Bonheur de Vivre.

Two weeks ago a man wrapped his strong, loving arms around me and tears slipped down my cheeks as my face pressed against his shoulder and he pressed his lips to my temples.  I felt his breathing as his belly pressed against my own then fell away.  We stood locked like this for many minutes outside the college bar, swaying, murmuring to one another, me crying.  Bar patrons had to walk around us.

I met Tony when we were 21.  He was fresh out of the army and I was in my senior year of college.  He and another army buddy replaced me when I moved out of my friend’s apartment which I’d subletted for the summer.  Tony was tallish, fair-haired, and bespeckled.  His mouth pulled up in one corner and he was painfully shy despite his dashing good looks.

He cussed like me, was shy like me, and laughed like me.  I was instantly drawn to him and him to me.

We drank beers on their dirty couches on his porch overlooking the city scape for years.  Played games, wrestled, did cocaine like it was 1978, but we never got into a relationship.  The closest we ever came were the two fateful occasions over the next handful of years which found us drunkenly getting his big penis into my writhing, willing body.

But we didn’t handle it well.

The first time he seemed to really lean in my direction and I bolted, but because we were so youthfully bonded, like childhood friends, we were able to right ourselves and party on.

The second time it happened the night before my boyfriend did a 1, 2 punch to my chest and shoulder.  When I got the boyfriend to finally leave the next day, terrified for my safety, I called Tony to come stay with me, but it was his turn to bolt.   He never called me back and two months later he knocked up some chick in his hometown 2 hours away and he disappeared for 11 years.  Until Facebook in 2009.

That night with him and his old army buddy was a turning point in my life.  I had been sexually and emotionally starved for 6 years by then and when he saw me and said, “Daaamn, Hy!!  Look at your curves!!” I was shocked.  I might have looked over my shoulder.  Never shy with words he lavished me with compliments.  His hair might have disappeared, but it was still my Tony, crooked smile and all.

The three of us drank all night until the friend left just before dawn.  Tony and I looked at one another and we were transported to the filthy couch on his porch once more; we were all over each other.

Hands, mouths, kissing and smacking, clothes flung and ripped off.

We didn’t fuck, but when I awoke in my marital bed with a man who wasn’t my husband I moaned and tearfully I sent him away.

When my husband came home from his business trip I described to him how miserable I was and how we needed to change something, anything, so that I didn’t feel so alone and neglected.  I suggested he sleep with other women while traveling so as to gain confidence and perhaps a swagger that might trickle down to me.  He agreed and then upon further reflection offered me the same not knowing of my tryst.

Over the next year Tony and I got together 4 or so times.  Each time a gorgeous show of pent-up sexual frustrations for the both of us.  He was an overworked single father and I a neglected housewife.  It ended when I realized I wanted and needed even more than what Tony could ever give me.  We were only ever any good on that porch anyway.

That unrequited love relationship so early into being a woman epitomized me as a romantic being.  Where I am capable and experienced sexually, I am terrified and incapable romantically.  When Tony wanted me I couldn’t handle the attention and when he didn’t want me I was ravenous.  Even eleven years later as I sensed him coming closer to me I backed away to focus on my own life rather than an “us.”

And then there was that Tuesday two weeks ago.  “Hey Hy.  You busy tonight??” his text read.

We agreed to each drive 45 mins to a half way point from his business conference, a little college town known for its partying students and cold, lazy river.  It was 10 pm before I got there and Tony had been caught in traffic.

I fought tears as he walked up to me, arms spread.  I’ve had this reaction to him ever since we unofficially ended our affair 8 years ago.  He’d pass through town with his daughter and we would hug and I would cry or I’d stop at his on the way to see friends and the waterworks would happen in his kitchen instead.  I can’t seem to control myself.

He knows me.  He loves me.

We exchanged hugs and pleasantries and then he said, “So, I’m going to have a baby boy in 3 weeks!”  I thought he was joking, but no, poor Tony had done it again, only this time at least she was a grown up woman with 3 other healthy, stable children and a nice career.  “Yep!  I sure know how to make life harder!” he laughed.

But he loves this new woman and they go to church together and he’s determined to make this a better decision, a better family than ever before.  He showed me picture after picture of them together until I saw a flash of flesh.

I made him go back.  It was his pretty dick.  So I sent some pics as I had done for years before this other person ever entered our universe and we sat in our comfortable place of closeness no one else could possibly understand.

