He didn’t listen.

See right through me.

It was the third time it stung and hurt in rhythm to his thrusting digits that night.  I told him to stop, but his long fingers kept moving inside of me.  He’d pushed things farther than I’d wanted all night long and now we were naked on my bed.

“You’re hurting me!” I said and pushed at the arm and wrist connected to my body.

“Stop!” I said again, firm and angry.  “You are hurting me!!

He pulled his hand out and kissed me drunkenly.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

I explained to him how to touch me and let him restart.

It hurt again.  I cried out again.  I yelled at him to stop again.  I pushed his hand away again.

He wanted to fuck then, but I said no.  He pouted and begged, kissed my neck and touched my pussy.  The wine fuzzed my brain and it was much too dark in my room to clearly see that he needed to just go away.

I let his touch calm me and when he slithered down to put his mouth on me I held my breath.  “Do not suck on me,” I said.  “It will hurt; I’m too sensitive.”

He sucked.

“Don’t suck!” I said again and pushed at his shoulders.  He didn’t budge and continued to suck.  I felt my labia pulled away from my body by the suction and I hated it, that awful, tugging sensation.

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!”  I shouted.  “I just told you not to suck!!!”

I told him to lap at me.  “Like an ice cream cone.”

I wasn’t  there anymore.

I was in a black space with no exit, thick and viscous.  My arms and legs were mine, but they weren’t free.  This man was doing these things to me that I was supposed to enjoy, but I wasn’t.  It hurt, it pissed me off, it felt pointless, I felt lost.

It finally ended somehow and I was submerged in upside-down darkness and only wanted him to leave.  He wanted to stay the night.  “No, you need to go home.  My mom will be here at 8 in the morning.”

He pouted again and recoiled from me.  As he gathered up his clothing he complained they were wet from my ejaculate.  I told him to shut up, incredulous.

Because I’m a woman and trained to be polite I hugged him goodbye, but he was terse and walked out stiffly.  Several minutes later he texted to tell me how much he liked me.

Late the next morning he texted to say he’d left some things behind and that he’d had an incredible night with me.  I’d found his boxers already, but he’d also left his work keys.  I searched the couch hoping they weren’t there, but they were: two shiny silver keys on a ring, a big one and a little one, much like my delusion and self-respect.

I haven’t told him they are here.  He wants to see me again.  I don’t want to.  Keys or no keys.

I don’t know how to proceed.  Do I tell him how I remember the evening or do I just say “Sorry, this isn’t going to work out for me.”  I want to disappear and not think about the disaster that was my Friday night, erase it completely from memory.

I wonder if I could be wrong about everything, that maybe I was begging for it.   Maybe I did sometimes, I don’t recall that clearly.  Never mind.  It doesn’t matter.  It will soon be rolled into the other stories I have of nights similar to that one.  Of being over-powered by their desire and choosing the path of least resistance and saying, Fine, ok.  I’ll do it, when truthfully, I don’t want to, but am too scared to say No only to have him say Yes we are because then it really is bad.  And scary.  And my fault.

I am clear that No means No, but when a drunk woman is half naked on your lap and her hard limit is your hand in her pussy, but it’s ok to suck on her tits I get the confusion.  I understand the risk, I understand the world I live in.  It’s not set up for me to have hard limits if others are soft.

I blame myself for not having the guts to kick him out the second I felt it was sideways.  Instead I tried to salvage it, make his mistake and boorish behavior ok so it wouldn’t be a scary assault, so he wouldn’t see he’d gone too far and reached a vulnerable place in me – both literally and figuratively.  I let him stay and I attempted to make the night mine, not his, and all I really accomplished was confusing him and hurting me.

And now I have his keys to remember him by.

 

It’s been 2 years.

January 27th, 2015 I wrote about our last time together.  Only thing was, I had no idea that’s what it was.

It was a tender moment between us — good sex, spectacular sex — and it wiped out the doubt and worry I lived with about him and had me hopeful for our future.  I contemplated what we did next with our relationship, moving it forward.  I was the girl who got all dressed up for the dance and her date had entirely other plans.  Somewhere else.

And then, the day after I wrote the words he walked into my house and left me.  Technically we ended it 2 weeks later, but the truth is he left me the night he said he wanted a break.  Perhaps it was the last time he was buried inside of me; a real goodbye fuck.

In the weeks that followed we cried together as I begged him for a reason why.  “I don’t know, Hy.  I just don’t want to be in a relationship,” he’d say wearing a sad, heavy face like a drama mask.

