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 don’t know what to do next.

I began writing because I had to.  Words crawled against the underside of my skin like so many marching ants, less like blood flowing and more like an itch that had to be scratched.  And so I did.

I began an anonymous sex blog on Blogger and wrote about the intersection of motherhood and being single, but I quickly realized I didn’t want to talk about my child in that iniquitous arena.  I morphed it into what I really wanted to talk about — my sex life — and wrote with an openness as wide as my legs.  Too wide, as it turned out, because I naively shared the URL with lovers and friends and soon felt the pinch of the gag in my mouth.  Semi-anonymous is not fun, y’all.

I decided to shut it down and regroup, but not before I somehow I caught Rori’s eye way back in 2011.  And thus began my journey to not only continue to write but to improve upon it.  I wanted to create content that was beautiful, yet compelling, thought-provoking yet welcoming and above all else entertaining and A Dissolute Life Means… was born.

Earning the top spot on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2015 list is what one might consider the pinnacle of my blogging “career.”  It’s what I ached to reach and worked so hard to achieve.  Its subjectivity humbles me, but the position also creates a welcome pressure to prove to everyone that I indeed earned that top slot.  I don’t want anyone to wonder, “Why the fuck did Hy get #1?”  At the very worst, I’d at least want someone to think that I’d worked hard to get there and at the best think it was well-deserved.

But with attaining a goal comes a strange dark side of achievement, the side of the mountain I couldn’t see as I was climbing the other: Now what??

Looking at the seven past #1s I find a variety of things ranging from a continued vibrant internet and writing presence to none at all.  One #1 disappeared shortly after her nomination under a dark cloud of allegations of illegal activity and another #1, Pandora, seems to have disappeared for nearly two years.  The other five #1s (Sinclair Sexsmith, Dangerous Lilly, Guy New York, Molly Moore, and Girl on the Net have all done exactly what I hope to do: grow.

They grew as writers, artists, and activists; they kept going, wrote books, gave talks, plugged in to the community of which they’re such a big part.  Some have even taken over Eroticon such is their dedication to all of us.

There’s a silence here in my life right now; I’m catching my breath.  Maybe I haven’t actually summitted anything.  Maybe I’m only half way there. 

This year has been a strange mix of unbelievable highs (Eroticon and London) and radical lows (health, finances, shitty anniversaries, continued heartbreak) and I have been bereft of my normally easily tappable imagination.  It’s not that writing feels like a chore, it’s just that I can’t seem to carve out the sacred space to allow it to happen.

And I have no shortage of stories to tell: Charlie the “Italian” waiter in Bristol, Poppy, Peter, George with the man bun, the many sub males with whom I am exploring my dominant side.  The men flow like the wine in my life – fast and continuous – but my creative juices not so much.

When I think about where else I want to go here a few things leap out at me: I want to convert this blog into a book, I want travel to London to attend and/or present at Eroticon 2017, 2018 and beyond if at all humanly possible, I want to keep advocating for body positivity and feminist sexual freedom.  And most of all, I want to keep writing.

I want to fill the world with my silly words that connect me to all of you.  I want to make art with these little black squiggly things pretty much for-fucking-ever since I can’t fathom my life without them – that’d be like eating food that tasted like nothing but chalk — but there’s a vacuum that my small success has created and I feel adrift.

I need to look more closely at my surroundings; there’s so much more beauty left to ascend and consume.

In lieu of a creative emotional space I have fallen still on my mountainside.  My exhausting summer of mind, body, and spirit must come to an end; fall, my most favorite, is oh so close.   Things will change because they must, but they’re going to change in the direction of my choosing.  I will regroup and refocus, double-down on my efforts because I’m not done.  Not even close.

I now know what is next for me: More — more art, more community, more Hy — and I will look at my achievements as flags staked along the way, not as stopping points, because I have higher to climb.  Hopefully, a lot higher.


He covered my face with kisses.

I understand that this post may seem like a 180 from the last [two] I’ve posted, but you have to understand that I am a master at juggling balls.

I couldn’t tell you if I am better at it than most or if it’s just simply a part of being an adult, but just because one aspect of my life might be ripping me apart, it doesn’t mean it necessarily bleeds into the rest.

I contain the damage, so to speak, batten down the hatches, seal the leaks and live my life.  Maybe it’s being a mother that’s helped me hone the skill; I’m not allowed to wallow, I have a life to nurture and have to keep my shit together, goddamnit.

In any case, despite the crushing realization on Friday that TN had fed me lies about the man he was and I had gobbled them up like a hungry street urchin, I went on dates and I danced in gay bars and I laughed so hard my sides ached and I got the shit fucked out of me and I fell asleep cradled in a young man’s arms.