“She doesn’t know about you, Hy,” he confessed.  “I don’t know how to explain you.”  I hugged him and told him it was ok and we rattled on about something else and time stood still.  We laughed and talked and fought (we always fight) and then the bar shut down at midnight and we found ourselves not wanting to let go.

And so we didn’t right outside the door.

We stood and swayed and I smelled his sweet scent and breathed him in and my heart broke with loneliness.

“I don’t want to go yet,” he announced gently.  “Lets go take a walk.”

We walked, nearly hand in hand, around the town square where drunk and rowdy college students spilled out of the various bars ringed around what I can only assume was City Hall.  We laughed at how that was us 20 years ago and we recapped our sad and stupid story.

If only he had answered the phone, or called me back, our lives might be completely different.

“I was having feelings for you,” he admitted and not for the first time.

“I know, Tone Bone.  I know.”  He took my hand as we crossed the street and I even let him hold it for many strides until I broke free and took his arm instead.

We found a bench near a bar and sat with our legs pressed against each other from knee to hip and I curled into his nook as we blatantly watched the beautiful, young people stumble and bumble past.  We rated butts and boobs and watched while one plaid-clad young man took a piss behind the car parked directly in front of us.

And then it was close to 1 am and we both had to go.  I held back the torrent of tears I felt pressing against my eyes only long enough to hug him fiercely and give him a kiss on the cheek.  I drove away with much less constraint and sobbed for miles as I followed the streaky red tail lights ahead of me all the way home to my empty house and home and the new art on my bedroom wall.

-1905 Henri Matisse

 

 

Friday, April 28th, is Boobday!

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Fell asleep in Peyton’s bed tonight after a long day of life.  I remember reading Little House on the Prairie and being in awe of Ma and Pa’s daily efforts to exist.  God only knows how they did all that.  No wonder everyone died at 60 back then.

This week has been fruitful, yet quiet.  Peyton and I are closer than ever and my interest in men continues to hover at a level best described as “barely there.”

I’m having to scrape the barrel for tit pics because I’m hardly taking any anymore.  I really just. don’t. care.  Sigh.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend!  And thank you to everyone who participates here!

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

NOT my tits:

I love it when the ladies who submit here accidentally have similar themes.

Here Ms. Over 50 gives us a lovely peep-eye biew of her beautiful breasts.

Once again Ms Over 50 only shows one.

::

Sandy gets a little stingy with us.

Just one

::

 

 


I have too many secrets.

As I walked back to my car among others leaving the throbbing venue I felt full, content, invigorated. And also sad.

Tears filled my eyes and my face cracked into a broken grimace in the shadows. I felt invisible.

I imagined all the conversations being had, the thoughts being mulled. Tears spilled down my cheek in one puny trickle as I made my way beneath the street lights, the happy voices behind me receded.

I wish I could do that.

I wish I could get up on stage and share my art.  I can’t play an instrument or sing, but I could share my writing, my life, my experiences and be the artist that I am for all to behold.

But I can’t.

Instead I am a secret, a closely guarded identity that only a handful know. It hurts that I can’t be all of me.

Recently I was at a professional event and we discussed our lives in relation to work in general. It’s tricky business, we all agreed. I have to cross an ocean to show my face and be myself. It’ll never happen here.

And I am crushed.

I am crushed that I have constructed a life which will never be able to reach its full potential as either Hy or me because the other holds us back.

The real life me has a professional standard to uphold and honor but Hy could endanger that. And Hy needs to share and expose herself and her art but the other me won’t let her.

I am stuck in the worst kind of purgatory of self and I don’t know what to do about it.

I have such a story to share.

Both parts of my life are dynamic sides to the same coin, each demanding special attention.

A man I met several weeks ago on Snapchat wooed me with his charm and broken heart and convinced me he was safe — he nearly had me in Vegas this very evening if it weren’t for my current and overwhelming need for distance from all men.

I told him what it is I really am and he instantly got it. “If you are found out as Hy, you won’t just face embarrassment or judgment, but you could lose your livelihood. You’d lose everything, wouldn’t you??”

Yes. Yes I would.

But it hurts keeping these two sides separate. It hurts never getting to be all of me in any part of my life. Always hiding and manipulating stories.

After the show where I laughed and cheered with deep belly-shaking howls I didn’t want to be alone. I needed to be around people and so I sat myself at a marble-top bar. Alone, but not alone.

I thought of the man who smelled like musky grass. His cologne was all natural and called something like Herbal Vibes.

“Hyacinth,” I heard a deep voice say behind me at intermission. “I thought that was you!” I didn’t know if he meant he’d thought that just then or if he’d spotted me in the crowd earlier in the night.

