chewed pencil and torn sheepskin rug from the puppy. You plugged it in and started combing through the debris.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Your mood, usually bright and sweet, was somber. I asked if you were ok. You shrugged. I busied myself with moving big objects out of your way, bending over, pulling my shoulders back. I’m not sure you noticed.

Then the vacuum began to smoke. “Fuck,” you murmured as you turned it over and started taking it apart, a tendril of grey twisting up to the ceiling.

Now I felt awful. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, TN!”

“Maybe you should pick up all the fleece.”

I hurried to comply as you tinkered away. No luck. “Are you mad at me?” I ventured. The energy in the apartment was off, weird.

“No, not at all. I’m mad at the dog.” We both looked at her plaintively looking at us from her crate, cute beyond measure, but guilty as sin.

“Ok, good. When you’re not your usual chipper self I feel bad, like it’s my fault.”

“That’s sorta your problem,” you answered, “I’m really fine.” I knew what you meant. I was projecting.

As D-Day looms heavy on my mind I am hypersensitive to all our interactions. I’m reading everything into nothing, you poor thing. You have no idea. “You’re right,” I forced a smile on my face and sat to watch you switch to my behemoth of a vacuum and continue cleaning.

When mine died, too, you went back to fixing yours. With the motor running and no smoke to speak of you went about your task. “So, how was your day today?” I asked you.

“Eh. It wasn’t that great, not that bad.”

“What’d you do tonight?” I had hoped my earlier pics would have prompted you to rush over, but you’d said you were “busy.”

“Nothing.” My heart lurched. You just don’t get it.

“How was your day, Hy? You’re not your usual chipper self, either.”

“Eh. Not that great, really. I wasn’t nearly as productive as I wanted to be and when I feel that way, I get angsty and can’t chill at night. It’s one of those nights for me. I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“I’m the same way.” You quietly passed the cleaner by the couch and I looked off towards the kitchen, my thoughts lacing through me like barbed wire.

Your wave caught my eye. I turned to look at you and you used your fingers to draw your mouth up into a smile. It had the effect you wanted: a smile tugged at my mouth. “Ok,” you suddenly said with a silly exaggerated sigh. You started to take off your shorts. You were rallying for me!

Your black gym shorts fell to the ground followed shortly by your grey shirt. The pile of flesh behind your boxer briefs wobbled tantalizingly before me. “Go get your panties.” My face lit up.


“Yes, really. Go!” Your smile split your boyishly handsome face.

I jumped up and ran into my bedroom, picked out a pair of red and pink striped bikini underpants and raced back, my arm behind my back. You looked at me skeptically and then laughed out loud as I brought the ridiculously girlie panties round in front of me. You took them, gave me a haughty look and stalked as manishly as possible to the kitchen for privacy to change. You came back out with your heavy meat cradled in red and pink, your balls bulging out of the crotch, not quite entirely covered.

You pulled your shoulders back and strutted back to the vacuum, chin held high. My peals of laughter and delight rose above the engine. I buried my face in my hands. It was utterly ridiculous and wonderful and so many other things. My exhusband and you, TN, share some things, namely a brooding, introverted nature. My experience has always been that once my exhusband entered that head space he never came out; it was my job to make him ok, everything ok, me ok. But you, you’re not my exhusband, you’re better at controlling your demon, you’re smarter. You saw me, saw my need and you rose to meet me, to draw me out. It was unexpected and loving, dammit. You were loving.

“I had a thought earlier tonight to come over, cum on you, and then leave. Would you have liked that?”

The question made me shy. Its demeaning undertones demanded trust and it made my heart race. “Yes, I would,” I replied plucking at my shorts distractedly.

“I thought you might…” your own shyness surrounding such an audacious act evident.

“You know, you should utilize me more. This isn’t going to last forever.”

You came to where I was sitting and turned off the machine. I stroked you and felt your cock leap under my touch. I came around to take pictures. You politely obliged me. Your rigid pink manhood jutted out of the tops of the fabric, the vacuum at your hip.

“I think it needs your mouth,” he observed. “That’s not going to end any time soon.”

I fell to my knees and slurped on your sweet skin, tugged on your sac. You moaned and pressed your hips forward, pulled away and switched the vacuum back on. I sat back down and watched you enter my bedroom. I hurriedly followed and picked up the floor, tossed my vibrator in its bedside basket and sat on the bed smiling like an idiot, so happy.

Then you took it right back out and tossed it to me with a meaningful look. You wanted me to masturbate while you vacuumed. I giggled as my pussy giggled, too. “I’m not going to clean one more inch until that thing is turned on.”