This man is a stranger in a strange land, he’s young, he’s an entrepreneur, English is not his second language, it’s his third, and though he speaks in a perfect American accent he says things like, “You make my blood go faster,” which is decidedly not an American thing to say.

I met him on Tinder 10 days ago and he dazzled me with his odd sayings and strange behavior, like sitting on his porch and looking at the stars instead of going out on a Friday night.  He sent me pictures of beautiful ceramics he’d spun and fired himself.

The next night I was unexpectedly child free and I invited him over to hang out.  He arrived tall, disheveled, and dressed like the 25-year-old that he is — he’s way hipper than me.

He stooped to hug me and I felt him giggle into my neck.  “I’m so happy to meet you!” he said and giggled again.

I felt overwhelmed that night by his boisterous enthusiasm.  He sat too close and spoke too long about things a stoned hippie might.

“Are you high?”

“Me?” – long pause – “No…”

“You sure??”

“Oh, yeah.  I’m not high.  I want to be on point to see your beautiful face.”


His own momentum of emotion carried him to my lips and in between excited, smiling kisses I said, “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

He fell away from me and with an easy smile said, “Oh, I know.  I didn’t even bring condoms!” and he patted his apparently empty pockets for emphasis.

We killed a bottle of wine over the next four hours and I was shocked to see it was nearly 3 am when I finally thought to check.  He looked at me sheepishly then and said he should go.

He hugged me again and got me to commit to a dinner date on Monday night.  I’m pretty sure I scratched my head as I locked the door behind him.  I felt like I’d been mauled by an overly affectionate bear cub.

Petya came to the US when he was 17 on a baseball scholarship from Russian.  He came alone and was somehow wise enough to know how to use his natural physical talents to squeeze out athletic scholarship after athletic scholarship and his classes weren’t wasted.  In addition to leaving college debt-free, he also left with a blossoming business.

Eventually he needed a business partner and moved here to be close to him.  He hates the heat and thinks it’s unnatural.  “I’m Russian.  This is ridiculous.”  I actually couldn’t agree with him more.

He owns a house a little south of the city and has a dog named Winter.  He works out every day and eats everything in the house multiple times a day.  “I am a barely domesticated beast,” he texted me.

He was a little late picking me up on Monday night and we went to an awful chain restaurant.  I picked at my steak and hid bitefuls in my black napkin.  When the flirtatious waiter came to take my plate away he pushed me to admit I didn’t like it.  “It’s comp’ed!” he declared and sped off.  A manager came and apologized some more.  I said it really wasn’t a big deal.  Petya watched me closely.

“I liked that you were so polite and courteous.  Let’s go.”  And with that we left the crew to their vacuums at 9:30.

At home on my couch he was more relaxed and less philosophical.  He smelled good and was soon nuzzling my neck.  I was tired and hungry still, but couldn’t resist his inertia, his pure enjoyment of me.  I opened my mouth to him and his beard scraped my face.  He bit my lips and I grabbed his wrist and brought it to my breast.

He groaned against my mouth and squeezed roughly.  I moaned into him, arched my back, and redirected his hand under my shirt.

My breast, big and heavy, spilled out of its cup.  He switched from my lips to my nipple and latched on and it hurt exquisitely, intensely.  I don’t like it when it’s soft; I can’t feel it.  My nipples are utilitarian, meant to withstand the life-or-death sucking of an infant.  FUCKING SUCK ON THEM.

He stopped then and stood up on his knees over me.  “Look at what you’ve done to me.”  My eyes fell upon a lovely bulge inside his fashionable pants; it pointed towards his right hip.

I rubbed it with my palm and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “You wanna go fuck?”

His face cracked wide with a smile.  “Yes, I do.”

We stood and in one move he picked me up and carried me to my dark room.  I clung to him and wondered why all these men keep picking me up.  David, The Soldier, and now Petya.  Are they fucking crazy?!  I am not a small woman, but I’m not complaining.  It’s unbearably hot.

He set me down and I ripped his clothes off and he mine.  He was sure of himself, passionate, beautiful.  With his cock safely wrapped in latex he pushed into me, my knees spread, my breath caught, my heart still.  And then we fucked.

We fucked and moaned and kissed and bit and I clawed at his sweaty flanks.  Our bodies ignited and sweat gleamed off of him from the light in the hallway.  My pussy rained down around him and my orgasms passed through one end of my body to the other.  I died a hundred little glorious deaths as I followed his light into the pools of our coupling, a shimmering mess caused by pure exertion and inhibition.  He was lost to his thrusts and I to his punishing hips.

