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.

 

 

 

 

There’s a dating site for each of your needs.

Isn't this how everyone writes?
Isn’t this how everyone writes?
As I sit to write I’m overwhelmed with where to start.  Do I share with you the potential sugar daddy with whom I’ve connected?  Or my explorations into the D/s world?  The guys I found on AFF to fuck my brains out?  Or the all the men who reject me on Match?  The men who froth at the bit on IG and Snapchat?  The deep and meaningful emails I receive from kindred spirits?

For every want I have I have an outlet and it’s distinct from the rest.  You may think my assignments are personal, but I’ve met enough men who spread themselves across the multiple platforms for similar reasons to know I’m not alone.  I can’t say I like hung men on Tinder any more than I can say I want a boyfriend on Adult Friend Finder; it doesn’t fit the audience and it elicits the wrong responses.

Each site has a specific target audience:

  • eHarmony: serious relationship to marriage; deep, hearty stuff
  • Match: same ^^
  • OK Cupid: serious relationship to casual and fun, poly and open expansion relationships, hookups; moderately intense
  • Plenty of Fish: same ^^
  • Tinder: hookups, casual and ongoing friends with benefits; light and fluffy
  • Bumble: same ^^
  • Adult Friend Finder: hookups, kink, swinging, ongoing friends with benes, specific sexual preferences; intense and focused, yet light
  • Seeking Arrangement: hookups, ongoing friends with benefits, financial wishes; intense and focused
  • Collar Space: kinks, D/s, BDSM, darker side; intense, focused, serious

These are my categorizations, obviously, but I think most would agree with me that this is the basic break down.  I admit to anomalies.  I have friends who got married off of OKC and some who had years-long relationships off of AFF.  There’s no accounting for just how you meet someone and to put blinders on to opportunity would be just plain silly.

I’ve long been clear on the silos of intent for most of these sites, but the sugar daddy site, Seeking Arrangement, was the real recent challenge.  It wasn’t until I sat beautifully full of white wine next to a big, brawny country boy who wants to be my benefactor that the last piece fell into place: on that site I could be honest about my financial situation.

On AFF I can shout to the rafters my love for giant cock; on Tinder I can be obtusely flirtatious; on OKC I can hint at my yearning for something deeper; on CollarSpace I can announce my authority and stake my claim; and on Seeking Arrangement I can say that I am in need of some help.

What I find so interesting about all of this is that of all things that I admit across these different platforms —  my kinks, my heart, my hopes, my sexual needs — the most intimate is my need for money.  To say I don’t have enough feels like admitting to a personal failing, like it’s Dickensian England and I’ve somehow brought this upon myself by virtue of my bad bloodlines.  My father was, after all, a terrible human being who lost a few fortunes in his lifetime.

But the kind man whom I sat entwined with last Tuesday, and who would eventually fill me with his happy jizz in the parking lot like we were rutting teens, held my fears gently and wouldn’t let me look away.  “Hy,” he said.  “I want to help.”  I was unable to offer more than a tearful head nod.  It’s all too humiliating, but why is that?  I’m not tearful when I sit across a man I meet on AFF and say I love giant dick; bashful, perhaps, but humiliated, no.

In fact, when I think about it, admitting to my kinks and my sexual needs are the only things that don’t make me shudder and shy away.  Breaching this one frontier — financial — has put an even finer point on it: I don’t do intimacy.

I don’t admit to needing love.  I don’t admit to wanting love.  I don’t admit to having needs.  I allude to them on all those sites where it’s appropriate, but I’ve been utterly unable to make any relationship launch because the truth is I’m completely and utterly unfit for a relationship at the moment.  I trust no one and myself most of all; I am incapable of choosing trustworthy people and so I will choose to remain alone and get my intimacy needs met via sex and sex only.  It will be interesting to see how a financial relationship affects me since that’s more intimate than sex to me.

I’m not satisfied with this long-term, but I am aware that this is my current status: intimacy isn’t possibly and that’s ok.  I’ll keep working on it and chipping away as I always do.  But admitting it is the first step.

To be clear for those of you who might be wondering, the kind of sugar daddy relationship I seek is one that isn’t based on money.  I want to find a wonderful friends-with-benefits who also happens to check in on my financial status and help me out when necessary.  I want a man whose money is inconsequential to my feelings for him and thus far, I feel like I’ve found that in this country boy.  He’s sweet, funny, sexy and totally and completely into me.  He also happens to be married, which is fucking perfect (see above intimacy issues).