We hugged hello and I felt grateful I instantly remembered his name. He said he was there with Haley.

“Let me go get her!” He said with a broad smile. I wasn’t sure why he had to. She was the girl he’d fallen in love with 3 months before we met a year and a half ago and whom was his “primary” then. I’d told him I could be second to none and that had been it for us.

Haley came down, beaming. She had beautiful, glowing skin and the Millennial head-shave women of that age love to don. We shook hands warmly and then the three of us stood awkwardly.

They said they never missed this show. I wanted to tell them my life is a show.

They’re engaged now.

Good for them.

I told them I’m still allergic to relationships, and almost as if on cue she said, “It’ll happen when the time is right!” I didn’t think I’d sounded sad about my allergy.

I’m glad they’re so happy, but I couldn’t share in their joy. Seeing them get to be themselves in public together reminded me how much I don’t get the same freedom and privilege.

My friends, my family; other than the danger of strangers frivolously trying to ruin my life, do I really have anything to fear telling those who like and respect me??

Could people other than strangers know about Hy and be proud of me? Would they be supportive?

The answer is most likely yes — that couple for example — Herbal Vibes and Haley — but what if they told a friend who told a friend? That person wouldn’t give two shits about hurting me and then the dominoes would fall.

Later that night at the bar with the marble I drank overpriced Chardonnay and my vulva fell asleep on the wooden stool as I drafted this post, but at least I wasn’t alone and at least I was doing my art.

Right then. And in public. Even though no one knew.  Like always.

Friday, April 21st, is Boobday!

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Morning guys!

As you can see I was compelled to publish something else last night besides Boobday.  I’d been thinking about it for a while and it needed attention.  I feel moderately better at least.

Lots of gorgeousness this week, so be sure to spread the love and the word.  This wouldn’t happen without all your support, after all.

Thank you to the women who contribute and participate each week.  I’m not the best blogger out there as far as tweeting links and commenting, but know I love each and every one of you and think you’re all brilliant.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to reach the enviable blogger levels of Molly and Rebel and Kayla, but for now you’ll just have to put up with me the way I am.

Love you all as always,

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

Quite the view, right?? lol

NOT my tits:

Mz. Hyde dazzles high above NOLA.

Boobday, New Orleans style.

::

Lauren luxuriously lays leaving lust-worthly lines.

Lounging topless in jeans.

::

I love how the placement of Kate’s fingers create a pattern with her nipple.

Freshly painted nails.

::

I can feel Kim’s love.

Tits n Jeans😆

::

This is Nadezhda’s first submission and it’s utterly divine. I love the clean lines and the dark shadows.

I’m 40 and choose this pic, because my boobs and I, we enjoyed last week the spring, a lot of fresh air and sun. But now, the winter is back and we sadly have to stay inside.

::

Sandy serves it up sassy.

The boy toy asked, and I delivered.

::


I remember a time.

I remember a time when you reached for my hand.  Your warm skin on mine startled me.  I pulled away.

We continued to walk towards the theater and I awkwardly explained my reaction.  That we were just to be friends; no hand holding is allowed in a friends with benefits situation.  You seemed to shrug and keep walking.

In the darkened theater our hands molded to each other’s thighs and dipped below belts and skirts.  That was ok.

But don’t hold my hand.

Friday, April 14th, is Boobday!

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It’s been an incredible week of work and family and I am beyond exhausted.  I’m also pretty content with my busyness.

Interesting development on the dating front: a man on Seeking Arrangement recognized me from my byline as someone he’d talked to on AFF and — plot twist — he’s a well-hung, cool, good looking guy that I had bookmarked on AFF for when I’d be ready to date again.  Nothing much to report other than we’ve connected finally and are just barely texting.  We’ll see what happens.

I love you guys.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

I’ve got the sun on my back.

NOT my tits:

Ms. Over 50 slam dunking the fuck out this.

Captured this on a warm evening out on our balcony.

::

Another stunning image from Sandy. Don’t ask me why, but I love how her knees are pressed together.

Taking a break before putting on my red polka dot dress and fancy tea hat headed for a FetLife tea party.

::

Sweet Kim grips it for us all.

A tight grip 😆

::

So much to love in this image of SMN. The wavy hair, the tits spilling out of her top, the cherry. Superb job!
Hoping the Easter Bunny brings you a nice solid milk chocolate rabbit. Not that shity cheap stuff that’s fake chocolate, but a Lindt bunny. Beautifully wrapped in its gold foil begging to be peeled off with care and then devoured in one setting. Ok, maybe two. Finger licking afterwards is totally acceptable.