Spring turned into summer and our meetings were less tearful and more reorienting.  “If we’re going to be friends, then you can’t hide things from me, TN,” I’d gently lecture.  “I don’t want details, but friends tell each other when they’re dating someone.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m not dating anyone, I promise.  I have no interest.”

He was working out early in the mornings by then, bootcamp at dawn.  I couldn’t get him up before 9 am when we dated.  He’d said he wasn’t a morning person and never would be.  He did yoga, was kayaking, even hanging out with his workout crowd.

My birthday was in late summer and the night he took me out to a fancy dinner to celebrate he complained about how tired he was because of the hot yoga he’d done in the morning and when I pressed and asked if he was doing it for a woman he claimed it was with “just a bunch of middle-aged women” from his bootcamp.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not dating,” he’d added unprovoked.

The next day I ended our friendship amidst his protests and angry, mournful tears.  I was still in love with him and watching him change into the kind of man I’d always wanted him to be right before my eyes was too painful, a slap in the face of my ill-conceived sacrifice to accept him as he was.  What a fucking idiot I was.

That fall, a mere weeks after saying my final goodbye, I ran into him with a woman at my favorite gym class.  A class that I had introduced him to and which we had attended together for a year.  She was pale and pretty and he struggled to ignore me even as he paid her every ounce of his attention.

A couple of weeks later I stumbled on his Facebook page filled with pictures of him with the same dark-haired woman.  I was devastated.  Everything – everything – he had told me about himself was a lie.

Apparently he was the kind of man who went out to parties and concerts and yoga.  He dressed up for Halloween and brought her to his work events.  He was snapped kissing her and beaming a 100-watt smile at the camera with her in his arms.  And he allowed her tag the ever-loving-shit out of him on Facebook whereas I was forbidden from giving even the slightest hint of our association with each other on social media beyond friendship.

I was glad I had preemptively ejected him from my life based on not only my ongoing feelings for him but the deeply held, but as yet unproven belief that he was lying to me.  (Posthumously and accidentally discovering hidden profiles seeking alternative sexual relationships with women during our active relationship helped cement my feelings about him lying.)

I was left in shreds.  Barely myself.  I limped along month after month of 2016 fully free of him in my life, but was repeatedly reminded of his existence — both because he remained in our complex and because about every week or so he would visit my Adult Friend Finder profile, deliberately leaving a visitor trail.

Once.

It’s now nearly two years to the day he abandoned me out of a troubled left field and I still — still — miss him.

I miss our easy rapport, our shared politics, our chemistry, our love.  And by far most of all — because I’m beyond and round the bend of the other things — I miss his fucking cock. 

Since we’ve split I’ve had 20, 30 more and not one has come close in making me feel the things he did.  Bones was an approximation, David was massive and fat but didn’t have the curve and length, Remington never let go despite having a lot to work with.

Everyone else had curves, lengths, and girths that just didn’t compare and despite my best efforts to refocus, let go, really enjoy and embrace what was in front of me I was left with a bitter aftertaste which was decidedly not TN.

Regardless of the shape and size of the penis — truly — the bottom line is no one has fucked me like he did, like he could.

He was a maestro with our bodies, perhaps I was, too.  Playing each other like seasoned musicians.  Eyes shut, feeling the chords, the notes, and the symphony in our bones.

Even that last meaningful night when he had assuredly decided he was leaving me and was completely checked out.

I can’t help but ask myself how is that even possible?? How can two people have that level of connection and pleasure while one is utterly gone?

I am ashamed and deeply humiliated at my gullibility and inability to move on.  I’m afraid that no one will be able to supplant the memories with new and better ones.  I’m scared I’m stuck.

Two motherfucking years and I have what feels like nothing to show for all my work, all my suffering, all my tearful, painful meanderings through the tangled paths of my heart.

I’m ashamed to share the depth of my broken-ness, of my mistrust, my longing.  No one can penetrate the fortress I have built around my heart except for those whose proximity and viability are null.  Men equal danger.  They cannot be trusted.  They don’t listen to me, they use me, they are not safe.

Therefore I will use them, chew them like bubblegum and rub my mound on their parts until my juices burst and runneth over and the sticky-sweet bubbles pop on my puckered lips.

Twice.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me.  In general.  I know he must considering he visits my AFF profile regularly, but I mean in real life.  Does he have anxiety about getting his mail?  Driving in and out?  I’m long since past all that, but the ghost of his cock lingers in my psyche, my pussy, my heart.