One of the most appalling and humbling things about Seeking Arrangement is the used car feel of it.  Men messaged me and kicked my tires, asked humiliating and inappropriate questions about my libido and sexuality as if they were staffing up for their penis and when they saw my private photos of my face I never heard from them again.  Apparently, I didn’t measure up.

Of course, those men opted themselves right out of my life and that’s ok, but with the exception of the men on Match, I have been found highly attractive on the other sites matching with beautiful men of all shapes and sizes.  But not on SA.  There I was found wholly lacking, apparently.

On CollarSpace I roll up my sleeves and put my Domme-y pants on.  I have been praised for my no-nonsense profile and many have been eager to make my acquaintance.  Nothing has panned out beyond some heavy texting with one and a brief text-fling with another.  I am extremely cautious there.

And as I flex my muscles I’ve learned what it means for a man to theorize about his submission, but be unable to execute even the smallest of submissions.  If a woman you so desperately want to dominate you gently directs you to respond to texts in a timely fashion, you do so.  You don’t ignore her for 24 hours.  That vanilla shit doesn’t fly.

The sub with whom I’ve been texting regularly for several weeks seemed incredible at first — he was experienced, eager to help me learn, beautiful, hung, intelligent — but he suddenly balked hours before our first meeting and proved it was too good to be true.  Under the kind tutelage of my Fairy Domme-mother, Ferns, I told him my desires again and fought the urge to compromise in such a way that I would lose everything I actually wanted.

I said to him:

And I’ve thought about it. Here’s what I want: a sexy af friend I can trust AND have fun with (an occasional drink, board game, day by the pool). If you decide you’re on board with that, then let me know. I’m not really interested in investing in a back and forth waiting (and hoping) for something to change if you’re not.

It’s terrifying to attempt to dominate only to have your submissive partner pull the rug out from under you.   The Neighbor was a master at that and I am ever watchful for a repeat performance.

Coming up with that response to the sub was tantamount to my new dating elevator pitch.  It’s how I feel across the board and I am set free from the back and forth and negotiations I once found myself tangled in.  Do or do not.  There is no try.

On AFF I have found many attractive men who like my pitch.  The most recent, Poppy, a tall, coffee-with-lots-of-cream colored man built like Adonis, met me on a Tuesday night.  He had a winning smile and a way with winks that won me over.  We fucked like animals for a couple of hours and he promised he’d host next time.

It’s almost easier on AFF than anywhere else to be myself.  I can mention the D/s stuff, my kink for male bi-play, and even admit to having a broken heart.  Being non-monogamous isn’t scandalous, nor is it a beacon for one-night-stands.  It’s like the catch-all of the dating world.

I’ve met men there who are just re-entering the dating world and who have played there for many years.  They quickly learn the dating economics of a sex site and are appreciative of a well-spoken, confident, real woman.  The number of bots and scams they intercept in any given day speaks volumes to who the real customer is.  On AFF, we all seem like comrades.

On Match, much like SA, I am repellent.  Men I find attractive look at my profile and don’t respond to my winks or likes.  How ironic that when it comes to either being sufficiently attractive or relationship material I fall so short.  Trust me, the irony is not lost on me.

I have another 4 and a half months to suffer through before my membership expires.  I have zero hope of meeting anyone I’m interested in there.  Partly because the men who message me aren’t attractive to me and partly because I have come to fully realize my unfitness to be a partner.

Tinder has wrought much pain, frustration, and general male jokery.  I’m a fetish for the under 25 set, a challenge for the under 30, and a fine piece of ass for the under 40s.  It’s a melee of false promises and aggressive and ridiculous come-ons.  My screenshots are proof of that.  Occasionally, I meet a comparable man, such as the pretty blond artist who suavely invited me back to his place at the end of our date.  I declined that night, but we will reunite at some point soon.

Bumble is no different, but there I get the added bonus of being rejected when I reach out as the rules there state the woman must make the first move.  Ok, whatever.

On those sites I am known as me, the mother of Peyton, a school-aged child, a professional, a dog and cat lover.  They know I cuss a lot and love to cook and, if they’re lucky, get to experience the underbelly of my public persona, the naked and writhing one.

