He couldn’t believe he did it.

He’s checked in 4 more times since the first.

Once from a crowded lobby where he’d said it’d only been a quick check-in.  He’d felt a “flutter of excitement”

The second time was for insurance in case he couldn’t check daily like I’d initially asked of him and he instantly hardened as he began to text me the update, he said.

He only got to mentioned staring at my profile in his third note during a very long and very busy day of mine.

And the fourth was from his bustling shared office — his cock had been “pressing [him] to steal away glances” as he could — and it got engorged from our exchange, but he didn’t think he had anywhere private enough to take care of it.

The Neighbor used to ask for things to do, little subby tasks, but he would inevitably fail despite him agreeing to the terms and the tasks beforehand.   That meant I was left with punishing him, which ultimately is what he wanted in the first place I suspect, so I wasn’t dominating anyone: he was topping from the bottom and I was left with the shit end of the stick.

I hated every second of it and couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong; it highlighted my insecurities with him and make me feel inadequate in an area where I’d once felt competent.  It was a colossal mistake to keep trying…

But this man, this boy, he seems so different already.  I hesitate to be hopeful, but I will admit to experiencing a sense of calm, a gentle lick of joy as I see him go to great lengths to meet my expectations.

It is a wondrously quiet thing for me to experience as all the vanilla men in my life either drop off the face of the planet after days of warm exchanges, pander to me until I push them away, or rocket off into the outer limits of some crazed hysteria revolving around unresolved childhood traumas.

This kinky, submissive man is cool as ice and he’s melting in my hand.

    Checking into CS. Today i can’t stop looking at your breasts. My goodness.

    What’s happened?

 Well i’m by myself in my office so i’m playing with myself a little. Someone could come in though so i have to be careful.

    Can you lock the door?

    It’s locked. I share an office w 4 other ppl and we all keep long hours, so hard so get privacy. Some of them are still here just in a meeting right now. I can hear them when they unlock the door so i’m ok with what i’m doing. But i prob can’t take it out right now.
    I’ll run to the restroom. It’s not very private but i can at least take it out and hold it for you if you’d like

    Mm yes

    Ok i’m here. Holding my cock. It feels heavy in my hands :)
    Stroking gently to that photo

    I’m doing mommy things >:)
    While imagining you

    Haha should i stop?

    No, it’s ok.  Was at sports class with all the moms lol Headed home now
    Pretty sure I was the only one there with a good boy stroking himself to me across town

    Do you have an honorific you’d like me to call you?

    Are you hard?

    Yes and stroking

    Yes.  Call me Ma’am and Miss
    I don’t care if they’re capitalized or not.  I imagine you saying it

    yes Ma’am :)

Mm fuck
    Gets me every time!
    And you?  What gets you?  

    Do you prefer one or the other?

    I prefer Ma’am, but also like Miss

 good boy, but i also like to be called slave or pet or slut. Haha i’m def blushing now
    Any of those work?

   I like boy and pet and slut – in that order – and also each deepens the meaning and is dependent on the context
    Boy feels right for now.  Pet later, possibly as things progress and for certain things, and slut for when you really are my little slut

 Ok sounds good! I mean i’m stroking my cock in the public restroom, flushed red, Miss… pretty slutty  
    i mean you can call me anything you like, sweet or degrading, if there’s something you like. i’ll like it more if it’s what you want
    those are just things that have got my blood running in the past

    I want to call you my little pervert right now ;)


    Perfect little slutty pervert playing with himself in a public restroom bc I want him to >:)

    that text is going to make me cum, Ma’am

    Can you hold on another minute?

    yes Ma’am

 Can you cum by the time you count to 50?
    What if I counted down?  Could you cum that way?

    doubtful. i take a long time. i always fail at those countdowns

    It’s ok

    I can try


    I wish i could! I could try if you like, ma’am


    Are you going to count?

    From what number shall I count down?  What do you need, pet?

    Try 50

    Imagine me laying on my bed
    50, 49, 48
    42, 41


Imagining you
    36, 35, 34
    In a stall
    29, 28, 27
    Jeans unbuckled
    24, 23
    People in the halls
    20, 19
    Your hand wrapped tightly
    15, 14, 13
    My breath held
    10, 9, 8
    Your hand moving
    5, 4
    Your cock so hard for me
    Hot and dripping
    Aching to spill for me

    haha too soon


    It was hard to gauge exactly

    Seemed fucking right to me
    I drew out the last 10 ;)

    I can’t believe that worked

    Oh yeah?

    That was so hot

    It was :)

    Haha all those texts are still coming in. My service is slow!

According to my thread, you came the second I counted 1
    So you were reading my mind, apparently

    I got 1. The late ones were all out of order

    How funny
    So you came from even less  from me!

    I can’t believe i did that tho, good thing no one came in

    Good thing indeed
    You were a perfect little slut :-*
    I loved it
    I feel warm all over


Friday, May 12th, is Boobday!


Wonderful, busy week.  I haven’t taken one pic of my tits that I can post here without blowing my anonymity and I don’t really feel like it anyway, so I’ve dug up the very first Boobday post from me instead.  Oh, how far I’ve come lol.

I hope you’ve had a fantastic week!

Love you all.



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:

Sandy is one brave soul.

Tasking for the BoyToy


I love Lauren’s idea here; I do this kind of thing myself.  Click the image to get to her blog.

