Accepting change.

I have gained a little weight over the last year.  I can feel it in the every-so-slight tightness in some of my panties and the deepening crease in my sides.  I have nothing but aging to blame for this seeing as everything else in my life has remained the same.

I can melt down and hate myself for the change.  I can attack the issue with tighter eating and increased exercise and whittle it all away.  Or I can relax into it think about how I feel in my skin.

The truth is, I feel surprisingly at peace with myself despite my new plumpness.   The only reason I might want to move forward with an eye on slimming down is because I don’t want to have buy a new wardrobe.  It’s a practical thing, not a self-loathing, must-be-thinner thing.

Twenty-five year-old Hyacinth would be hysterical.  I remember when I hit 158 pounds after college and during my first desk job.  I wanted to slice the fat off my body with razors.  I don’t know how much I weigh now, but it’s not 158, I can tell you that.  And that’s ok.

I have learned to look beyond the number and into my heart, my character, for self-worth.  It’s a 20 year-old tragedy that it was ever tied to a number in the first place.

What a gift that the cord has been cut.

Creases, curves, and veins.

Febraury Photofest

I love big, fat dicks.

Sue me, I do.  I love the way they stretch me and fill me, the way they pick me up from the inside and move me from this place in time to that place in time like a fleshy warp drive.  I love fearing them, sucking on them, and weeping upon them.  I revel in their rarity and their beauty.  I’m an unapologetic Size Queen: big, fat dicks are my friends.

And so is Remington.

After being a proper 25-year-old shit back in July he reached out and apologized and my old 41-year-old ass accepted.  Life’s too short for not forgiving someone with whom you really click.  Proper grammar, too.

He was right on time, all smiles, like a coat hanger stretched his face.  We had much to catch up on, some shit talking to do.  Long and lanky, goofy and sexy, he lay on my couch as I fed him wine and thought disgusting things about his body.  His soft skin, his big, fat cock, his youth.  Fuck: his youth.

Yet Remington is wise beyond his years somehow.  His drive, his ambition.  It sets him apart from other dipshits his age.  I mean, he’s still a dipshit — only dipshits don’t show up to things he’s promised to do– but he’s a brilliant, savage, delicious young man and it somehow makes it all part of the man.

We played Mastermind and when he knew he’d lost, instead of going down in flames he leaned across the table and kissed me.  Deeply and passionately with his coat-hanger smile.

I smiled back into him and climbed onto his lap.  We quickly removed my clothes and pressed my breasts into his face then I slid quietly between his legs, unwrapped his goodies and began to suck.

The glans’ ridge caught on my lips while I serviced it like an obedient piston; the warm, round helmet hit the back of my throat and I fought the gags with great pleasure.

We stood almost as if we shared a mind and stumbled into my candlelit room hand in hand.

I rustled in my drawer since he’d left his condoms in his Mustang convertible until I found some condoms.  “Do you need Magnums?”

“Yes.”

Rip, peel, roll, push, ahhhhh.

We nipped and kissed each other’s lips, jaws, and necks.  I greedily held his hips against mine.  “No.  Stay,” I whispered, desperate.  He held still and we breathed each other’s breath.

We moved and flipped, groaned and gripped, and all too soon it was over with a mad bashing against my ass.

We collapsed on the bed and moved to the pillows and quickly fell asleep.  I was vaguely aware of his soft snores and his hand on my hip.  I wondered if he fit in my bed, but fell back asleep before the worry fully woke me.

Some time in the night, long before dawn, I reached for the soft, warm meat between his thighs and felt it grow turgid in my grip.  The Christmas lights in my window cast a warm glow over the swell of his hip and legs, his cock pulsed and twitched in my hand.  And then I fell asleep and the tickle of his retreating, shrinking cock shivered me out of my slumber for a second or two until he — and I — were both fully asleep again.

I did not get to stuff his beautiful largeness back inside of me.

The morning was a mad dash because he overslept.  He shoved his feet into his leather boat shoes, grabbed his bag, pulled on his crumpled jeans and kissed me once, twice, three times before rushing out the door.