Not everyone will have the next categories in their lives, but I have yet even more: My Instagram and Snapchat followers as well as my blog readers.

In the past I made a conscious decision to not get too involved with virtual folks who know me as Hy.  It was partly part of the anonymous mechanism, partly to keep a separation of church and state.  Plus, how could that work?  The world is a very big place and I’m not interested in a love affair from Abu Dhabi.  But lately, in the last year, I have broken down my walls and connected with many people from my Hyacinth world

I made a handful of female friends on IG who have been very influential over the past several months and I have a couple of male friends whose tumescence are always welcome messages, as are their friendly words.  They know my face and my city and I am hopeful that if ever our paths cross we can finally hug hello.

I met Ben through Snapchat, though I am realizing more now than ever, what a freak chance that was.  The app isn’t conducive to lasting connections; words and pics literally disappear in moments.  The fact that I noticed him is a fucking miracle.

Lastly, the readers who email me via my blog email are the real MVPs.  They open up about their lives, share their insights, hurts, and journeys with me.  They don’t want anything in return, just to share, and I find myself often wishing they were local mates, men and women I could hug and touch and comfort.  I hope they know how much they mean to me even if we never become more than just lighthouses to one another.

I must speak to 100s of people every month in some capacity or another.  It’s overwhelming.  At the moment I’ve shut them all down except for the occasional peek into CS and AFF; I’m focusing on just three men: Country Boy, The Artist, and Poppy.  Plus any stragglers who might pop up in text that I’ve forgotten about.

I remember a time not too long ago — 20 years isn’t that long ago, right?? — when the idea of speaking to, let alone fucking, more than one person was basically unheard of.  I’d meet a fella somewhere and all my attention would be focused on him until I knew whether or not it was going to work out or not.

Sometimes it took a week, sometimes it took 3 months, but I never doubted that I was the only woman in this man’s life, nor he in mine.  I don’t know when distraction and inundation became the name of the game.  I’m not ungrateful for the diverse opportunities to find the exact thing that I’m looking for, but it’s just too much, like listening to 5 radio stations at once and trying to enjoy yourself.

I’ve been plugged up all summer, emotionally and creatively, in large part due to the intersecting highways of dating channels.  How can I keep them organized or portray the juggling act I perform each day in such a way that it resonates?  How can I express my enjoyment in my aptitude?  The challenge my life presents?

This way of life isn’t for everyone.  It’s loud and busy, but I know which stations to turn down, which knobs to fiddle with.  Currently it’s relatively quiet and peaceful, my phone is often black and when it’s alight with words they’re welcome discourses with quality people.

And at the very least I’m nothing if not organized.

Hy with her coffee 2
Cuz it’s definitely how I write.

I am on occasion plagued by mediocre sex.

On my couch, exhausted, wrapped in nothing but my new pink, silk robe I sat. The man whom I’d just fucked was likely the first person to see me in it.

I looked to my right, into dark brown eyes and said with a sigh, “I love you.”

Our gazes locked.  We blinked.  I felt safe and accepted.

“I’m so glad you can’t talk,” I added.

The dog lowered his head to his paws and blinked some more.

“No, really.  I’m so glad you can’t talk.”

 

The dog has seen me with 3 men in the last 5 weeks or so. He missed the one in a hotel on the north side of town.

Each tryst filled with promise instead fell flat.  Or soft, as the case may be.  Or uninspired.  Whatever: wholly unsatisfying.

Mediocre sex doesn’t mean I didn’t cum.  It doesn’t mean I didn’t have chemistry or titillating conversation.  It means I never lost myself.  It means something didn’t work right, either me or him or both.  It means I went through the motions and worked hard after the fact to make him feel ok because I felt like he deserved a pat on the back since a hug and a quick goodbye would have been too obvious.

When I was in London with Ben we stuffed his meat in me as much as we could in 36 hours.  Not only did we have chemistry and a special connection, but his deliciously big cock worked like we wanted it to and I was able to completely lose myself in the act itself.

The act where I fell down a rabbit hole of pleasure and felt like my skin was lathered in peppermint in a cool breeze and my insides turned out, my body covered in salty sweat, tears in my eyes, my face pink and blotchy, and mascara smeared to my temples.  That’s great sex.  That’s magical sex.

It’s what kept me bonded to The Neighbor for so long and it’s ironic because that feeling, while bonding, is the epitome of letting go, like being bound by a gossamer thread.