I rolled my eyes and laid down, dying of embarrassment, excitement crawling through me slowly. The engine of the vacuum drowned out the one between my legs. I reached my left hand around under my buttock and slipped two fingers inside of me. I caught the jerk of your head as you stopped to watch. You switched the light off so I wasn’t staring into the brightness and then I felt your crushing weight on me, your mouth latched to my nipple.

I drew my fingers out of my sopping pussy and ran them through your hair, clutching you to me. I began to quake. My body had already released itself 5 times just a few hours earlier to thoughts of being watched by you and loved by another. You said I’d have to go for 6 or die trying.

I could smell me on my fingers, my perfume strong and heady, ready to beckon all the rutting men around me to my sex.

You sat up then and pushed your erection into my mouth. I sucked as my clit buzzed. I remembered catching my lips on the edge of the head in your car Saturday night and I quivered, pushed down farther on your shaft. Sucked, sucked, sucked.

You moaned as I began to shudder and the orgasm spilled down through me, your deliciousness muffling my cries of pleasure. The hardness of your arousal in my mouth counterpoint to the fluid spasms running through me. You kissed me fiercely and laid down, your head at the footboard.

“I’ve never done that before,” I said in a panting exhale.

“One you can scratch off the sexual bucket list once you put it down?” you wondered.

“Yep, pretty much.”


That was the name of the night.

Tentatively, I began to stroke you, you were so hard. “I came 20 minutes before I came over. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. You have any idea how many times you’ve said that to me? I don’t know why you do that. I’m right here.”

“So am I supposed to only cum when you’re around?”

“Not all,” I purred as I took your tip in my mouth, “Not even close. I’m just saying…” and I bore down on you and stroked and pulled and licked and flicked with all my might. You stretched out under me, gasped, then sat up and grabbed me, threw me down on my back and pulled my shorts to the side. My slot was slippery and you slid right in, my panties pulled to the side so you were fully exposed.

The fabric was too much, I begged you to take mine off. You ripped them off with one smooth motion and came back inside of me and pinned my hands above my head when I tried to cover my face. A climax swooped up and through me as you pounded into me. I sobbed as you looked at me with a shit-eating grin on your sweet face.

You held my ankles high as you sat up and reared back, bludgeoning me with your cock. I cried some more, spilled ejaculate down my crack and all over your balls. Panting, I begged you to do what, I don’t know.

You kissed my neck and I inhaled your scent committing it to memory. I grabbed your back and shoulders to pull you all the way into me, more more more. I thought I was going to die and you took mercy on me and pulled out, but then spanked me hard for wanting to quit. Once, twice, three and four times. You slipped back in my hole and pumped some more and laid your hand hotly on my flanks for good measure. Stingy, flashing, writhing.

Then you were done. You kissed me and got up to turn on the light. You lifted my legs to view your handiwork. “It’s not as red as I’d hoped, but good enough.” I could only nod assent.

All of it unexpected.

I sat up and found my shorts as you found your clothes and got redressed. I found my shoes and got the puppy’s leash to let her out for the long night of sleep ahead. You gathered up your vacuum and followed me out the door. “Thanks for that,” you said.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

Back up in my apartment I heard you leave for the gym. Your whistling filled the halls and my heart as you walked down the flights of stairs to your car.

I hope you’ll miss me half as much as I’m going to miss you, TN. You are what I want.

I have a houseboy.

He was going to vacuum my entire apartment wearing my black lace panties. I stood him in front of my dresser and laid out three pair, reached around from behind him and grasped his giant cock in my hand. “I’m going to let your cock pick which pair it wants to wear, like one of those metal detectors. It’ll let me know.”

He laughed incredulously. I was dead serious. His cock picked the middle pair.

And then he proceeded to clean my house. I took a picture and he said I had to find a way to put it on the internet. I told him I’d do my best.

The last room he cleaned was my candlelit bedroom. I’d been skipping from room to room, beaming, slightly pink from my first time in the sun this year. He’d noted I looked like a kid in a candy store. Indeed, I was.

On my bed, I languished in my tangled sheets as he moved the machine slowly back and forth. I imagined it was his cock in my sheath. Slow, steady, deep. He finished and we grabbed wine glasses and spent all of 30 seconds on the couch before he said we should go lie down for a spell.

Naturally, I acquiesced.

In my room, on his back, we laughed about what he’d just done. I stroked his bare member and pulled my dress off in one motion. I had on nothing else. I don’t remember how it came up, but I was then in my closet rummaging for my tie. “I love wearing ties,” I told him. I found it, slipped it over my head and let it dangle between my heavy breasts.

“Mmm, I like that,” he murmured.

I trailed the end along his stomach, splayed my fingers through his chest hair, licked the precum from the helmet of his cock, engulfed the rest in my hot mouth. I licked and sucked and we chatted in between his moans of pleasure. He found the tie and hauled me up and I mounted him and sank down slowly for a bounce or two before he flipped me over and pummeled my insides.