He came with a quiet roar as I held on to his young body then he stilled and rolled off of me.  I lay there and panted, stunned at what had just happened to me.  One minute I was chillin’ on my couch with a weird Russian kid, the next I was being fucked to death by a weird Russian kid.

He was as out of it as me and when I peeled the condom off of him and took him in my mouth he shuddered.  I sucked and slurped and choked a little on his pretty cock and watched with closed eyes his body climb to its peak and crash down into splintered Russian-y bits.  This was not a quiet roar, it was a proclamation.

When he’d caught his breath he said, “Holy shit, that was as powerful as the first time I ever masturbated; I’ve never had better in my life.”  Whether either of those things were true mattered none.  My lips tingled from his semen and my smile was genuine.

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my temples, my eyes, my nose and lips.  I smiled again because I didn’t mind.  It felt appropriate, this bear cub licking me like this.

“Tell me something in Russian,” I said and then listened to the guttural, rolling, wavy words spill from his mouth.  “What’d you say?”

“I recited a poem to you.  It’s about faith.”

When he left he promised to see me soon, his tone relaxed.  “Don’t worry, that’s what texting is for, to string together the real visits.”

The rest of the week was busy.  Work, parenting, life.  Friday night I had my meltdown that I had so naively believed TN when he’d said, “I’m not that guy.  I don’t do social media, I don’t go out, I don’t do fun stuff.  I prefer to be at home!”  And the very painful realization that I had settled for so very little when all along he was more than willing — and capable — of doing all of those things.  Just not with me.

Saturday I limped through my afternoon and listened to my own voice half a dozen times, went on a ridiculous Tinder date, got stood up by date #2 and ended my evening with my favorite gays in a leather bear bar downtown.

Petya had checked in Friday to say he was looking forward to seeing me on Sunday and that it would be the highlight of his weekend.  No one has ever has said something like that to me in my life.  None of my old boyfriends, not my husband, certainly not TN and as I nursed hangover #2 Sunday morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again, too.  It would likely be the highlight of my own long, strange weekend.  Except it, much like the entire weekend itself, wasn’t all smooth sailing.

He was late and my risotto didn’t survive.

His apology was more of a defensive retort and I struggled to separate the baggage of TN always being inexplicably late and this isolated event.  He didn’t even know what risotto was, so when I told him that was for dinner how could he possibly know it was so time sensitive?

But we were eating this goddamned dinner regardless so I accepted the weak apology and set before him a perfectly cooked rare filet with herbed-butter, half a lobster tail left over from Thanksgiving, roasted asparagus, gooey risotto and a glass of red wine.

He smiled at me exuberantly as he cut into his steak and he froze.  “This steak is like butter!”  He quickly cut through and put the piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and said, “One, I’m never cooking for you and two, no wonder you couldn’t eat that awful steak the other day!”  We laughed and ate and all my irritation disappeared as quickly as the food.

I cleared the table and walked over to him and stood between his knees, grabbed his head and pushed his bearded face into my breasts.  It was my way of saying all had been forgiven.  We pretended to watch a movie for about 35 seconds before we raced into the bedroom.

It was a brutal coupling of gnashing teeth and loins, of him begging me to kiss him as he buried himself into me, his declarations of pleasure and of me pulling taught his heavy silver necklace as if to steer his passion.

I came to his urgent voice rooting me on.  “Cum for me, Hy.  Cum for me.  I want to feel your orgasm!”  His words, foreign in a familiar tongue, cradled me as I burned from the inside out and I squirted like a fountain in a museum hallway.  “Yes!” he yelled.  “Yes, yes, yes!”

Slick from nose to toes he had to stop to rest and flopped onto my pillows.  I wasted no time to work on him and suck every drop of semen out of his fine, long body.  He tensed and yelled and arched and lost himself to the deep recesses of my throat.  I hungrily guzzled every drop and flopped next to him, happy.

He scooped me up in his arms, tucked his knees beneath my bottom and hooked my knees over his hips.  He began to kiss my face again.  My ears, my cheekbones, eyes, nose, lips and his words spilled out as quickly as his kisses.  “I am so sorry for being late.  That was so inconsiderate of me!  You had this beautiful dinner planned and I was late and you had done so much!  I’m so, so sorry!”

I laughed, happy he had seen the light to a proper apology, satisfied that he certainly seemed to deserve more of my time.

I hugged him back and kissed his temples and forehead and he pressed his face to my warm, damp skin and kissed my breasts.  We lay like this for a little while until I found his sleeping cock and stroked it gently.  “Do you want to watch me masturbate?” I asked.