But I have not been having that kind of sex.

Ben was the last great sex I had.  Before that Bones was ok — not fantastic, not horrendous.  His big dick took center stage, though he wasn’t the most creative lover.  There was Remington, The Welder, Captain.  As I push the calendar back my memory fuzzes.  There was Petya and The Soldier, David, TN — always TN, the man who blew my mind, body and heart to smithereens.

Try as I might I can’t seem to shake him from the number one spot.  It kills me, digs my heart out with a spoon, that he is still one of the most spectacular sex partners of my life.  He’s not alone, though — Troy shares the honor to a large degree — but the fact that our sex was so incredible from day one and continued to be pretty pussy-fucking awesome until the very end feels more like a curse than a gift.  No one ever stands a chance.

The men I’ve dallied with recently were good men, decent fellows by all accounts.  One was an Eastern European man I met on AFF who drove 3 hours to see me.

He took me to a very nice dinner, we flirted over drinks, and we kissed gently on a rooftop.  I marveled at his beautiful naked body back at his hotel, but he struggled to stay hard and instead of switching to focus on me he was obsessed with his erection instead.

I became a live Fleshlight as he pumped into me and sweat dripped from the tip of his pretty nose onto the bridge of mine.  He complained I was hard to make cum.  I ignored the passive insult and kept my legs spread willing him to get hard enough to cum.

I sucked him, I jerked him, I performed as if this were the best night of my fucking life.  Eventually he came on my tits and we were done with it.  I politely — and quickly – said my goodbyes and left.  He wanted to see me again, he said.

Another was a tall glass of water I met on Tinder.  After our first date he came clean about having a girlfriend, but we remained friends nonetheless. When he came over during a rainstorm one day he had mechanical issues, but we made out and his enthusiasm was contagious so I let him titty fuck me and spray me with his hot ropes of jizz as a consolation to a real fuck.

When I invited him over months later to go swimming we rolled around like puppies, but I was dismayed to see his cock was hiding from us again.  However, he didn’t miss a beat and immediately went down on me and with deft fingers and mouth made me cum like a geyser.

The next night, a beautiful blond man from AFF came over.  Nervous, yet virile, we flirted slowly all night over a game of Scrabble.  I soundly beat him and then he ripped my shirt off and sucked on my nipples until I cried out.  His cock refused to show up, but like my tall glass of water from the afternoon before he immediately switched to his hands.

I came with my vibrator pressed against me while he finger-banged me from behind and he jerked off all over my white, upturned ass and back.

And most recently I met a man who’d pursued me for a year on various dating platforms.  It wasn’t until we crossed paths on Match that I relented to his date requests.  He was confident and sexy and when I found his lips on my neck in my kitchen I was impressed with his moves.

Then things began to unravel: we lost a condom in me and, unbeknownst to me, he had cum and not knowing this I continued to try to get him back up which created greater frustration in me and possibly embarrassment in him.

If a man makes no noise or motion whatsoever to indicate his orgasm, how on earth is a woman to know the show is over??  It’s infuriating.  It’s  like sitting down to watch a movie and the very next thing you know it’s over, you’ve missed the show entirely, and your date thinks it was the best movie he’s ever fucking seen.  Fucking bullshit, man.

None of these men are bad men, none of them are even necessarily bad lovers, but what happened between us was royally mediocre, the pinnacles of mediocrity to varying degrees, and it’s highlighted how much I miss great sex.  The kind where I am transported to a field of poppies in the sky and can’t walk straight the next day and where I smile secretly as I think of the filthy things that we did to one another.

I’ve admitted to dialing it in before, but I didn’t any of these times.  I was game, I was on fire, I was fucking ready to be fucked to the moon, but for whatever reason shit went sideways and with each one it was a Whoopee Cushion blart instead of angels crooning.

I don’t have the answer to any of this.  I don’t know how to make sure I have great sex or how to even avoid the bad.  It’s all a crap shoot.  If you know the answer, please share (not really).  For the time being, I’m just going to cuddle up with the one male in my life that I know is a sure thing: the dog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go on a date filled with another man’s semen.

Needless to say, Date #1 today was quite eventful.  

Bent over my front seat, the passenger side door opened to provide side privacy and a giant, naked cock rammed inside of me as I gripped the console and he kept modestly pulling my skirt down over my bottom and panties which were shoved to the side as if that would save my virtue or something.