Later, he informed me he’d beaten his CTO to work so it was as if it’d never happened.  I might have congratulated him on his good luck and silently lamented at my own bad luck.  I had really wanted more of him.

He’s so much more than just the good fortune between his legs — he is not reduced to only his penis — but I would be lying if I pretended it wasn’t a cherry on the Young Man Sundae that is Remington.   A delicious, big cocked, smiling man-dessert.  And fuck… I do love me some fat, yummy man meat.

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I love reposting this year after year.  It’s now the 5th year in a row I’m posting my magical Christmas night story.  It was the first time Troy and I met Jack and it was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  It was also the launch of my sex positive journey, a true freeing of a soul.  This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it it’s almost like someone else wrote it.  Crazy how time will do that to a person.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  xx Hy

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other. So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less). I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″.

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know. Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear. Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…” And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making. I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th). Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time. After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

 

I still have hope.


I have been sick for most of 2016. It began in January with a fever of 103 and is ending with laryngitis and tight lungs, the diagnosis of which will be determined this afternoon in the doctor’s office.

I am exhausted.

I have lost my muse, my cat, by many accounts even my dignity — let’s not even discuss the White House — but I haven’t lost my hope.

I hope 2017 is better than ever.

I hope that little ember I feel continues to grow.

I hope my heart continues to swell with love and light.

I hope to grow my bank account.

I hope to build stronger bonds with my loved ones.

I hope we fight to keep the world progressing.

I’m not hiding anymore pretending to have it all figured out. I’m struggling, working hard, fighting back. Everything has burned to the ground, but there is new life. It’s the way of things.  I’m still alive.  I’m still doing the things I love.

I gripped the balcony railing on the 21st floor as the owner of the condominium buried his face in between my cheeks. The city lit up below me and the cold breeze swirled around us, his wet tongue and puffs of breath hot on my skin. His moans of pleasure matched my own.  I imagined it was Luke and smiled.

I enjoy men in new ways, brighter ways now. There are no ties which bind, no words that bond. I am free as a bird and light as a feather.  This is fun again and without the stench of desperation flogging me on.

He had me keep my boots on when we came inside and made sure I noticed the sliding closet doors which were mirrors when I undressed and laid down.

He was hard and felt good; he loved my pussy, came quickly, and promptly fell asleep. I did too.

Just before dawn I crept out of bed and opened the blinds which faced east and watched the rose gold light spill into downtown like phantom lava. The reflection on the buildings sparkled and where the light met the night was a beautiful dark hue of blue, like my eyes in the dark I imagine.

I redressed and woke him up to say goodbye. “I have to take care of the dog,” I explained to his unasked question.  He’d mentioned earlier in the night that he wanted to have champagne and brunch with me.

In the long elevator ride back down I looked at my reflection. I saw a woman who never stops looking, who never gives up. I saw her hope.

I also saw a woman who lives her life as largely as possible.

This year may have tripped me up and beat me down with all its curve balls, but it hasn’t erased the core of me: an artist, a lover, a good woman.  I am tougher than 2016.  I am still here and I’m not going anywhere.

I might be too hard.

The script was the same, yet different.

I sat on his lap, naked and spent, resting in the cradle of his big arms. He stood and turned and gently lay me down on the crisp hotel bedding. I promptly fell into a demi-sleep, drunk off the $350 bottle of wine we’d split and the dozen orgasms.

His giant paw had slammed into me as I urged him on and I came in great rushes and filled his hand; his white mustache had crushed against my lips as he breathed in my orgasm like a drowning man. He hadn’t touched a woman in 5 years.

Franklin almost hadn’t come to meet me, he’d confessed. When I shared my pictures with him on Seeking Arrangement he’d found a couple of them to look “hard.” “Like you were a retired dancer.”

“Gee, well thanks for taking a risk on me.”

“You’re much more beautiful than your pictures, Hy. I was very happy to see you walk into the bar.”

He was an enormous man — more bear than human — and more than a foot taller than me, possibly a hundred pounds heavier.  He wore a brown houndstooth blazer, those type of 1980s metal glasses that all business men used to wear, and smelled delicious.

He’d been conned at least twice in the six weeks since joining the site, but the few hundred dollars he’d given away were such an inconsequential amount to him he laughed it off as a learning curve.