He handed me my Hitachi and suckled my breast and played his hands across the swells of my body.  I came quickly and hard.  He scooped me back up into the curve of his body, told me how hot and amazing I was, and then the candlelight faded into his even breathing and we fell asleep.

Minutes passed and we awoke together, surprised.  Almost simultaneously we said, “I never fall asleep with someone.”  And then we promptly fell asleep again.

The second time we awoke he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed.  “I have to get up at 6,” he explained.  “I wish I could stay.”

We hugged and kissed again before I let him slip out into the cold, dark night.  His hoodie pulled up over his head, his bear cub smile just barely visible.

I staggered back to bed and slept on my wet spot.



It’s a roller coaster.

Hy is back

It feels weird to post a sexy pic. Now you get to see what he no longer does.

After much soul searching I decided to keep our appointed Monday night reading date.  I dreaded it.

I picked up the house in order for him to vacuum and prepped Peyton that after tonight we’d be seeing very little of The Neighbor because, “Mommy’s heart hurts too much still.”  My explanation was accepted with youthful wisdom.

“How do you feel about that, Pey?” I asked.

There was a thoughtful pause then, “I’m happy and sad.  Happy for you [that you won’t hurt anymore] and sad because I’ll miss him.  But I’m ok.”

I was vacuuming Peyton’s room when I saw him sneak in trying to foil the dog’s senses.  Once both the little person and dog realized he was there there was much exuberance and bouncing by all.   TN finished vacuuming the apartment and I was strangely uncomfortable when he disappeared into my bedroom to clean.

When he was finished we picked out books and settled in and TN intermittently cuddled with the dog and read to Peyton.  When we were done I kissed my baby goodnight and turned out the light without fanfare.  TN didn’t know that Peyton saw this as the last reading for some time.

I felt heavy and sad and far, far away.  And he looked good.  Very good.

He’d shaved his head recently and his better eating habits over the last few weeks showed.  I sighed as I grabbed a mug of tea and we sat down on the couch.

Hy is back

Sexy is so subjective.

“I can’t stay for long,” he said immediately.

“I know.”

“So how are you?”

And for the first time in weeks we talked and I didn’t feel emotional.  He was just a friend on my couch.  My mind was made up: this is the last week I’ll see him for some time and the decision being mine this time makes me feel stronger than I have in weeks.

I’m leaving town in 10 days and he has agreed to take care of Faisal for me while I’m gone.  The dog has been farmed out to another friend, but the cat, well, there’s literally no one else to take care of him.  I don’t mind, really.  I won’t be around anyway.

As we discussed hanging out on Saturday night I mentioned that I would have a list of things to go over with him.  “And I’m taking you to the airport, right?”

“No,” I shook my head confused.  “You convinced me it was easier to just leave my car there last time we talked about it.”  He remembered us discussing the cost, but he’s been operating under the assumption all this time that he would be my taxi.  “No, I’m driving.”

“Oh,” he said staring out into space.

There was a shift last night and if I had to guess he noticed it, too.  I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t obviously in pain, I wasn’t all there.  Truth was I’d been a wreck since I’d seen him last — crying off and on for days — and once I’d made the decision to cut ties soon I felt freer and stronger than ever.  My noodle had stiffened.

The dog lay with his big head pillowed by TN’s crotch.  TN’s thick, muscular thigh was on top of his paws and I wished so badly to make some lewd comment, but that wasn’t appropriate anymore so I kept my mouth shut.

I adjusted my bralette, the one he’s never seen or touched, and tied my hair into a knot atop my head.  My aching heart felt icy, a distant rattle from just a few days before.

Hy in her new bralette

This is the bralette he hasn’t seen.

We talked about work, said we were both doing ok, caught up on the messy lives of friends.  Then I was suddenly stricken with the need to be away from him.

“Well, you better go cook that steak you mentioned earlier,” I gently prompted.

His eyebrows shot up, surprised.  This was only the second time in 3 years I’d cut a visit short.

“Yeah, ok.”

I walked him downstairs to the back door and let the dog out to pee as he got his shoes on.  I don’t know why I was surprised when he opened his arms to hug me, but I was.

I wrapped my arms around his body and buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled his clean, manly scent.  His warmth seared the parts of me touching him.

“You must be in heaven with this cold weather,” he said as we pulled apart.

“You know me well,” I replied.

“Call me this week,” he said and added, “If you want.”

I said, “Ok,” without having any intention of doing so.

I let the dog back in and shut the door.

Hy lets you see what no one else is

I miss him…


I can’t feel my heart.

I fell asleep sobbing last night, Friday, too.

I’m crying now.