I drenched the joints of our bodies and cried out. “God, I love how your pussy feels,” he breathed into my mouth as he kissed me.

He flipped me again onto my stomach and began to rail into me, my buttocks slapped against his thighs softly. He grabbed my hair for purchase and yanked my face up out of the mattress. I gasped and cried some more. Then he grabbed the tie from behind, slipped it in my mouth and rode me like the mare in heat I was. He wailed on my flanks with one hand, held my head high with the bridle in the other. I ejaculated each time his hand met my skin.

Then he pressed my face down into the wine-colored sheets and pistoned into me some more. I rocked back and pivoted the way I know he loves. He was close, I could hear it in his pants and grunts, I clenched hard on him. Almost there, and then he slipped out and punched the bed with his cock and cried out in pain.

“Ahhhh, fuuuuck!” he lamented. “I think I half came all over your bed and broke my cock!” I lay panting on my stomach for 30 more seconds before I had a suggestion.

“Why don’t you put it back in? My pussy will make it feel better.”

He seemed to agree and he impaled me for a few minutes more.

And then we talked and laughed for two more hours. He complained about the women he kept dating. No life experience, no ambition, no direction, not intellectually interesting or stimulating. He basically was saying, “Not you, Hy,” but I’ve traversed that impasse. It was nice to hear, but my heart did not flutter like it would have days earlier. “You’re beautiful and interesting and ambitious, you’re smart as fuck and have so much life experience.” Naturally, TN, naturally. Moving on.

When he said it was time to go I helped him find his shorts and kneeled on the bed beside the candle, the tie dangled down my body. He noted how it almost reached as far as my pussy and kissed me again.

Ready for business.

We made no plans for this week deliberately. He said he hates making plans. I agreed to do it his way this time, though it’s frustrating. I also plan on fucking as much as I can this week. I don’t have any idea how often it will be with him.

Control feels good. And so do clean carpets.

Being assertive: How domination has taught me to stick up for myself in the vanilla world

The journey towards myself has been a journey of equal measure away from others.  Away from The Neighbor, away from my exhusband, away from my mother and father.  What do I need?  What do I want?  Who am I within those constructs??

As a woman I have been raised to acquiesce, to be demure, dainty, and gentle.  Imagine the struggle I had as a loud, bossy, effervescent, creative little girl who could never be pushed high enough on the swing or spun fast enough in a hug.  I always wanted more than I got and I wished every night to be like the little girls in my class with the perfect pigtails and clean dresses and neat handwriting, to be soft and quiet. But I was an athletic girl and competitive, driven to surprise people who thought my bright blonde hair and love of dresses meant I was afraid to get dirty.

That spirit saved me.  I loved being strong, fast, and impressing everyone — especially the boys — with my skills versus my sweetness, but still I figured out early on that I was a square peg and the world wanted a round one.  Despite abandoning the outward appearance of what was expected of me, I still fell prey to how I was expected to feel.

I was afraid to be angry, to demand to be treated in certain ways, to stand up for myself.  Those were not only unattractive traits, but completely unacceptable in both my world and family, and so I created a life for myself where on the one hand I was big and bold, but on the other meek and passive.  The life of the party and unafraid, yet a complete push-over who would accept any kind of treatment because she so badly didn’t want to be abandoned.

My parents rejected my pleas to be heard, my exhusband was incapable of mistakes, and my last love always had one foot out the door at the first hint of dissatisfaction.  But it was with him, The Neighbor, that the bold inner-side of me began to grow: he wanted me to dominate him.

TN and I never had an open discussion about his needs or wants regarding domination and submission.  From my perspective, one day he started agreeing to my outrageous demands to vacuum while in my panties.  I was confused and turned on all at once as I watched this densely muscled, hung young man push my vacuum cleaner around in my lace underwear.  He was acquiescent, boyish, happy and utterly exquisite.  It thrilled me.

Eventually we semi-formalized the exchange and I would tie a little black velvet ribbon around his neck and he’d kneel with his hands behind his back and wait for me to come home.  In the candle light I’d draw on his pale skin and finger fuck his tight little asshole while he was bound spread eagle to the bed.  His nipples were conduits to his cock and I’d eagerly pluck and suck on them until he writhed and begged me to stop and when I’d worked us both up into frothy messes I’d set him loose on me and cry big, fat tears of  release.  It was darkly beautiful, our little secret, and felt like I’d slipped into my real skin for the first time in my life.  He got me.

But then it went sideways.