I can smell his cum and feel it ooze out of me even as I park outside the coffee shop for Date #2.

I don’t dare to hope that this or #3 will hold a candle to him, but you never know.

Being stood up is fucking shitty shit.

Today sucks and for different, yet related ways.

First, it’s The Neighbor’s 32nd birthday and last year feels like this morning somehow.  And second, I was stood up on Saturday by someone I liked and trusted and even today it feels like a raw, stinging slap in the face.

Though I am making strides to distance myself further from TN, it’s still a struggle.  Last year we were broken up and his birthday spent together was painful, awkward and titillating, not unlike a red, angry blister on ecstasy.

A couple of months later I ended our friendship and embarked on a TN-free life in pursuit of a man who actually valued me, but clearly I’ve failed in that endeavor.  It’s been an interesting 10 months.

That brings us to two days ago when I was treated with no respect and little regard.  I don’t have control over others; I thought I’d chosen well enough, but I was very sadly wrong.  I feel sucker punched.  I have never in my entire 20 years of dating ever stood someone up.

Not a guy I’ve never met before and certainly not someone I had met previously.  Clearly everyone doesn’t operate by the same moral and character code as me.  They do whatever the fuck they want whenever they want because they can.

He didn’t text me when I asked if he was en route 30 minutes after our agreed upon time, nor did he respond when I texted close to an hour after our date to confirm that we were actually meeting at 8.

I can’t guess what happened, but I can tell you with 100% certainty that there are only 2 reasons why not texting me back would be acceptable:

  1. death or serious bodily trauma or;
  2. a phone is lost or broken.

But this young man turned down the offer of my address because he said he remembered where I lived, so ostensibly he could have shown up if it were #2.  And I’ll feel badly if it’s #1, but the odds are slim to none that something tragic befell him.  Let’s be real: he was just a dick.

In a world of disposable dating, why do I have to extend any slack in the line??

With TN we fought a lot about his tardiness.  I would have dinner timed and  he’d call 5 minutes before he was supposed to arrive to say something had come up at work.  He thought he was being sensitive.  My risotto or fish never agreed.

He demanded my understanding and I his, but we were in a committed relationship so it seemed reasonable.  But for a 3rd date?  Is it reasonable to extend blind understanding and empathy at the expense of one’s dignity and self-worth?

When I have shared my upset in the past with a man at being treated like this I’ve been called inflexible, told my standards are too high and that I’m seeking “dating perfection.”  I’ve also been called old and demanding, as if to infer I don’t know how the kids these days date.

The details of the interactions are immaterial, but what’s important is the overall belief that if I insist on effort I am high maintenance and rigid.  But here’s the thing, for a first date, yeah, you better make a fucking effort.  In fact all my dates better have some work behind them because I will be working for them, too.

I’ll have cleared my schedule and protected your time slot (I turned town two sets of friends for that date Saturday night), I’ll eat the right things so as not to be gassy or have an upset stomach (yes, I do that), I’ll clean my fucking house, shave my entire fucking body, moisturize and shower, buy various sizes of condoms to accommodate your dick, make my bed, stock my fridge and even put my phone on silent once we’re together.

And yet somehow texting me to let me know that something has changed or come up is too much effort.  TN could barely keep me in the loop and I was supposedly a major part of his life.

Well, thanks a fucking lot for that, you fucking dick wad.

In 20 years of dating I have never mistreated another human being in that way.

I’ll admit to being distant and letting things die on the vine, or not returning feelings, but I have never not been where I said I’d be or not done what I said I’d do.  It’s counter to who I am: I am a nice fucking person whose word means something.

Dating has become this vicious, self-serving, distant act.  We do what we want when we want.  We rely on our phones to implant a wall between us and those we’re actually trying to get to know.

We don’t want to seem too eager, too clingy, too insecure, too caring, too into it, too ______.  God forbid we show any genuine excitement about anyone lest we reveal ourselves to be drooling, humping idiots with no self control or caché.

I have spent literally hours upon hours of my life dissecting text with and for my friends. What does it mean if he doesn’t text you after a sexual encounter?  a first date?  Should you send the first text?  reply immediately?  What happens when punctuation suddenly shows up when text was fast and loose before?  Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

I treat a man I’m talking to with the same respect and social courtesy as I would a friend or family member who’s texted me; it removes any thought on my part.  It gets tricky when the interactions become dating-specific, like the post-fuck text.