I have fucked everything that walks in an effort to replace him and to heal and all to no avail. I’ve hoped love would find me and now I’m hoping to find love.

The only thing left to try at this point is not fucking at all except I’m failing at that, too — of course — but I’m hanging in there with the hope and the will to push forward.  If I found someone like him once, surely I can find someone like him (but better) again.  Right??

At least the thought helps me sleep at night.

 

I’m free.

I have officially admitted to myself that I would like to find love.  I have ceased taking on any new men.  I have changed profiles to fit the new standard.  I have spoken with men on the phone.  I have written lengthy reply emails.  I am also unprepared.

There are so many layers to my life that I believe opts me out of any sane man’s world.  Hy, my need to expose myself, my writing, my kinks.  Do you know of any guy who wants to partner up with a woman who’s into triple digit lovers now, who shares intimate details of her sex life and thoughts, has thousands of Instagram followers for her alter ego, and who is comfortable living a double life for as long as necessary?

The special thing about Luke is that he met me as Hy first.  The hard part is done.  He accepts me for who and what I am.  The real life aspects are all just a bonus — my career, my child, my life — but going the other direction feels like rubbing a cat from tail to head.  It’s just awkward, unfulfilling, and might get you bitten.  In other words: hard.

I feel trapped by who I am and by my fear of rejection.

Nothing has happened — everything is calm — it’s just a waiting game now to see where all these trails go with the men currently in my life.  The lawyer, the martial artist, the sub PhD, the sweet Lothario, the sugar daddy, the dom, the mother lover, the special ops guy, the baby soldier.  The handful of others whom have yet to make a stronger impression.

Love enters our lives, right?  We don’t force it to happen, yet I find myself not willing to change much about my own self in order to find it.  Giving up Hy and this writing would be a colossal mistake. Giving up on my desires and wants and curiosities, too.  My deeply felt connections.  They’re all me, after all, and if I hide one aspect from a potential mate it feels disingenuous, like a charade.  I only want a man who wants all of me and not one layer less.

I’m terrified to discover I’m as alone as I feel, but there’s only one way of testing my theory and it isn’t cocooned in my little fuck-buddy-bubble.  It’s out there.

And so I wait in my gilded cage.  A longing woman behind her own self-imposed bars who watches the world with sad, old eyes.  Who sees the youthful couples plunge headlong into lifelong promises of love and babies, the lucky others hold tight to their nice-smelling, kind and strong, matching pieces, and the rest who bump along either indifferent or longing, like me.  Perhaps I’ll figure a way out on my own.  Perhaps someone will show me the way.

No where to go.

 

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 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’m not all ice and black heart.

Luke and I have been talking every single day for weeks now and it is this lone connection that reminds me I have a soft, gooey center beneath my icy demeanor.

For almost two years now my world has been a landscape of slate and black.  Jagged, torn edges that have left me bereft and alone.  The Neighbor’s abrupt departure from my life shone a light on how I have avoided intimacy my entire life, how its light scorched me like the sun upon a vampire, and in the ensuing months I have bumbled along self discovery and acceptance: I have intimacy issues.

Me, who opens up and shares the most intimate of details of her sexual life with virtual strangers.  Me, who entertains gaggles of friends with her lewd stories and tearful sharings of dead fathers and complicated mother relationships.  Me, who bares her body for tens of thousands of pairs of eyes and who elicits both hateful and lustful responses in equal measure and weathers them all with unapologetic and not not disdainful aplomb.

Yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I’m a motherfucking mess.

Man after man — 14 this year alone, I think, plus the handful that I haven’t mentioned — have added to the bleak illustration of my life, some post-apocalyptic land where even the lightening bug’s glow is dim.   None have given color, none have inspired.  I have been free of a muse for too long, drained of inspiration and weighted down by the pressure to impress and be loved by the masses, but I am feeling color seep back in.  Because of him.

We may never meet.  We may never touch.  We may never taste one another, but what has happened is a tiny little fire has been lit inside.  The tiniest, just ever so, like the little diamonds in the slim band upon my finger.  It is there.  I can feel it.

I am no longer filled with dread when I think to write and the words spill out of me much like school children down the sidewalk after school: freely, with some joy, and with purpose.

I tease him about talking to me — he’s far too sweet for the likes of me.  “You’re a smooth talker,” he replies.

“Tell that to me when you’re between my legs,” I say.  “Then I’ll believe it.”