I drank a bottle of sunshine last night, a cheap Chardonnay with a twist off cap.  It prickled on my tongue as I nursed it over the course of 7 hours and it wrapped its languid arms around my shredded heart and whispered in my ear to just do it.  No surprise that I am regretting all of it because the first thing I thought of when I awoke was The Neighbor.  And then I cried with the rain in the early grey morning.

Late last night while lying in bed I discovered a photo of us together.

It was May 31st, a bright summer morning.  The image is of me on my back in a white tank and The Neighbor is pressed against me, shirtless, his mouth is in a slight curve against my arm.  His face is relaxed, serene, eyes are closed.  His beard is red, he still has his hair.  The arm his lips are kissing is holding the phone up and I am smiling softly, lips together.

I texted it to him and said, “Stumbled upon this just now.  Kinda breaks my heart.”

As I looked at this image of two people in love the tears burst from me.  I set the phone down on the covers and curled up and wailed.  The dog and cat shook with me as my cries tumbled out.  It was several minutes before I noticed he’d responded with a sad face.  The long, lonely night behind me was like gasoline on the fire of my sadness.  The other men aren’t going to help me feel better like I hoped.

He came over on Friday as planned.  We spoke for some time before we watched our show.  It’s not getting any easier to see each other — we are clearly both in a lot of pain — but I wanted to see him, to drink him in.  I had a glass of red wine waiting for him and the vacuum cleaner to do his promised cleaning, but our talk ate up the energy to make that happen.  He only sipped the wine and promised to vacuum on Monday when he comes to read to Peyton.

We talked more about how we were doing and I shared with him more of my thoughts, how it’s a struggle because I still want him.  He asked me if I felt he didn’t want me and seemed hurt that I would.  I pointed out that he’d broken up with me, but I guess it isn’t that black and white for him, either.  He does still want me, there is just a larger governing force within him that thinks I’m not the right one.

He said he wants to be single for a very long time.  It hurt to hear, obviously, but I can accept that.  I can even accept that he believes I’m not the right woman for him.  What is excruciatingly difficult for me is convincing myself that he is not the right man for me, because it never felt that way and it still doesn’t.

It was the best relationship I’ve ever had.  The sex, the companionship, the trust.  He made me feel special, even if I didn’t feel like a priority, but I know why now.

I don’t have a list of things he did that I can rely on to spurn my anger into resolution; I don’t have a laundry list of wrongdoing to ignite my fury.  Every single thing he did that hurt me was at its core due to the one reason he left me: he didn’t want to be with me.

His occasional, odd shadiness, his unwillingness to commit, his aversion to blending our lives, his emotional distance, our dwindling sex life.  All of it was caused by the conflict within him of loving me, but not believing I’m the one for him.  Which in its own fucked up way makes this feel even more insurmountable because it was only  one thing.  It just happened to be a doozy.  One ring to rule them all.

And I can’t be mad at him for that.  It’s not me.

While I was riding the crest of that sweet, warm buzz last night I made a date with a tall, handsome eHarmony man.  I gave my number to hot black guy on OK Cupid.  I reconnected with Phillip who lives in CA full time now and no longer has business here, but who wants to see me somehow anyway.  And I even reluctantly agreed to go on a date with an old high school friend who professed to having a massive crush on me for the last 25 years.

Those few hours of man-juggling before I stumbled on the photo of TN and me were like being suspended above ground and not fearing the fall.  I felt beautiful, desirable, happy, invincible.  I felt safely tucked away from the pain of his rejection, but it was relatively short-lived because I knew even as I cried myself to sleep last night that it had been just a fancy, frilly, empty façade.  I’m not ready to be with anyone else, and this morning’s regrets confirmed it.

I can’t feel my fucking heart.

It’s not in me or even near me.  Its absence is made obvious by the leaky sadness which oozes out of me nearly every moment of every day I’m not focused on something else, by the hiss of longing in my ear when I think of never having him in me again.

I can’t feel my heart because he still has it.

He’s trying to hand it back, but I don’t think he’s entirely prepared to do that, either.  It’s half-assed because he does still want me and miss me and love me.  So now there are puzzles to solve and terrain to traverse.  I have to work to get it back with patience and understanding and know that it will be returned in pretty bad shape.  I’ll need to let it catch its breath and heal, become stronger, before I try to use it again.  The tall guy was understanding when I cancelled our date today.

TN isn’t hurting it on purpose, but one thing is for sure: the longer he has it the less opportunity I have to care for it.  I’m just now understanding this.  Somehow, I have to get my heart back.



His love language is different from mine.

TN lounging in an apron

My sous chef.