In those instances I err on the side of who I am.  What feels natural?  To text or not to text, that is the question!  There’s no right or wrong answer there considering we’re all our own Litmus test; if he doesn’t like what I’ve texted when I’ve texted it (or didn’t text it) then that’s valuable information moving forward and if it ends there, well, then we clearly weren’t meant to be.

Everyone plays it so cool we forget the message we send is I don’t care about you.  Maybe there’s some truth to that, but what if it’s on a scale?  Like, I don’t care about you that much, but I still care somewhat?  Obviously, there’s no way of knowing the intent since it feels the same on the other end regardless.  We all really fucking suck at communicating.

For you Gen Xers out there, like me, do you remember when all we had were landlines?  I would come home from work and toss my keys into the bowl next to the answering machine and would be filled with a pleasant rush if I had a flashing number blinking at me.  Someone had thought of me!

They’d left a message with real words and the only way for me to let them know I got their message was to pick the phone up and call them back and use my own voice.

Chats took effort and focus; I couldn’t do anything else but think about and talk to the person on the other end.  My mother, my friends, the men I’d met.  It was a simpler time despite it requiring more effort on everyone’s parts.

Ben is the last man I’ve “chatted” with and one of the only ones over the last several years.  I’d like to think it sets him apart in some ways.  But I could be wrong; I seem to be wrong regularly.

My Saturday night date was a sweet young man — or so I thought — and it doesn’t help that other men I care about have been infuriatingly silent for far too many days on end, as well.  Nor does it help that today is TN’s birthday and all the memories of him are kicked up.

I’m worn out and down and frustrated and lonely.

I have extinguished the frantic pace with which I was devouring men and all but ground to a halt.  I have been picky, patient, and persistent and yet it has not yielded what I’d hoped: a shield against bullshit.

The truth is, dating sucks no matter how you do it.  Whether you’re a man-eater or  cautiously optimistic and highly selective.  There’s nothing I can do to protect myself: dating is dangerous, period.

My feelings are hurt from Saturday and I’m left scratching my head at how I could have been so wrong about him; I never would have thought he’d do something like that.  And I am bereft — still — at the absence of The Neighbor.  Yes, even now.

The other irons I have in the fire don’t seem to be panning out and so it’s back to the drawing board.  I’ve spent my entire weekend basically on my couch or poolside doing literally nothing of any interest.  I’m not proud of that.  I fear loneliness is slipping between my ribs and weaving its way towards my heart.  I feel frozen in time.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, adrift and aimless.  Sad.

Treating a person with disregard, a person whom you ostensibly want to get close enough to lay with, is an odd cross of messages.  I want to penetrate your body, but I refuse to acknowledge your humanness.  It makes no sense and no wonder we all act like crazy people in this random, ridiculous march to coupling.

Had he only texted, “Hey Hy, got super drunk with friends earlier today. Can’t make it tonight,” I’d have been pissed, but grateful for the note.  As it stands his continuous silence is humiliating and embarrassing.  Not only was my judgement off, but he clearly doesn’t think I’m worth even the littlest amount of effort to be treated with kindness.

TN’s continuous stalking is humiliating in its own strange way: he wants to keep tabs on me, but not in a meaningful way.

I look forward to the end of July.  This has never been my favorite month.  It’s TN’s birthday, the anniversary of my father’s death and my friend Sara’s suicide.  My grandmother’s birthday falls on Sara’s death and I can’t think of her without thinking of the pain my friend felt.  I put my cat down after 15 years of togetherness on the 6th.  The anniversaries are on the 4th, 6th, 8th, and 9th.  It’s a brutal time of year for me.

I always try to be kind to myself at this time; there’s nothing worse than self annihilation when you’re hurting.  Unfortunately, I don’t feel all that successful.  I’ve been glued to the couch and my computer and have been pumping my veins full of wine.

I guess the hurt will pass, as will all the memorable days, and I’ll get back to normal me.  Quiet, lonely, normal me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avoidance.

Hy at night in shadow
Shadows.

At this point in time I fully admit to avoiding some things.

My fitness, for one, not to mention my creativity, my mental health, and my peace of mind.

I feel like I’m floating on a little raft of seaweed just past where the waves swell and form.  I can see the beach with my towel and my things, but my senses are consumed with salt, long, low pulses of waves crashing, and the tickle of the sea.