He persists in smearing color on me.  “You’re a great person.  You need to appreciate that.  I know there’s a big heart within that ice block,” he laughs.  Then adds, “For the record, you’ve never seemed as cold as you think.”

I’ve been cast a bright line to the old palette I used, rich in color and light.  His kindness, his ever-present warmth, his sweetness.  After years of grey to see this sliver of color I find myself almost afraid.  Afraid to reach for it, afraid to believe in it.  But I can’t deny that it’s there.  That little ember, ever so small, lit within me.

And I can almost breathe again.

 

My little diamonds.

My little diamonds.

Having feelings really puts a damper on casual sex.

Ok, that’s not exactly true.  Having feelings for someone other than the one you’re casually fucking sucks.

I eat, sleep, and shit Luke these days; he’s literally all I can think about.

We text and send video messages all day throughout a day as we juggle our respective responsibilities.  I cum listening to videos of him telling me about the errands he’s running and, chagrined by my constant begging, he sends me selfies and tells me how he thinks about me while he soaps himself up in the shower.

He says he’ll never leave me – though what that means is more theoretical than practical – and I choose to hit pause on reality and bask in the attention of a man I find to be incredible both inside and out.  I let the smoke of his words fill my lungs and infiltrate my system and, as I exhale slowly, bask in the high that someone says he sees me and won’t go away.  Crack, meet Hy, Hy, crack.

I’ve been out with a few men since stumbling upon Luke, but none can clear the room of his scent.  Brad is a loving father, intelligent, filled with Dad Puns which make me cry with laughter, and a nimble lover, but he’s ignorant to his second-chair status.  Kent and I met for dinner after five years apart and argued over whether or not Michael Jackson actually touched those poor boys and though he smelled delicious, I went home alone.  There was another man whose brand of sense of humor left me straight-faced and deeply unimpressed.  He never had a chance past “Hi, all my dates end up saying they don’t want to see me again.”  Franklin’s presence is more life-preserver and less love interest and his existence seems to reside within a conflict-free zone at the moment.  Thanks, Universe, for that small win.

I’ve been doing my Hy thing for so long I’d forgotten that there was more to be had, more to feel.  A friend who knows me as Hy laughed when I told him I was struggling with having feelings for someone.

“All this time you DIDN’T feel alive? Wow. It must be somethin’.”

Indeed, it is.

When I lived next door and slid into a sexual, playful relationship with The Neighbor I was also fucking other men.  He was one of many, no big deal, a young, furry, inexperienced yet exceedingly talented lover next door.  And then we began to talk and hang out more and the sex steadily improved until every man I met and fucked was being compared to him.  That new, next man had to meet or exceed what TN gave to me.

TN was unavailable (and never said he wasn’t), but our attraction and chemistry overrode both of our common sense and eventually, I threw caution to the wind and decided to take what little he’d give me and go all in.  I focused on the positives until it came to a sudden end and now, nearly 2 years later, I am still sweeping away the residue of his chalk outline.  We had something special and I felt a certain way.  That inexplicable measure where suddenly you are real, you are heard.

I haven’t felt so divided, so distracted by anyone else since that early time with TN.  When I tried so hard to find someone to replace him – a man who didn’t want me – but who made me feel alive just the same.  Luke has inadvertently triggered a reawakening in me.  Not unlike the stirrings I felt while in London with Ben, but more strongly.  Perhaps they’re building upon themselves like a snowball down a mountainside or maybe I’m just becoming more comfortable with my softer, open side.

Luke wishes me luck before my dates and asks that I text him at the end if possible.  If I don’t text him until the morning he wishes me good morning and asks me how things went.  He’s jealous of the men in my life much as I’m jealous of his poofy, 5lb dog who gets to sit on his chest and lick his face like a miniature lion.

I have lost almost all interest in local adventures; I can’t muster the energy to focus on a man who isn’t Luke and I feel like an asshole.  It’s not like anyone I’m talking to thinks they’ve snagged all of my attention, but last I heard the polite thing to do is to successfully not think about another man while one is inside of you.  Just sayin’.  I’ve reached new lows.

Obviously weird shit happens in the course of a lifetime.  I have no clue why Luke was thrown into my path or I in his.  All I know is that with him I feel safe to explore the vulnerable parts of me, the parts which are so closely guarded I all but forgot they existed, and the distance between us emboldens me to poke around, find my limits.

It seems the impenetrable Hy isn’t quite the cool Ice Queen she thought she’d become, she’s also a warm-hearted fool who wants to slumber and rise wrapped in her crush’s arms while high as a motherfucking kite.