::

Kate looks stunning in her lacy negligee.

A new item of lingerie I bought recently. :)


He haunts me.

It’s been roughly 2 years and 2 months since The Neighbor came over to stay the night and instead told me he wanted a break and ended our 3 year long roller-coaster relationship.

Two years and 2 months of driving past his building and seeing his car every. single. fucking. day.

Two years and 2 months of walking to the office or the pool or the gym and, knowing I could run into him, walked that stiff, cameras-are-on-me walk.

Two years and 2 months of never letting my guard down when I go out, of scanning every room quickly to assess his presence.

Two years and 2 months of keeping my head down while I grocery shop because it’s better to be truly ignorant than it is to feign it.

Two years and two months of him visiting my AFF profile and leaving a digital trail.

It’s also been two years and two months since I’ve had the kind of sex that made my body vibrate and weep with abandon.

Two years and two months since I laid my hands on a rock-hard, big, beautiful, long and achingly curved cocked.

Two years and two months since I thought anyone loved me.

Two years and two months is a long time.

The pain has faded, as it is supposed to do, but it’s like stale, lingering perfume.  No matter how much I’ve scrubbed it remains.

I’ve allowed myself to mourn, pushed myself forward, carefully kept an eye on what I need.  I go to therapy every week and write more words about heartbreak than I care to own.  And still, he lingers.

He lingers because I am not truly free.  His specter haunts me via his proximity, his fancy black car, even his downtown office.  And most of all, he haunts me because I feel violated.

I feel violated that he visits my profile and knowingly leaves the proof of his presence.

He could switch to invisible browsing at the very least (it’s how I operate the site) or he could just choose to leave me the fuck alone all together.

I blocked him for several weeks to give myself a respite from his stalking, to not see him in my visitor’s list, and it felt good, like taking my vitamins — this was good for me, after all.  And then I felt like I didn’t need it anymore, like, surely by now I’d be out of his regular AFF routine or maybe he’d have just realized how inappropriate it was and stopped altogether.  So I unblocked him.

But I was wrong.

Within 36 hours he visited.

And I was crushed.

I wanted it to be over, to not have to be the one to impose a protective shield.  I want him to leave me alone because he wants to leave me alone.  Not because I’ve blocked him.

It’s the difference between getting a restraining order and knowing there’s an outside force imposing reasonable thought to someone and your stalker moving on on his own.  One feels less safe than the other, I assure you.

The fact that he indulges in his curiosity — or whatever the fuck it is — makes my skin crawl and traps me in this static, hovering place.  I feel smothered, vulnerable, sad, confused, angry, violated.

Isn’t it enough that despite making 6 figures annually and having all the financial freedom in the world he chooses to remain at the gates of my life?  That he hasn’t fucking moved away?  I just signed my 3rd lease.  Surely his next will be the one he chooses to not renew, right?  Does he also have to infringe on my online world, too??

He could even be reading this blog and I wouldn’t know since I never tracked his IP address when I had the chance.  He could be one of the 20 or so local readers last week for all I know.  I hope he does read it.  At least here I feel in control.

I don’t know how to exorcise myself of him and I feel cloaked in his dysfunctional fog on two fronts: my life in general and my love life.

Will he be at this restaurant with a date?  My new gym?  Will I ever get to have the kind of sex we shared again?  Will I always know what I’m missing?

It doesn’t matter that I have told myself exactly what I’d say or do if I ever ran into him, I still have to think about it in the first place.  It’s a part of me I constantly don’t have; it’s always running to protect myself.

He is everywhere and I hate it.  And I hate that I hate it.

All in pieces.

 

Friday, April 7th, is Boobday!

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It’s a quickie today.

I have another non-date with the man from the diner Friday morning tonight.  He is the dark horse in this at the moment.  I worked late last night and never bothered to call Trey, the guy from the gym, despite having plans with him.  He didn’t call me either.  Instead I slept.

Sometimes nothing is better than something.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

Peek-a-boo.

 

NOT my tits:

I always love the real-life type pics. I feel like such a voyeur. Thank you, Sandy, for letting us in!

 

 

 


A lot has happened: Bullshit no longer accepted here

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks, this desire to sit down and write.  Like hunger, the posts still form in my mind, but my body remains far from this place of catharsis and raw sharing, this rich meal of creativity.  The reason why finally occurred to me the other day: I’ve been processing.