Peyton flew unaccompanied to San Francisco for a couple of days during my most recent custody period then went straight to my ex’s upon arriving back home.  Today they all leave by car for a family vacation and won’t return until mid July.

My phone remains mostly quiet except for my frantic checking of world news.  The list of heartbreaking things seems never-ending lately; it’s been a particularly brutal late spring for the entire world.

Knowledge is power, but it’s also paralyzing.  I feel overwhelmed as a member of our global society and even in my own little life.  Tributaries of thought and feeling merge into a raging river only to split off a few miles away.  I have a clear idea of what I need to do, but then remain sedentary.  Not taking care of my body is the main signifier.

I stain it with alcohol and lack of movement, my dietary choices aim to hurt, not nourish.

Yet meanwhile in the other parts of my life I am dedicated and driven.

My work continues to bring me significant pride and satisfaction and my Summer of No Men (or really, Summer of Very Few Men) has brought a sense of calm and balance I have never felt before.

I blocked The Neighbor from being able to view my AFF profile and with that single keystroke the weights attached to my ankles which threatened to drown me were gone.

He remains in my complex, but the sight of his car somehow bothers me less.  My empty, boring nights are a result of my choices and I feel empowered even as The Good Wife and a bottle of Casillero del Diablo keep me company.

I chat with Ben on occasion and have a couple of other irons in the fire, but they’re on low heat and I like that just fine.  My standards for a date seem impossibly high after London.  I want someone to look at me and think, “Fucking shit I’m a lucky man!”  Not, “She seems ok for now.”  Effort means everything to me now.

My avoidance of my physical and creative health is the natural reaction to my career and dating health.  I have yet to master all aspects of my life simultaneously and that has been a lifelong pattern.

If I’m working out regularly and my diet is on point, then I am making risky decisions with my heart.  Slacking at work?  Then I’m probably drinking less.  It’s like squeezing a balloon that won’t pop: it just squirts out somewhere else; I can’t hide it.  At least I haven’t had a cigarette since December and that seems unlikely to change any time soon.

The biggest question I’m trying to answer is why do I have this deeply driven need to balance smart, healthy decisions with their opposite?  Why can I not allow myself to revel in all the sun?  Why must I always be cast in shadows?

The immediate answer that comes to mind is I am not comfortable with that level of success and/or happiness and I’ll admit to that; it’s what I am working so hard to change.  I want all the sun.

The second I hit Publish today I will feel better.  It’s a very caring thing, writing, and I have been actively avoiding things I know will make me feel better.  It seems I want shadow in addition to all that sun — perhaps I need it, I can’t tell the difference — but I’m trying to honor the pull nonetheless and not beat myself up about it.

I’m supposed to see Remington tonight, a reschedule from the weekend, but I’ve asked if we can move it to tomorrow.  I’d like to see him in an old friend sort of way, but I’m content if it doesn’t happen.  Not quite ambivalence, more like acceptance.  That’s a sunny thing.

I’ve skipped lots of opportunities to work out this week, though.  Shadowy.

I’ve focused on my work and goals.  Sunny.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine every night.  Shadowy.

I’ve been highly selective about the men I interact with.  Sunny.

I haven’t written all the things I want to say: good v. bad sex, UDP (unsolicited dick pics), the strangely dangerous and beautiful world of IGShadowy.

My hope is that while my little one is away for so long I will get my sea legs and stop floating, overwhelmed by the current and unmotivated to move.  I’d like to honor my quiet mornings and my need to write.  The summer is short, though the heat is long, and I have to get my shit together.

The cicadas are chirping.  It’s time to get started.

Hy in the morning in the sun
Sun.

 

A summer with no men.

Before Peyton started kindergarten my life was set by the sun and moon.  Alarms factored very little into my life.  I led a charmed, though albeit unemployed life for years.

Things changed drastically the spring before school started.  I wasn’t making ends meet and so took a second job that required I arrive by 7:30 am.  It felt like hell on earth.  That fall I quit so I could take my own baby to school and ever since I’ve been a slave to drop-off and pick-up and after-school commitments with our summers chock full of camp commitments starting by 9 am.

This summer we’ve decided to cut way back on all of it.  My ex will take care of his weeks and I’m responsible for mine and since money continues to be tight I can’t afford camps and Pey is dragged to my office on short days and dropped off at my parents’ on long ones.