 

 

 

So many friends with benefits.

“I’m here.  Tell me No if you can’t.”

I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.

“Fuck. Ok.  Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.

Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.

My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object.  My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.

I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October.  Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor.  His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN.  However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.

I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters.  I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”

Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess.  The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.

David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees.  His cum mixed with my tears.  I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it.  It happened.

In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass.  My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”

We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.

I have no hard feelings towards David.  That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild.  Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience.  It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.

I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.

He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.

After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again.  After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole.  After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.”  After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole.  And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.

After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck.  I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.

David was there for all of 30 minutes.

How different a “friend” he is than The Artist.  Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally.  He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission.  He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer.  He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work.  He wants me to critique his.

I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.

Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish).  His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly.  That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.

We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice.  I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his.  I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is.  Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.

Our hookups have been hot and quick.

There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.

And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me.  I chose the latter.

Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.

I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked.  We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.

Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”

“What are you sad about?”

“Still bummed over that girl you know?”

“Ah, I see.  Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”

His response was a favorite of mine:  :/

I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table.  Shoulder cry on as just friends?  Yes, 100%.  As a lover who doesn’t get fucked?  No.  That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good.  There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.

Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me?  Yes.  Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me?  No.  Absolutely not.  I expect my lovers to have their shit together.

Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together.  It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.

Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way.  He’s been busy lately.  So, so busy.  I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.

“Yes, Hy.  God, you’re so beautiful.”  I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.

We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope.  There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able.  Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea.  No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.

We become high on one another until the crash of departure.  We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.

Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.  I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside.  His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.

Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.

My other friends are virtual.  Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether.  Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery.  I don’t know the feel of their crush.  One or two want to come see me.  Less than that are welcome to.  Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.

How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone?  FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is.  It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.

After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me.  Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is!  What a gift!

If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds.  The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between.  Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces.   I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.

What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door.  I wonder who it’ll be next time.

 

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.

Fuck.

Fuck.

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 am unfit for a relationship.

It’s Friday night and I’m binge watching Frasier.  Peyton is at my parents’ and I am at once exhausted and angsty.

The week has taken the piss out of me.  My credit card company is inept and drafted an enormous payment without my authority.  As I type I’m currently $275 in the hole.  That’s -$275, in case you think you’ve misread that.  I bawled out everyone and their mother, but still they said, “You’ll be reimbursed within three to five days, Ms. Jones.”  Three to fucking five days. 

Work has been intense and particularly stressful and I have ignored moving my body which is the most important thing I do each week to maintain my sanity.  Instead I swim in golden bottles of Sauvingon Blanc and get lost in my baby’s eyes as I do our bedtime routine.  The love I feel as I look into those blue eyes overwhelms me, fills me with light and this eternal ache, a mother’s love mixed with stark raving fear for the future of my love.

But tonight I am alone and I have none of that love to anchor me, just the wine to float on

Will, the sugar daddy, was forced to cancel our plans to consummate our relationship in a bed instead of over the front of seat of my car and The Artist’s attempt at a booty call fell on deaf ears.  I can’t be bothered, honestly.  I have bigger fish to fry.

Something keeps coming up for me, this sense that I am unfit for a relationship, and it’s been all consuming these past few days and weeks.  It’s been a real revelation; it all makes sense now.  I’m the square peg and a relationship is the round hole.

Yes, I want to be treated with respect and loved and adored and all of that, but the honest truth is that I cannot give anyone much in return.  I am a decent human being and treat everyone with kindness, but that’s not giving much.  That’s the bare minimum. 

 I am able to skate by with men because I’m charming and sexy and “busy” — oh, so busy.  And everyone thinks I’m open and that they know me, that they’ve learned a secret about me, but I’m performing to such a degree they don’t notice me hiding over there.  And I have no desire to come out.
As a young man recently accused me, I’m good at “the game.”  And fuck it if he wasn’t right.

I dance away and twirl just out of reach time and time again.  I am transfixed by others just like me, shiny objects shimmering in the distance just as I shimmer in the distance for someone else.  No one can catch me and as I’ve cried and lamented over the past years of my life at my bad luck it’s been because I choose the wrong men to focus on.  I can accept my role in my own misery.

Like I said the other day, I don’t trust myself.  It’s like I’m drunk on trust issues: my judgement is impaired.  I shouldn’t get behind the wheel of my love life.