After cocktails, dinner, wine, and dessert, we headed to the lounge of a nearby hotel where he grabbed me and kissed me.  It turned me on that he’d told the servers and wait staff to pay attention to us and they’d be rewarded for their attentiveness.  It turned me on that he oozed power and confidence.  It turned me on to feel so small in his presence, taken care of.

He insisted I get whatever I wanted at dinner and urged me to not think of cost.  How different life must be to not have a care about money.  Everything I do from eating to dressing myself passes through the “Can I afford this?” filter.  It made me giddy and nervous.

“I think what you want is a boyfriend,” he’d said over dessert.  “You want to hang out with someone you like and who likes you and to not always rely on him for money.  That sounds like a boyfriend.”  I was too embarrassed, too afraid to answer.  Is that even true?  I couldn’t say and I quickly changed the subject.

At the copper bar in the swanky hotel, my lips swollen and my belly buzzing he leaned in.

“Wanna get a room?” he murmured hotly.  I nodded.

At the front desk I held his hand and giggled.  In the elevator he cornered me and smashed me against the mirrors with his weight, his hands roamed like a lech and I arched into him.

We left the room in a tangled, wet mess two hours later; I had to relieve the dog who’d been cooped up for 12 hours.  He didn’t need to stay without me and I suppose $500 for a couple of hours wasn’t a big deal.  He walked me to my car, kissed me again and sent me on my way.

It’s unclear if he is interested in me beyond our night together.  I have thrown my hat into the ring, but he has yet to respond.  The entire transaction, the entire night and ensuing days, have felt like they happened to someone else.  His lack of response has not affected me; he will either want to see me again or not.

His tender post-coital care came close to cracking me.  Kindness is my kryptonite, it’s the big spoiler.  Use me, fill me up, leave me and I will stand tall and still.  Show me a soft side of you and it is my undoing.  His distance since the date has allowed me to shore up the hardness he said he saw in my images.  Perhaps he was right.  I have been in the trenches for so long…

The story could end there, but it doesn’t.

Enter stage right a British expat who lives 1000 miles away, Luke.  He’s my age, tall, beautiful and neglected by the woman in his life.  We stumbled upon each other – as people do – completely by accident and have found in one another a salve to the wounds we carry.  With him I admit to even having them.  He knows me as Hy.

He’s realized he’s a man who is alive and not a martyr searching for meaning in the drudgery of his life and I have realized (again) that I want to be cared about and accepted.  Cherished.   Ben first lit me upon this notion and I have had a wobbly several months since our time together.  I’ve fucked and frolicked, but as usual have kept to myself emotionally.

Luke is literally in my pocket and is the last person I think about and the first when I wake up.  I want to make all his dreams come true then set him on a plane stuffed full of affection and sex.  I want the person sitting next to him on the plane to look at him and think, “That guy looks goddamned happy.”

He’ll arrive home satiated knowing he’s not alone and that someone sees him and I can be safe from long-term vulnerability even while feeling the ghost of his arms around me.  I fully recognize the irony of this, but it feels like a step in the right direction.  At least I’m trying.

Ben is across an ocean and so busy I don’t hear from him for weeks at a time.  Our distance (among other things) was the golden key to unlock my own secret yearnings for deeper, softer, kinder things in my life.  I was forced to admit to having a heart again, but not suffer the vulnerability of trying to maintain the exposure.

Luke is closer, can see me more easily than Ben, but he is still far away both literally and figuratively.  He has commitments at home that would forever prevent him from being nearby long-term.  We will always be apart even if our feelings are together.

And yet, I want him all the same.

I imagine waiting for him at the airport. He quickly closes the distance between us when he sees me standing there nervously, wraps me in his arms and kisses me deeply and passionately.  I hope everyone around us is jealous as they see our affection and joy in one another’s arms.

It feels like we’d be stealing a moment, but I can almost taste him I want it so badly.  I want to be a fucking thief because with him I don’t feel hard.  I feel soft and real, nearly a whole woman with an entire back story.  Not just some sex-kitten ready and willing for anything.