He asked for tasks and wouldn’t do them.  He’d pick and choose when he would submit and for how long.  He’d create online profiles on D/s sites and keep them hidden from me.  I took aftercare seriously, but he would reject my advances to care for him.  He didn’t need me.  His submission seemed to be a limit to his sexuality, not a condition of it.  Submission was just a kink, not a state of mind.

I felt off-balance, weak, and used.

To assert demands which I had been taught my entire life were repulsive meant I crossed into treacherous territory, a landscape of power which was completely foreign to me, and he never joined me there.  He stayed on the sidelines and kept the gift of submission, his presence with me, to himself.  And it gutted me.

Standing in that spot alone, the only thing that could replace the energy lost to get there would have been his compliance, his submission.  Instead I was the asshole with my dick in my hand and he got to laugh all the way to wherever it was he wanted to go.  Without me.

Domination and submission are a symbiosis of energies, one does not exist without the other.  We can throw as many tricks into the ring as we want, but unless someone is there to witness them, to value them and hold them close, they’re useless and invisible and our energy is completely wasted.

That was me: a fool in the spotlight all alone. 

Our relationship failed for many reasons, least of which was his shadyness, but I didn’t limp away empty-handed.  As I’ve left my parents, my husband, and then TN, I have stood taller and understood better what it means to insist on something and through D/s I was given a glimpse — though a very tiny one — of how that could feel in real life.

It’s not enough to just be bold in life outside the walls of my home, I must be bold within them, as well.  If I don’t respond appropriately to bad behavior then I only have myself to blame and if the person behaving badly doesn’t have a reaction I like then that’s the correction point.  That’s the moment to assert myself.

Until recently I’d only dabbled in D/s much like a non-runner might commit to running at dawn each morning.  In other words: half-heartedly and not at all consistently.

I let my lovers toss me around and pull my hair and I tied up a lover, but I had’t invested myself in dominating anyone; it was far too demanding.  Men in general are scary, untrustworthy and dangerous.  It’s why I keep them safely on a shelf with just their hard cocks lined up like so many sausages on a conveyor belt.

Lately, though, a desire deep in my belly has grown to an incessant need: I need to dominate someone.  I need to use him to pleasure myself in an overt way, I want to own him and take care of him.  I want him to know what I’m doing and I want him to revel in it, to be my boy, my pet, mine.  More simply put, I want to state a need and have it met.  And so I have begun the search in earnest.

The wild little girl meets the woman who’s denied her inner self for most of her life and what I hope to happen is to find a partner who can meet me in that ring, to stand beside me and hold my hand even as he kneels beside me.  But this man has proven to be as elusive as any other unicorn.

Men in the D/s world who claim to be submissive, much like TN, seem to be more enthralled with the idea than the practice.  The low hoops I set for them to step through prove too much to bear and unlike the Hyacinth in the vanilla world, the Hyacinth in the D/s world does not allow for such mistakes or false claims.

Domme Hy asks that you reply to her messages in a timely manner.  If you don’t she politely reminds you of this requirement and gives you a chance to improve.  If you do not comply then she ends the connection, period.  She tells the man she has no time for games and is looking for someone who is serious about proving their submission even in small ways as they begin to get to know oneanother.

Domme Hy doesn’t accept ambiguous bullshit or bad behavior and the revelation that it’s not only ok to feel this way but also to to act upon it has stopped me cold in my tracks.  I hadn’t realized how hard I was still trying to fit into that round peg until I found a square hole.

And the light has been shed on all of my relationships.

Instead of telling others how I want to be treated and feeling as though my work is done I have come to understand to the fibers of my being that words really are meaningless.  As much as I love them, they’re literally worth the paper they’re printed on.

If I say I want to be treated a certain way and I am then treated in a different way the only reasonable response I have in the D/s world is to correct it and correct it immediately because that’s what a Domme does.  And what has become crushingly obvious to me over the summer is that’s what vanilla Hy needs to do, as well.

The veil of unattractiveness I have long associated with honesty regarding my feelings has been lifted and I am less afraid of someone abandoning me because I am displeased, angry, or unhappy.  Go, motherfucker.  Go.

Recently a beautiful submissive man hovered over me and sucked on my fingers.  His eyes were tightly shut and my free hand felt the muscles along his ribcage ripple.  “Cum for me, beautiful boy,” I said and his hand began to beat harder on his cock.  He moaned and jerked and I crooned to him, “My beautiful boy,” as hot globs of his subby jizz landed on my belly and breasts.

I pulled him down into my arms and stroked his temple until he fell asleep.  Our play had been very light, mostly vanilla by all rights, but I had bade him to spank my flank and fuck me and directed every candlelit movement.  He slept for a few hours and awoke stiff and awkward.  I released him to return home knowing something was wrong, but he was shut down.