The other morning after dropping Peyton off at school, dressed in leggings and a hoodie and sporting two long braids and virtually no makeup, I met a man for a non-date at a nearby greasy spoon.

We met on AFF and though our politics, desires, and physical characteristics match up there was one glaringly obvious mismatch: after a 20-year marriage he is looking to play the field and I am not.

We confirmed the bad timing in an email or two, but he seemed to like me enough to ask me out for coffee anyway.  I agreed because the idea of meeting someone new without the threat of decisions about sex or having to figure out anything beyond enjoying his company seemed like a welcome breath of fresh air.

We chatted over an omelette, brisket hash and black coffee until he had to leave to catch a plane; two straight hours of life stories flew by like 5 minutes with an old friend.  It was the first time I’d been able to be unapologetically open with anyone new.  Nothing was at stake.  I didn’t regret one word, one move, because I wasn’t playing a game.  I wasn’t trying to win him over.

I spoke openly and brazenly, held nothing back as I might with any friend.  It was listening to myself sum up the last 2+ years of my life that I it all came into clear view like Neo finally seeing the Matrix for the first time.

The first year after The Neighbor left me and we attempted friendship felt like I had a bag on my head in a hallway filled with razor blades.  I was blind and in unbelievable pain.  I wanted only to be filled up with cock and my mind blown, but the closest I ever came was with two men — each of whom were just flashes in the pan.  Little did I know what a boon that year would actually be.

I ended the friendship the end of the first year and started year #2 completely TN-free and although it was definitely the best thing I could have done for myself, the rest of the second year could be defined as pure shit from every angle.  My finances were in the toilet along with my emotional and physical health, dicks lasted all of 2-3 minutes as did my interest in them.  My approach to life was simply to survive, not conquer.  It was a shit show with only one little bright spot.

So here I am in the third year, the year I have reclaimed as my own.  I announced to myself and the world in January that I was switching gears, that I was ready to let someone in.  I changed my dating profiles and started to screen for similar relationship goals.  It hasn’t gone well.

I knew it’d take work and time, but I will bashfully admit that for some unknown reason I believed in my heart of hearts that I was the only obstacle to finding love and that once I removed it I would drown in all the feels from all the men.  Go ahead.  Laugh.  I sure as fuck am.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of obstacles out there to finding a good mate.

For one, being vulnerable is tough.  I find myself trying to find that fine line of self disclosure and TMI.  When they ask me about my last relationship what the ever-loving fuck do I tell them??  Do I mention how I was *this close* to dumping him, but then he followed me to my current apartment complex and he still lives there?  Do I mention all the deceit and denial and distance?  That he continues to stalk my nudie profile?  Or do I just say, “It’s been a little over 2 years,” and leave the impression that I’m not still really fucking fucked up about it?  The difficult part of it is that I need someone to be gentle with me because I’m still so very. fucked. up. about it.

Two, turns out I can fuck a Trump supporter, but I can’t date him, and there appear to be a bunch of them in my age bracket.  It’s not because I’m a sore loser.  It’s because I vehemently disagree with his policies, his choices for heads of state and agencies, and on a purely party-line argument, I want the choice to do with my body what I will.  I don’t think these anti-abortion men realize that if I’m forced to have their baby, they’re forced to fork over a shit ton of money for it, as well.  I also don’t know how I’d introduce a Trump voter to my extremely liberal family.  My sister would vomit on her shoes as she clutched her brown babies and black husband closer.

And three, men are just simply shits.  Like Rex who strung me along with days worth of texting and phone calls and long conversations about what it was I was looking for during our 4 dates only to eventually ghost on me like a 23 year old; or Mr. Panties who when I said I didn’t want to have sex that night saw it as a challenge and was relentless until I caved, bragged about his 9″ dick (it wasn’t), and who, while I was dressing by the light of my phone the next morning, had a pair of women’s underwear inside workout pants on the floor by the bed and didn’t know to whom they belonged; or Devon, he who didn’t ask me any questions, who fucked me for our second go-around on our second date in the dark pre-dawn, but the morning before our third date texted to say he “Just wasn’t feeling it,”; or Trey, the big, muscled gym trainer who tried his best to get me to call him “my king,” as he pressed me against the wall of his Amerisuites room roughly 3 hours after we met; or Joe, the single father who worked weeks at a time on oil-rigs in a nearby state who came after 10 minutes (with an 8 minute blowjob) and never got hard again and so we just left it there forever; or the 21-yo (who’s now 23) who was supposed to just be fun, but after fucking for 20 minutes his mom called and ripped him a new one for forgetting to pick up his little brother.  He left to get him and was supposed to come back, but his worry his mother wouldn’t pay for his Spring Break if he left the house again overrode any desire to spend the rest of the night with me; or lastly, Logan, the sweet 28-year-old who I brought home after our first date and let him stick his giant dick in my ass, but who after he fucked me on our second date went to his car to grab his phone at 2 am and just never. came. back.