I like men who are falsely close, those men who resemble Labradors and who feel like old friends immediately. Petra and The Soldier were like that and this new man Poppy, too.  Or I like men who can never commit to me like The Neighbor or the sugar daddy, Will.

There have been an extremely small number of men who’ve wanted to be present with and for me, but they’ve gotten no air time either in my life or here.  I found them to be unstable, strange, clingy — which may actually have been true, but the thought of blending our lives together gave me hives and choked me.

I maintain that the man I will ultimately want will know me as Hy and as me and will love me all the more for watching me soar away and yet circle back to rest with him because he is my safe place, my rock.  I’ve never had a rock before.

I am drawn again and again to the age-old saying of, “Youth is wasted on the young.”  Truer words may have never been uttered.

I spent years suffering poor body image and low self-esteem in general and suffered an even greater strife of not truly knowing myself until now.  At 40 I understand my wounds as if I had held the knife myself.  At 20, 25 or even 30 I knew only a fraction of who I was and my marriage was doomed to fail because of this; my life was always on this trajectory though there was a part of me that tried mightily to solve for it, to be traditional and monogamous.  But I don’t think it’s me.

I am wild and wanton, I push boundaries and crave newness.  I have grown accustomed to my aloneness, but I recognize that if I had a base to return to I would again and again; happily.  Like a toddler leaving her mother’s hip to explore further and further each time.  

My own mother didn’t appreciate that kind of exploration, it was threatening to her and so I pretended to be the daughter she needed and wanted.  And then I pretended to be the friend people needed and wanted, the wife, the girlfriend.  Today I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore and being alone isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

I’m not a religious woman, but I believe in magic, the magic of coincidence and observation.  What makes me notice these things now?  They’ve always been this way, but now it’s like seeing The Matrix; I am me.  And so I find it no small coincidence that this blog is named A Dissolute Life Means… for I am dissolute.  Completely, utterly, beautifully.  It’s like past me knew exactly what future me needed to embrace.

I am not ashamed of this and I am not trying to be anything but.  I am a good person, a perfect person in my own flawed way.  I have carved out the smallest little corner of the Universe for myself and I feel decently enough about it; it feels good, warm.  I’m happy here with you all.

Men have become like ocean waves since my feelings have begun to shift, crashing on my shore relentlessly.  I have to be more careful about poking around out there because they will want me if I say I’m available and the truth is, I’m not.

Not to the guy who lost the condom in me and came silently and not to the guy who disappeared for two months after our date and then I couldn’t remember him (or the date) when he texted again finally.  Not the guy who popped up after weeks to tell me that his lifting buddy pointed out my apartments as we drove by and said, “Hey, I dated a girl named Hy who lives there.” and the guy texted me to tell me “Small world.”  Not the guy who won’t let me wriggle away and pinned me down for a date.  Not the other guy who wouldn’t let me wriggle away and who also pinned me down for a date.

I’ve named Hy after Samantha Jones from Sex and the City.  She was always the character who was criticized the most as being one-dimensional, but I found Samantha extremely complex.  What female character has ever been lauded as sexually free without being a caricature of a desperate woman?  She just plain liked to fuck and wasn’t interested in anything more, unlike so many other slutty female characters out there who were ultimately looking for a boyfriend.  There is nothing wrong with not wanting a boyfriend and I do not want a boyfriend. 

I want to be free to do as I please, to go where I want with whomever I want.  I don’t want to answer to anyone.  Most importantly I don’t want to worry about anyone else.  I want to focus only on my child and myself, my career, my health, my animals whose needs are so ever-present it’s a miracle I even get to sleep.  One is beside me as I type, his black fur over-heating my thigh even as he purrs softly, ignorant of my discomfort.

There are risks to this route of course: if I don’t care, they don’t care.  My time is less valuable and thus plans are more like suggestions rather than commitments.  Fades are the name of the game instead of graceful goodbyes.  It’s the tax for the reality of the situation but it’s all I want to spend.  

Watching Frasier I’m reminded that 20 years ago we we talked to each other more, dating was a relational exercise more than just words on a screen.  We heard each other’s voices, expected someone’s complete attention.
There were endless debates on how long to wait to call a boy, etc., but that was so easy compared to today’s dating challenges and I want to return to basics.  I want to do only what I really want to.  I’ll walk *this* far and no more.  If no one is there where I stand then I will change direction and I suspect that I’ll make a beautiful pattern in the sand as I walk here and there trying to discover which way to go, deliberate and mindful of what feels right for me.

I might be alone tonight, but I’ve never felt more by my own side.