However: NO ALARMS.

No goddamned alarms kicking me out of slumber.  No groggy morning routines.  No interrupted afternoons.  No stolen pockets of time.  No bedtimes.

And it is fucking glorious.

I'm certain the animals were judging me as I did this.
I’m certain the animals were judging me as I did this.

This is the second week of summer vacation and my first week without my baby.  Each morning I awake gently, early still.  I stretch, I let the dog out, I lay back down, I take pictures of my 40-year-old body and think, Not bad.  I research how to make the perfect French pressed coffee.

And then I sit at my kitchen table with the window open behind me and I write and catch up and read my friends.  My bottom was sticking to my cheap plastic Ikea chair so now I sit on a cheap Ikea lambskin.  It’s like a dream come true.

I’m already trying to figure out how to incorporate this into my life come fall.  I struggled to find time to write during the school year; the only time I had free was in the evenings or an hour or two during the day but I found myself worn out and empty.

Was it Hemingway or London who’d get up at 5 every morning and write for two hours then just chill the rest of the day?  I know that’s when I’m my most creative and relaxed and I feel like a motherfucking winner if I allow myself to write in that space.  And yet, I rarely do.

I get distracted by my phone, IG, sexting (if I’m lucky), crap around the house, whatever.

At the Tate with Ben we wandered into the room with some Picassos and Dalis.  He was impressed — this wasn’t what he was expecting to see that day — then wandered into another room with art by people we didn’t recognize.  “You know what makes this art?” I asked him.  “The fact that these people say it is and work so hard to put it out there.  If they didn’t, it’d just be a hobby.”

I’ll never be a lauded author, but I know this is more than just a hobby.  I’m a writer, a poet, an artist.  This summer I want to reconnect more deeply with what makes me tick, what drives me.  It used to be that I floundered aimlessly.  Lately I still flounder, but I have an idea of where I want to go.

It’s been 3 weeks since London, since I allowed anyone to enter my body.  I’ve shared kisses twice since I’ve returned, but I am in no rush for more.  The thought of anything less than what I experienced with Ben shuts me down.  This summer, I have a feeling, will be one with many early mornings at my kitchen table and quiet nights alone.  I need to catch my breath and embrace the writer in me anyway.  I don’t want this to feel like a hobby.  I want it to feel like motherfucking art.

This could end up becoming the summer of no men.

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s a strange path to learn to trust.

I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment.  I didn’t think I could do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.  His English accent made it seem more official.  “God, so beautiful.  Yes, just like that.”

I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body.  The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.

In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness.  I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.

Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action.  I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.

He asked for me to spread my lips for him.

Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt.  Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source.  There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness.  I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.

It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun.  I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva.  It’s an exhausting endeavor.  But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.

Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone.  It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.

He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.

“Hello, Hy!” he said.

Our smiles were big.

Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him.  I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.

“You are so gorgeous, Hy!  Look at your body!”

I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.

“Bend over for me,” he said.

I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.

“More, bend all the way.  Please,” he urged.

I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment.  I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality.  Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”

Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all.  The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like.  The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.

I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief.  I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me.  I had to trust he was enjoying himself.  I had to trust that he was being honest.

At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted.  Ever.

So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief.  How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.

I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern.  I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away?  I can’t make him not see me.  I have to trust him.

And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.

I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course.  Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval.  I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.

“That was fucking hot, Hy.”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.

“Good.”

“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”

“Me, too.  Do as I say then.”

He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out.  It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me.  But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.

I did.

Then faster.

And I did.

Yes, he liked that very much.

The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster.  I yelled out and began to sob.  I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.

I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries.  I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach.  This time, it was literally him.

I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success.  I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “That was really intense.  I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time.  “Since TN.”

It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben.  His voice, his energy.

“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.

Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally.  It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun.  “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.

“Well, try, please.  For me.”

Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly.  “Oh shit!  It’s in my hair!” he laughed.  “And on my chin!  Oh my god!”  We laughed at how wrong he’d been.

We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up.  I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away.  I felt raw and sad, distantly happy.  I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it?  What if he’d try to sell it?  Or hurt me with it?  But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head.  Ben would never do that.  I trusted him.

I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers.  I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.

 

*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had.  I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways. 

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

::

I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

The morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.