If I had to guess, The Neighbor’s “love language” might be acts of service.  It’s not mine — mine is somewhere between words of love and getting loads of gifts — so it’s been a real exercise over the past couple of years to sort out how he feels about me.  He’d say all these stupid, mean things, but then vacuum my apartment or take out my trash, he’d keep my stash of Topo Chico full.  Eventually, I heard from his own lips what I’d suspected from the very beginning based on his actions: he loved me.

The relief I felt over finally being allowed to trust my gut was immense; I no longer had to pit his words against his actions.  They finally matched up!

The last couple of weeks have been tumultuous for me.  I’ve fought my demons and it feels as though I’m winning.  I trust him suddenly and completely.  The time we spend together is fun and light and his attentiveness is off the charts.  Sometimes I’m even overwhelmed by it.  I remind myself to breathe and relax and let his love swirl around me and think, “This is how it’s supposed to feel.” I’m so used to rejection from those I love his acceptance and presence feels like a stranger has come to dinner.

Good thing I’m a decent conversationalist.

TN lounging in an apron

A quick break before we had to get serious with risotto.


[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend.  All photos will have his approval before I post them.  He is 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??



He gets a [very lovely] punishment.

It’s been a few months now since The Neighbor and I entered into another layer of D/s and I became in control of his masturbation practices.

Our original foray into D/s was borne out of intense curiosity to see if it would fit us; he’d been spanking me for nearly a year and controlling our interactions, but I was miserable and he was a slippery little thing, perhaps miserable, too. That was definitely not working for us.

When I finally heard him, actually listened to his words about being submissive in the past — deliberately and with a real Domme — and how much he loved to vacuum for me bound in my skimpy lace panties, I opened a cupboard door into a part of me to which I hadn’t given any merit. And then it liberated us.

We dipped our toes into the power pool and suddenly we were both more relaxed, tall and serene. He still wasn’t committing to me or saying he loved me, but there was something else there, a stronger, newer connection that bound us even tighter. Roots were growing.

There have been mostly ups since we started this new side of us and I have learned mountains of information about the both of us: like how I am not a sadist, but I like welts, how I like having control over his pain because I can make it stop, how my position better allows me to express my needs from strength and not fear; and how he needs to feel trust and kind words during moments of consensual weakness, how he wants me to stand up for myself and keep him in line.

We fuck an average of a dozen times a month and 2-3 of those are me in total charge. Spankings, nipple clamps, him falling the fuck apart. The rest are laced with my domination and I top from the bottom with a big fat fucking smile on my face. And mostly all of our clothed sexual interactions are via D/s.

The innuendos, the spanks, the demands, the rules. So that means I also have had to come up with punishments. A real punishment, not something he would outrightly enjoy, though, that is how I prefer to deliver my blows.

He confessed to me the other day that he had masturbated without my permission. I thanked him for telling me, because I knew he was afraid, and we talked about why and I shelved it for later.

The next morning, I came up with a plan:

Ok, I’ve thought some more about you jerking off. I’m upset bc you didn’t send me a pic like I always say to do (& you broke your promise, but that can’t be helped now). So, to start over fresh, this is your punishment: you’re allowed to jerk off 3x bn now and next Tuesday but you must 1st ask my permission, 2nd, if it’s late and I don’t respond, then you must make a video of it, and 3rd, regardless of 1 or 2, you must take pics. So this means I expect 3 pics at least, if not some videos, of your gorgeous cock. You can also jerk off in front of me, too, thereby eliminating the need for pics 🙂

He said it was “tough, but fair.”

I said, “Good boy,” relieved to hear it, but knowing there was really nothing else he could say.

Thursday night, sick as a dog, I convinced him to jerkoff next to me. It was, quite literally, the highlight of my miserable day to watch his body tense and vibrate then jerk into his blurry hand, milky white jizz quickly mopped up by a tissue I had ready. I had three boxes of them littered about me, after all.

And this morning, this happened:


The tits were for encouragement.

I’m not certain if he actually jerked off right then or of he was asking for his lunch break, but either way, I’m looking forward to the pics and I feel strong in my position yet again.

I never would have guessed how hot him asking me for permission could be — never — but goddamn. This punishment stuff sure does feel good. Almost as good as everything else with him does.

I beat his ass.


The morning after, no underwear.

“Take off your underwear,” he said smiling and with no fanfare.

I looked at him and burst into giggles.

We’d been laying on the bed talking and it’d come out of no where, well, if “no where” was laying in bed and lavishing attention on your man and there was a rule that he wasn’t allowed to wear pants in your bed.  Then, yes, it came out of no where.

I lifted my hips and removed my panties and he kneeled between my knees.  We both still had on our shirts.

He pressed into me and watched each other as he split me open and I gave way with a soft moan.  His eyes so blue, so intensely locked on mine.