“I’ll let you fuck my face, my ass, my pussy, all of it.  You just can’t leave for 3 days and you have to hold me close and look at me like you’re the luckiest man alive,” I texted.  Tears filled my eyes.  My biggest fantasy and my darkest secret is to be cherished while I am ravaged.

“You are, without any doubt, the sexiest woman I have ever seen or spoken to.  There’s something about you.  I’m getting butterflies…” he replied.  And later, after he picked his name for the blog, encouraged me to lay it bare for him in this post when I told him I was feeling overwhelmed.

“I like what I see,” he said again.

::

How could anyone find me aloof?  How could anyone think I was unaffected by men??  I am avoiding pain and searching for myself.  I’m not trying to hide.  Clearly I’m a walking contradiction: I’m hard, I’m a puddle; I’m distant, I’m a shadow; I’m bold, I’m bashful.

I have successfully managed to untie my self-worth from the behaviors of men, but have I let loose of the ribbon entirely?  Does my understanding that I have no control somehow translate to apathy?  I don’t think I’m apathetic — Luke proves that, Ben proves that — but I am terrified of the closeness and now I worry that it’s trickled out and changed colors in the light of day.  It’s ugly out there.

Franklin’s silence is logically frustrating, but emotionally I am a flat line.  Never mind I think we could be great friends and have a very mutually beneficial relationship.  I feel a distant stillness about his non-response  He’s just yet one more man who wasn’t right for me for one reason or another.  I let go of any kind of “us” the day after I lay naked beneath his great bulk and didn’t hear from him.

There are so many others that I never bothered to include here, men whose time on the stage of my life was so brief, their impact on me negligible, that they are included in the credits as “Crowd Member.”  They’ve contributed to the story, but only as moving props.  Or as fucking ones, as the case may be.

And I largely felt nothing for any of them.  Just blips on the radar regardless of how they behaved afterwards.  It bothers me how little I feel sometimes for these local men, but it’s effortless.  I come by it naturally.  Perhaps after years of mistreatment I have become a product of it.   No wonder the prospect of Luke’s affections and attention is so utterly irresistible.

He says he has hazel eyes with green in them.  I imagine they’re like a sun-dappled forest, both deep and light, waiting.  I want to lie down on the forest bed and melt into the leaves and moss.

I want to look deeply into those eyes as I breathe his breath and hold him in my hand, feel him beneath my fingertips.  He won’t leave me because he can’t stay.

I may have overshot my target and accidentally convinced men that I don’t need them or want them, but the truth is I used to be open and I was punched again and again like a soft-bellied idiot.  No, Hy.  Goodbye, Hy.  I don’t want you, Hy.  It was fun while it lasted, Hy.  You’re all wrong, Hy.  I chose poorly again and again until I finally wizened up and took my soft self to a higher place where no one could touch me and when I’ve come back down I am no longer soft.  It’s not untrue.  But is it wrong?

A savvy, keen-eyed reader lovingly bludgeoned me in emails for months about how imbecilic I was with men.  She wasn’t wrong.  I grew hardened, memorized my lines, set my sights on the end of the story and skipped over sagging, boring plot lines.  I don’t regret it.  I’ve done what I needed to do, but now in the face of pure kindness I am forced to peel off a layer or two of armor and slow down.

I don’t want to be so hard that I miss opportunity, but nor do I want to be so soft that I am beaten to a pulp.  My friends come to me with all manner of dating questions, their hearts on their sleeves and I chuckle.

I remember when not hearing from a man after a date used to hurt.  I remember when long delays between correspondence bothered me.  Today, those are failings I don’t tolerate and I quickly move on to the next.  No fuss, no fight, just go.  Whether that’s emotionally or physically doesn’t matter.  I’m gone.

This push-pull of hard and soft is the battle between my sense of independence from the pitfalls of dating while my need to simultaneously flex my heart.  I may have stated it before, but it has become increasingly clear to me that my next relationship may very well have to start here.  As Hy.  How else can I possibly get past my own fear and armor?  My very soft underbelly is always exposed here and I am all of me: sentient and sexy, longing and lascivious.

Since I’ve come to realize I am more Hy than anyone else, it may also be time for Hy to be the star of the show.