The next afternoon I reached out and asked if he was ok.  He took many hours to respond and when he did he appeared still shut down.  I offered my support and told him he may be experiencing subdrop.  Three days later I still hadn’t heard from him so I asked for him to please let me know if he was ok.  He never responded.

Vanilla Hy would be mildly devastated, but Domme Hy recognizes with great clarity the limitations of her responsibility and energy required to resolve this.  I have done everything I can and he has gone to ground.  Whether that’s because it was the perfect night for him or the worst, I don’t know, but we had spoken for many hours about what we wanted and how we would proceed and as far as I was concerned I followed all of those rules.

If he ever reaches out to me again I will tell him I have no desire to interact with someone who is capable of mistreating someone like he mistreated me.  As Ferns has shared with me, many submissive males believe Dommes have no feelings and may be discarded like chewed gum.  Fantasy level: Achieved.  Next!  And it feels all too familiar.

It’s difficult to explain the long road to this place, the odd twists and turns I’ve experienced, but if I could shout to all the corners of the earth to everyone to be unafraid of their feelings and to express them freely and without fear I would every day for the rest of my life.  When you express a need, those worthy of you ask you how they may meet it.  Period.

Whether it’s a friend or parent, or a naked lover at my feet, the people I want to let into my life will accept me in my entirety or not at all and I can’t accept less than that.  I simply don’t need the inconvenience.  I deserve to be who I am — a woman with feelings and a woman with needs — and the people in my life deserve my honesty.



This is so important to who I want to be, I can feel it deep in my heart and I know it’s true because the tears in my eyes tell me so.  Ok, Hy.  You can do this.  Just be you.  It’s ok. 




I whispered “I love you.”


Don’t say I never share my pussy with you.

This is about three nights, not one. Three nights that held significant blows, sweet reparations, and hair pulling frustrations; bondage and spankings; cleaning and scrubbing; apologies from both; admissions I wished I’d never heard; strawberry fields forever.

Day One:

He was my houseboy. He wore my gun-metal grey boy shorts — which I find hilariously and ironically sexy on his thick, muscular boy ass — and vacuumed meticulously around the apartment while I finished lighting candles and such. The air was relaxed, though hummed with tension. He’d been reprimanded in a way he hates: I’d denied him my audience.

But he dutifully vacuumed and then climbed into my bathtub and got to work scrubbing.

It wasn’t about humiliating him. My back is injured and therefore I cannot get down into the grime of the tub floor like it needs; I needed his strength. Though, as I pondered the entire scene I realized that in a D/s relationship, I didn’t need to legitimize anything. It’s my right to tell him to do whatever it is I like. And he didn’t complain. Not until after the deed was done and I’d told him it was a true sign of submission, loyalty, and kindness and the very fact that he hated it turned me on.

Then we slipped into the shower and I rinsed him off and shaved his beautifully hanging balls and he carefully shaved my legs. A first for us both. In a loving haze I asked when the last time he’d showered with someone was and he said, “You don’t want to know.”

But I insisted he admit to it. It was with 4 am girl. And I pushed him to admit it because it was already there hanging between us, mooning me. It’s shitty little asshole winking at my own naiveté. And then I made it worse because he shut down about it, but I wanted us to be open, goddamnit. And I pushed for more, Why didn’t he want to talk about it ever??

“Because, it still hurts that she rejected me,” he said testily.

My heart screeched still. After all this motherfucking time, is he still hung up on her?? What the ever-loving fuck?

“So, why don’t you see if she’s changed her mind? Call her up?” my voice was smooth as butter, not a quiver to be found.

“Nah, she’s a lesbian anyway,” he said softer, eluding to her alcoholism, persistent unhappiness, and her coming onto me that one horrible, drunken night almost a year ago.

And then we limped on with our night, toweling ourselves off from our not-so-special-already-done-this-recently-with-someone-else shower.

I restrained him and sucked him until he was raw; my finger was stroked and squeezed like a snake by his tight little asshole; I climbed up onto his warm, furry body and sunk down on his erection; I came five brilliant times; I bid him not to touch me while I writhed under my Hitachi; and I screamed out and sobbed soul cracking cries, my insides alight with the question of worth and of deserving this kind of humanly pleasure.

And then I lay there with tears streaking my cheeks, so alone. He wasn’t there with me. We were off all night long so this made sense. It seemed he moved with reluctance, but I couldn’t be sure. He’d untied his ankles as I’d sobbed then scooted closer. He didn’t ask for permission. He saw me fall apart and assumed the game was over. No, I told myself, he’s not actually far away, he was literally restrained, but I didn’t say he could untie himself…

He pulled me in closer and held me, but I needed to be held forever and ever and he wanted to watch Game of Thrones. My top dropping brain saw his actions in refracted light: it all seemed too short, too abrupt. It didn’t fucking flow. It hurt.