His powerful hips began to move and instantly I felt a spark and arched.  I pulled him down to me and we kissed and kissed and kissed as our bodies gyrated onto one another, our breath sweet puffs of passion between our locked mouths.

His tempo increased, I lost my shit as my pussy gushed and my temperature rose.  I tossed my head from side to side and clung to him with my limbs, desperate to feel his cock deep in my throat from below.

When we were exhausted, he stopped and handed me my vibrator and played with my breasts and nipples, told me how hot I was and how beautiful as I sprang into an orgasm from the wand that ripped a scream from me.

I went limp and giggled.  He kissed me.

He left shortly after that, saying he had only stopped by for a quickie before he vacuumed.  When he returned later it was a surprise.  I wasn’t ready for him to clean, yet.  But he wanted to cuddle again and so we did and after laughing and talking for several minutes and me absentmindedly playing with his cock he said again, “Take off your underwear.”

I held still, a smile plastered on my face and a twinkle in my eye that matched his.  And so I lifted my hips and took off my panties once more.

And again he impaled me with his magical cock and we moved together, this time fully nude, and rocked against each other with all our mights.  I gripped the iron bars of my headboard and squealed each time I felt the tip of his cock nudge my heart.  I bloomed and blossomed and lost myself in little orgasms until, once again, we were exhausted and he flopped next to me, my Hitachi wand in his outstretched hand.

I took it, I died, I wept a little, but not too much, and I saw myself in bits of confetti that rained down around me.  His hand rested on my breast, his words of encouragement lingered on my ears.

He left again and we made plans for when I needed him to come over “for real” and vacuum.

When he returned he wore his little white briefs.  The thin cotton transparent enough that I could see his shadowy Caucasian skin piled behind it as he moved the vacuum cleaner about my apartment.

He picked up chairs and moved ottomans as I scurried around the house tidying up, lighting candles, making my bed.

Vacuuming is our chore-play, our gateway activity to the head space to play Dominant and submissive and I was roundly fucked and more than capable of focus.

When he was done he coiled the cord and stowed the vacuum away, came back to my room and looked at me expectantly.

“Good boy,” I purred and pet his red-bearded face.  The tables had turned.

His eyes were round and impossibly light blue, his bowed mouth slightly parted.  I caressed his shoulders, ran my fingers down his furry chest and grabbed his hardon beneath the fabric of his underpants and peeled him out of them.

“Wait here,” I said softly and grabbed a couple of things off the bedside table.  He looked at me inquisitively then with muted horror as I showed him two tiny hair clips, the kind a woman uses at her temples to stay fly-aways.  “Relax,” I said from my throat and kissed his warm lips.

He took a breath and let his arms hang at his sides as I clipped the hungry little beasts on his itsy bitsy nipples.  He cringed and winced and made a big production of it.  I scoffed at him and told him to knock it off.  “Bend over and assume the position,” I said.

There he was bathed in candlelight, in pain, back arched, bottom impossibly full and bare.  I swelled with lust, delight, and nerves.  The white shift I wore pulled taut across my breasts as I breathed in deeply the scent of his cologne and submission.

I reached for the brown leather belt that saves my weak little palm and lashed at him.  “Beg for mercy,” I hissed gently, “Beg.  But I will not stop.  You may writhe, you may cry, and you may beg, but don’t move away from me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said huskily and he held still, waiting.

I lashed and lashed at him then and he did cry and beg.  It was gorgeous and terrifying and infuriating all at once.

When the begging came in earnest I hit him some more and told him to stop telling me what to do.  “But you said –,” he began.

“It doesn’t matter what I said,” I told him.  “You can do this, but don’t tell me to stop, beg me to stop.”

He understood.

I picked up where I left off; I wanted to leave a mark on him.  So I hit and I hit and I panted and I writhed inside of myself as I watched him squirm and shiver and shout.

I was hurting the man I love.  This is wrong, I thought.  And then I kept on lashing and petting and reassuring.

I swayed beneath my gauzy slip, drunk on passion and power and I pressed my mound against his hip and stroked his hot back.  A welt was beginning to appear.

I told him to stand up and he was skittish, but stable.  I kissed his jaw and was careful not to bump the tiny clips clinging to his nipples.  And then I said, “Hold very, very still,” and his eyes widened as he saw me carefully remove one clip and then the other.  “Get back down,” I said.

I reared up again to my full height and concentrated on the belt cutting through the night air and landing exactly where I wanted it to.  Careful, deliberate, my nipples erect, my cunt warm, wet and buzzing, my eyes glazed with other worldly focus.

Slap!  Slap!  Slap!  Slap!