This isn’t an invitation to pick apart my choices or try to figure out why these men have done what they did.  Some of those men were supposed to be strictly for fun and others I was legitimately gathering data to see if he was a possible mate.  I have found that my needs for cock do not diminish just because I’m attempting to feed my heart  — it’s confusing — but what happened with Logan, being treated like so much trash after many hours of talking and building what I thought was a little friendship only to be literally cast aside…

My cage is rattled.

I have had some pretty horrible things happen to me at the hands of men over the years ranging from benign neglect to all out sexual assault.  I’ve been lied to, cajoled, begged, ignored, and relentlessly pursued, and all of it felt par for the course to one degree or another — even the assaults — but to be left by a lover whom moments before had been buried inside of me as if I were an empty plate he had no more need for… that fucking hurt.  That got to me.

It was the final experience of the past 2 years and 3 months that finally drove it all home: I am worth so much more.

I am worth the effort of someone to get to know, to take time away from other things to spend on me.  My pussy is worth as much, as well.  It isn’t up for grabs anymore just because it’s weeping with need.  Together, my fucking pussy and I, we are an incredibly valuable being deserving of far more currency than I’ve been charging.

I don’t want to fuck anyone just because I can or just because I need to feel something between my legs.  I don’t want to fuck a cluster of cells.  I want to fuck a man, a person, someone who is real to me.  Someone whose heart I can feel beat beneath my ear and whose cock pulses in time because we’ve decided to share it together.  Because he’s earned it.

This shift in me saved my pussy and me from fucking a Trump supporter the other weekend.  BJ was a dashing, funny, charismatic man whom I met on Coffee Meets Bagel.  We’d met for drinks on Friday and it had been a B+ date (he lost credit for talking about his crushingly beautiful ex-girlfriend and not walking me to my car).  The next day while wine tasting with friends, he became effusively day-drunk and wanted to see me again.  Immediately.

After royally pissing off my girlfriend by naively telling him where we were because he was on the other side of town he and his friend joined us.  It didn’t turn out badly.  He was affable and fun and I invited up to my apartment after drinks.  I also told him I wasn’t interested in sex.

We made out like lustful teenagers, but he respected my wishes and we slept curled up together fully clothed.  He in his t-shirt and shorts and I in my pajamas.  The next morning we cuddled and laughed in the soft morning light and I coquettishly rubbed on his bulge and imagined what it’d feel like to be inside of me.  But our hands remained atop all fabric.  By 1 pm, after more napping and canoodling we agreed it was time for me to take him home.  It was right about then I discovered he voted for Trump.

I groaned and felt a visceral clench around my gut.  “Does this mean I have to walk home?” he joked.  Apparently he had decided to ignore my “I’m allergic to Trump voters” line in my profile.  He said he didn’t know why.

I searched my soul for days after and came to the conclusion that he and I could never be more than friends.  Much like having a hard-line religious difference, I have realized my political beliefs in this election climate are as close to a faith as I have ever had and he and I appear to believe in very different things.  And it was with this realization that I felt the full benefit of waiting to know someone before I let them put their blood-stuffed body part into me: I got to walk away from the night unscathed and with all my emotional money; I had spent nothing on being with him.

There are still two sides of me — the professional, mommy, daughter, sister me and the dissolute, sexed-up, hungry, wild me — but each of them are a little bit wiser now.  The public-facing and the private Me’s have finally realized that all men will have to do some work to get either of them and that bullshit is no longer accepted at this establishment as a means of payment.

 

Friday, March 31st, is Boobday!

hy_tits_banner

I remember the last time I didn’t want to write.

It was between blogs – my old old one and this one.  I shuttered it because I felt stifled and like it didn’t fit me anymore, but the urge to write didn’t disappear.  I don’t feel that differently about this space now, but the difference is I’m not going to jump the gun and quit because I know I’ll be back… I’m just wondering when.

Love you all.

Always.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

Glad to know I can still take a decent pic.

NOT my tits:

Miss Over 50 shows us all how it is.
Ms over 50 relaxing after work.


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