I managed to say, “No, not yet. Please. You know how I get after an orgasm like that.” I couldn’t admit it was top drop or how I felt like such a failure that he didn’t need repairing or how badly I felt about our shower repartee. All I could say was that I needed him.

“Ok, but just so you know, it’s 12:30.” He’d come over at 9. It’d been a long, intense night.

We lay in each other’s arms for a few more minutes and then turned on the computer. It was still too soon for me and I was asleep in minutes only to be awoken 45 minutes later to him gently slapping my cheek. “Time to wake up. I gotta go,” he said as he slid out from under my cheek.

I was disoriented, horrified, angry, sad. How dare he slap me to wake me up! I mumbled something about what a stupid, ridiculous way that was to wake me up and he kissed me a quick apology and left. I rolled over feeling bereft and lonely and slipped off to sleep. Every wonderful thing that had transpired between us that night temporarily forgotten.

Day Two:

I woke up confused, still dropping. Naked, wrapped in a towel he’d used to wipe the juices off between my legs since I’d been too incoherent to attend to it myself. I assured myself this feeling would pass — though it felt as though it was glued to my goddamned soul. Don’t text anything stupid was my morning mantra. It worked and the drop faded to a more organized pile of shit as the day warmed up.

I texted him that I needed a cuddle later that night because we’d had a “bad dismount” the night before. He asked “Will there be breasts?”

“Yep. They kinda always tag along.”

When he tucked himself into my bed that night, Faisal, a raging maniac of fur and the no-longer-elusive kitty farts, contented himself with attacking us and doing gravity defying acrobatics. I snuggled in and laughed at my little clown… and the cat.

“So,” I started, “Last night. I didn’t like how it ended. I felt rushed after I came and I really didn’t like you slapping me awake.”

His initial response was of “What! I didn’t hit you that hard!” and my comeback was simple:

“I don’t care. Don’t ever hit me. There are, literally, an infinite number of other ways to wake me up: stroke my face, kiss me, suck my breast, finger me, roll me over…”

He quickly understood and apologized, promised he’d never do it again.

“And you rushed me, which you know you can’t do. I need more time than that.”

“Awww,” he crooned and pulled me to him and his warm, fruity scent. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again, either.”

It was no wonder he’d rushed me, though. It could have been a subtle way to get back at me for that shower conversation or for making him scrub the tub. Most times I feel he’s only playing at being submissive since I can’t seem to figure out the key to get him to go there, to really open up. More failure, more frustration.

But we cuddled and talked and laughed on Day Two and I felt as good as I could. When he left I whispered to the darkened doorway, “I love you,” and waited to hear him at the door, but instead he popped his head back in and just looked at me.

I felt the blood rush to my face. Holy shit. Had he heard me call out into the night that I love him like some dramatic teenager??

He just stood there looking at me — I thought expectantly — it was hard to tell without my contacts. The silence dragged on, I was not going to make the first sound in this exchange.

He opened his mouth to speak. My heart crashed about like a seizing bird in my chest and the heat rose to my face and prickled my scalp. Moment. Of. Truth.

“Can I have some ice cream??” He smiled big and boyishly at me.

And the sail that had filled with wind sagged dramatically both with relief and sadness.

“Yes, of course you can,” I smiled back at him.

“Thanks!” he chirped and I heard the freezer door open and shut and then the front door.

Day Three:

I got butt hurt because he didn’t acknowledge me when he left our team after we met to get our new shirts for our next season of softball. He’d looked everyone else in the eye, shook hands, waved, whatever, but then quietly turned on his heel and left. I felt ridiculous from every angle. How low could I stoop in the coolness department, anyway?

Butt hurt, yet laughing at myself all the same, I texted him vague things which got us talking. I admitted to my idiocy and then also that I was on my period. He was the one who’d noticed a sad pattern of my behavior over the last 18 months that we mostly “fight” whenever I’m on my period. I don’t know what happens to me that week of the month; it’s like all rationale leaves me and don’t you fucking dare point that shit out to me or I may kill you while laughing and crying at how stupid I am. It’s tons of fun, lemme tell you.

He came over as soon as Peyton was tucked in and read to and I explained to him why my feelings had been hurt. Of course it was tempered with my dumbassery, but I believe I have a point nonetheless. I’ve discovered over these many months of us growing closer and being monogamous that so long as I give up the big things such as sharing him with my family and really going all the way as a couple, the little things are that much more important to me.

It looks like this: you don’t want to introduce me to your best friend or really commit to me? Ok, but you better fucking acknowledge me in front of a bunch of people I don’t give a shit about. I think it’s a fair trade off.