He trembled and shivered, but held himself in position.  He whimpered into the down comforter and gripped it with hands locked into fists.

The smack of leather on skin began to sound like a drum beat and I turned myself inside out, concentrated on my own voice which encouraged him to take more and praised him for his powerful, meaty, indisputable beauty.  I was him in that moment feeling my own hand on him, checking in and feeling around.

And then, I was suddenly done.

I was there, he was there.  There was nowhere else I wanted to go.  And I couldn’t take one more lick lest I burst into tears.

My hand stilled and he lay and panted in big, giant breaths splayed heavily in the middle of the bed now.  I moved closer to inspect my handiwork and gasped at the blister of color I’d caused.  It was beautiful and awful.

I kissed his ear and cheek, his face buried in the mattress, and told him to stay exactly like that while I ran and fetched some ice and a cloth.  I slipped the cool chunk over his scorched skin and blotted up the trickle with care.  He insisted he didn’t need it, the careless, needless submissive man that he is, but I ignored him feeling as though I knew better.  At the very least, I needed it after brutalizing the man I love for 20 minutes.

I cooled his cheeks, his crack and his hip and dipped my hand between the cleft of his backside and stroked his balls.  He lifted his hips for me and the arch and offer nearly made me grab my belt again, but instead I wrapped my hands around his chubby cock and played with the heavy bag behind them before returning to icing his welt.

He wasn’t able to hold a conversation and he giggled.  I swelled with pride and love and contentment.

When the ice had disappeared, he pulled me into his arms and kissed my temple.  I snuggled down into the warmest nook in the world and lazily stroked his growing erection, my lids heavy, my heart full, spent as fuck.    “Hey,” he said with a grin, “take off your underwear.”

My Domme skills need work. Or do they?

I had a dream last night that basically epitomized my feelings about being a Domme to The Neighbor: I’m a hack.

I was somehow partnered with a pixie-haired blonde girl, lithe and curvy with little breasts and a sweet, flowy energy.  There were two men with us, TN and her man and they were both eager to please.  I was awkward and weird where she was sure and innovative.

In my silences she gave them tasks to do and I watched somewhat horrified as my guy did as he was told BY SOMEONE ELSE.

She was encouraging me to engage, but I couldn’t, I felt like I was at a dance and they all knew the steps, but I didn’t.

TN was sweet and kept looking to me expectantly, but I kept hiding inside myself.  They kept going without me.  I was alone with my dick in my hand, feeling silly and horrible.

I don’t think TN really feels this way about me — thank God — but it’s enough that I do.

Lately, life has put the brakes on our libidos and the quantity and quality of the sex has gone down slightly (it hurts to write that, by the way, but I will avoid any self flagellation for now).

We still talk and see each other every night and day, cuddle and kiss and I stroke his big hardon and he suckles my breasts, but for some reason 10 o’clock at night no longer calls to me rise up.  Instead, my body yearns to shut off and I answer the call.

I do my best, though, and if I look at it objectively (and more kindly) I dominate him considerably through a multitude of non-sexual ways: my tone of voice, my requests (aka demands), my moods, and my needs.

And the magical, impossible, ridiculous thing of it is: HE COMPLIES.

He complies and he yields and he bends and he offers.  Always.  He never says NO.

To be fair, I think I’m fair.  Rules to follow include things like not teasing me about my age in a disparaging way (he may tease, of course, but I better not feel like it’s a dig); he is to kiss me before leaving the house; he is to do any favor I ask of him no matter how big or small (how many boxes of Topo Chico has that man lugged up 3 flights of stairs in 2 years is beyond me); he is to wear panties when he vacuums for me; and more recently, he is not to masturbate or cum without my presence.

In the absence of physical, sexual play, these little rules are what connects our dots.

Dumb Domme made an incredible list of her House Rules recently and it brought a tear to my eye; and Kink in Exile and Ferns have also both written about rules and their relationships to them.

What I’ve taken away from all of this is that it’s whatever fits the couple.  It’s sorta like how a therapist is trained: they learn the theories and how they work and then they personalize the exchange for each client.  We all take what we know about consent, D/s, power and play, and make them into our own.  It’s a hodgepodge of rules and limits and we gotta take what we can get.

I don’t know whether or not I’m actually dominating him in his eyes, but I know I’m trying in mine.  Perhaps he’s so wired to submit he doesn’t even realize it.  Can that even happen?  Or does he know on some level that I am always exerting myself over him?

My dream denoted my worst fears — that I’m a goddamned stupid idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing — but I guess I can take that as a positive: I don’t want to be around anyone who thinks they know what they’re doing and that includes me.