And trust me when I say, I’d much MUCH rather not feel this way at all, but I’m not perfect in this. I foible all over the place.

We cuddled and I ran my fingers through the strawberry-scented carpet on his chest and stroked his sleeping cock absent-mindedly. “Just so you know,” he gently warned, “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” A sweet, loving gesture that he adopted months ago when I complained that I hated how he’d leave mid-sentence (mine or his) most nights.

“Ok,” I said. “And just so you know, I don’t really want to do it, but I kinda do just because I know it’ll make me feel a lot better. But just, like, for only 5 minutes.”

We bantered about that for a long minute, his cock growing rigid beneath my rubbing. “Just five minutes, eh?” he challenged me. “We never do it for only 5 minutes.”

“That’s your fault, not mine. You know I’m always down for a quickie. What about the other day in your apartment?” I remembered being bent over his ottoman, sunshine spilling into his apartment, his cock ramming into me and being seized by an orgasm.

“Yeah, that’s true…” he admitted. “Ok, but only five minutes!”

I was surprised and laughed as he reared up and removed our underpants, licked his hand and pushed his hot head at my entrance. I pulled my thighs further apart delighting in the movement and he slid in.

“It’s 10:25,” I said. “I’ll watch the clock.”

He laughed and began to thrust and soon I was filled with heat and a rumbling, sparkly wave down to my fingertips. He hitched my ankles up on his shoulders and drove deep inside of me, my bed whined its bitchy, crackling tune, and I came again, blooming sweetly below him.

Those five minutes with him inside of me changed my chemistry and when it was over, at 10:30 on the dot, we both smiled at each other like kids looking at a birthday cake.

“Told you,” I said breathlessly, righting my clothing.

“Yeah, that was a good idea.”

He kissed me then, long and hard, and then left, locking the front door behind him.


Begins: Nov 30th, 2011

1st ending: Jul 5th, 2012 (He starts up with 4 am girl)

2nd beginning: Jul 22, 2012

2nd ending: Jul 27, 2012 (He finally fucks 4 am girl)

3rd beginning: Jul 31, 2012

3rd ending: Oct 1, 2012

4th beginning: Oct 6th, 2012

I find out my friend Sara has died July 9th, 2013.  My writing slacks off a lot, but we continue to grow closer.

March 25th, 2014,  I move two minutes away and start self-hosting.  I become deeply ambivalent about my relationship with TN.

August 7th, 2014, The Neighbor chooses to move into my apartment complex.  Now we’re 3 buildings away; a short 3 minute walk apart.  It’s as close to co-habitating as I can do right now.



Fuck Your Neighbor

A How To Guide to Fucking Your Neighbor

(This was originally written 5/2012.)

The #2 search result for my blog is “fucking my neighbor, ” and my date last night, Roy, pontificated over $250 worth of sushi with me on the whole neighbor-fucking concept.

He said love happens due to proximity, nothing else. I listened in rapt attention while fish melted in my mouth with a buttery finish. Could he be right? It obviously can’t happen if you don’t meet, and meeting, by definition, is proximity of some sort. Whether it’s physical or electronic feelings develop due to nearness. I can buy that. Maybe his sake-slugging mind was still sharp enough to make a point after all.

Prior to this experience with The Neighbor, I’d fucked two other neighbors. Both younger than me and both were right next door. One was an 8-month-long affair of drama, drugs, and reckless, unprotected sex when I was 22 and the other was a two-night tryst followed by awkward run-ins on our stair when I was 27. All three of these experiences have lent themselves to some major insights into who I am as a person and also to who we are as people in general.

I’m a 36 year old divorced single mother fucking her 27 year old single and childless neighbor. It sounds like a disaster and yet, it’s been amazing. Despite the last few weeks of raging emotions, I’d say we’ve been mostly successful at pulling this whole thing off. Love only entered the equation after five months of no-strings-attached sex and frolic, and I’m the one who reneged on the deal, not him. I wasn’t supposed to let emotion knock on my door. But, like a moth to a neighbor, I couldn’t help myself and let it in and here we are: closer and clearer than we were before. I don’t regret a thing.

I’m obviously not the only one going through this if all the searches for “fucking my neighbor” tell me anything. Many others either want to do it or are doing it and want some insight into the process. So, because I can, I’m going to boil it all down for you.

The pros and cons of fucking your neighbor


Convenience – There’s nothing quite like getting woken up in the middle of the night with a giant cock in your face, sucking it long and hard until his milk fills your mouth, lounging around for a few minutes more to wait for another fuck, finishing that then walking next door to let your puppy out to pee.

Support – The Neighbor takes out my trash several times a week, he moves boxes and furniture for me, and loans me household items and food. I help him decorate his apartment and make us dinner and am always around if he’s lonely. He vacuums for me. I don’t feel comfortable asking anyone to drive across town to help me, but I’m perfectly fine asking my next door neighbor.

Friendship – It’s easy to build a friendship when you constantly run into each other and even easier to maintain it. Being lonely isn’t the only option anymore.

Community – You both deal with the same pitfalls and bonuses of the housing development. You know the same management and maintenance people and even the same other neighbors. It’s a feeling of belonging.


Privacy – There is none. You see everything even when you don’t want to. For example, knowing his daily movements. It’s not something I even set out to notice, but I can’t help it. I know when he’s home, I know when he’s gone. Fuck, I can smell the perfume of his dates and hear her fucking shoes in the hallway. And I hate it.

Boundaries – There are fewer than if you lived across town. How long can I avoid taking a date out my balcony for fear The Neighbor will pop his head out to say hi? How can I tell him to not do that on certain nights, but it’s ok on others? How do I enforce my own space without seeming shady??

Proximity – If — or when — it ends, you have to see your lover’s face. It’s not like a regular break up where you just avoid the old haunts or simply don’t contact them anymore; you live next door. Hell, even if you don’t end it it’s still unavoidable to have run-ins. That late night trash-run can turn into a real heart wrenching scene if you see he’s home and he hasn’t called you all day. Or you might find yourself wearing your sexiest outfits to let your dog out to poop just in case you run into him on the stair (not that I do that, of course).

Taking all that into consideration, there are rules if you want to get involved with someone sharing brick and mortar with you.

Rules to fucking your neighbor

Rule #1:

Know expectations. Can he knock on your door at any hour? Can you? What will you do when you have a date with someone else (see Rule #3)? I’d recommend agreeing on a heads up policy. It’s common sense, but it needs to be said. Like, if he doesn’t text you back it’s because he’s busy, not because he’s a dick. If she doesn’t answer the door it’s because she just wants to be alone (or maybe not), but it’s her prerogative.

Rule #2:

Do not make this a serious relationship. This is supposed to be fun and convenient. You make it serious and you have basically inadvertently moved in with someone you barely know and that’s a goddamned disaster. If you have it in you whatsoever keep it light. Cancelled plans do not mean the end of your tryst; changed plans do not mean interest is lost. Go with the fucking flow like you would with a friend.

Rule #3:

Do not make it a monogamous arrangement. Keep dating other people. Unless you both look at each other one day with love in your eyes you’ll end up painting yourself in a corner and all those fucking cons will come crashing down on you.

Rule #4:

Be fucking cool. Like ,so cool you can’t stand yourself. When there are hiccups keep your calm; when feelings start or stop be patient, take a step back; when The Crazy Person fights to rear its ugly head beat it down with a goddamned bat. More is at stake than just a fuck or a broken heart. It’s your home. Don’t make it a battleground. Rise the fuck above it all and remember you did this to yourself. A grownup who knew the pitfalls before entering into this convenient, supportive, friendly little arrangement.

Rule #5:

Be open. Maybe old Roy was right and love will happen due to proximity. This arrangement certainly is an excellent breeding ground for all the pros I listed. If it’s right, go with it and revel in the rainbow fucks you get to have with a wonderful person who also happens to live next door. And, if you’re lucky like a friend of mine was, maybe you’ll get to be roommates one day, too.

Rule #6:

Expect The Crazy Person – I’ve experienced everything I’ve written about. I’m an expert, certainly, but I’m not perfect at it. Not even close. I struggle with Rule #4, for example, and the cons can really trip me up. I sometimes think I’m the best girlfriend he’s never had, too, and none of this would be the case if we weren’t neighbors. I’m constantly wondering what I got myself into, but then I’m deliriously happy with the entire arrangement. It’s the best and the worst and confusion is the name of the game. Own it.

The main point I wanted to make with this post is that fucking your neighbor is complex. In some ways, more complex than regular dating. Being thoughtful and patient go much farther in this situation, as does being kind. If you’re thinking about doing something like this just be careful. It has equal chances of blowing up in your face as it does sucking you off.

God, I love fucking my neighbor. I hope you’ll love fucking yours, too.

[Update: July of 2011 we broke things off and it was a fucking bitch extricating ourselves.  I write this in August of that same year and we still haven’t figured it out.  I won’t say don’t fuck your neighbor, because it was a brilliant 9 months or so, but I wasn’t fucking kidding when I said a breakup would be messy.  It’s been goddamned awful.]

[Update: It’s November of 2013 and we’re still together and mostly quite happy!  Fucking crazy!]

[Update: It’s February of 2015 and after he followed me to a new complex and continued to be my neighbor, albeit 3 buildings away, we’ve finally broken up for good.]