Cream on black.


Meredith is draped and caressed in all the right ways.

Sometimes, we should remain lost.

Lincoln loved me when I was an innocent 18-year-old girl.

His love burned bright and inexorably for months as I struggled with his attentions.  I couldn’t understand why this handsome 19-year-old boy liked anything about me, but he clung tightly.  His letters came regularly, his beautiful cursive unmistakable.  His words inked so tenderly my young heart often broke as I read for I was confused and uncertain about my own.

He had no car, so I would drive to the shipyard where he’d be waiting for me, the giant Navy ship he called home loomed heavily behind him like a sleeping mountain.  He’d pick me up and squeeze me and I’d sigh not with pleasure, but with impatience.  I wished he didn’t like me so much.

Our little misbegotten love affair ended when my little sister caught him reading a letter I had written, but never sent.  A note which captured a vulnerable moment wherein I contemplated loving him.  His earnest search for me in that letter caused me to evict him from my life instantly and without remorse.  I crushed him irrevocably that day.

Years later I hunted for him online.   Little tidbits of information he’d told became the only leads I had.  He was from Texas somewhere, I had his last name, he’d been in the Navy.  I poured over people-finder and high school class websites, but to no avail.  And then Facebook happened and there he fucking was.

I found him married, with many children through different marriages and configurations and discovered that he had lived 60 miles away from me for 5 years until he’d been restationed to somewhere in the south (via the Army this time).

We quickly caught up, but it came to a screeching halt one day when he announced that his wife was uncomfortable with him talking to me.  My husband understood my excitement and had blessed my discovery that Lincoln wasn’t dead.  Apparently, Lincoln’s wife had very different feelings about me.  And so, amid his many apologies, we said goodbye again in 2008.

In 2016 I became curious about him again and re-found him on Facebook.  I was no longer blocked from his account and messaged him, fingers crossed.  He was instantly receptive this time: he and his wife were separated and he was now 80 miles away, not several states.

We texted and talked on the phone round the lock for days, a virtual love-fest of lost innocence and crossed signals.  Our youthful romance figured prominently for him throughout his life and explained his wife’s misgivings of me.  I apologized for being such a broken girl.  He revealed he had been a virgin, too.  Our words were tender touches, two blind people rediscovering their surroundings with gentle explorations, every sense at attention.

Tearfully one night I revealed my double life.  He said he accepted me no matter what and was proud of me.  I shared the blog and Hy and everything I had ever done.  Still, he accepted me.  We set a date to meet.

He was a card-carrying biker now, literally a member of a national biker club with initiation rights and rivalries; the whole nine yards.  Tattooed all over, short, brown beard with a handlebar mustache, a Harley-Davidson hog his only form of transportation.  He looked formidable in my doorway, leather vest covered in biker paraphernalia, but his big bear hug was just the same.  And my immediate response to pull away was the same, too.

We reacquainted ourselves as adults side by side on my couch for the duration of a single drink.  I called a Lyft and we headed out to my favorite bar.  I didn’t want to just sit and drink at my house, the bedroom around the corner.

We laughed and flirted for hours.  The sun set and tears flowed as we finally said the things we’d always yearned to share.  I felt like a star-crossed lover, pulled away from a sweet tenderness I’d never again know.

Back home on my couch, we kissed.  His plump, soft lips were the same, his sounds, too.  I mounted his lap and he suckled my breasts — a move far past the Second Base of our youth — and I rubbed his crotch.  But I couldn’t go further.

I dragged him to bed, pulled the covers over us, and we fell asleep.

In the morning, I awoke to his big arm flung over my waist, his belly smushed warmly against my back.  I felt trapped.

He murmured and wriggled closer to me and I held still, but wanted to run.  His sweetness felt foreign, wrong.  I didn’t deserve it.  We got up and I made us coffee.  He had to head back to the club for a meeting that afternoon.

I was nervously distant and felt as if I could see the pain on his face, but it’s possible I only suspected to see it.  It was me at 18 all over again.  We hugged and kissed goodbye and the last I saw of him was the menacing skull and cross sewn on the back of his leather vest.

Over the next few days he’d call in the mornings to see how I was and we continued to text.  The intensity of our reunion clung to me like old perfume.  How could I fit him into my life?  I ate men for breakfast and Lincoln was no piece of sausage.  But I wouldn’t have to figure anything out.

One day, the texting didn’t happen.  I checked in and his answer was cursory.  Another day passed.  Again, barely a response.  And then he said we needed to talk.

My stomach dropped.  “Only one other man has ever said that to me,” I told him.  “And then that man left me.”

“Things are complicated,” he said.

A day or two went by without any other word and I guessed that he was reconciling with his ex and we could no longer be friends.  “Am I right??”

“Yes you are. Did some soul-searching. I appreciate your friendship but this is the path I choose.”

I burst into tears and tried in vain to get him to reconcile with her and still be friends with me.  He refused.

“I can’t believe this… I mean, of course you have to do what you need to and I support that, but… fuck.  This hurts.  Not gonna lie.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But I have to make her and my son my priority. Not just over you but the club and everything else.”

“I get that, I just don’t know why you can’t do both: be in my life as a friend and make her a priority but, ok… I guess now it’s my turn to have my heart broken, huh?  I wish you the best, Lincoln, and I’ll always be here for you.  I’ve got to go – need to pull myself together before I head into work.”

And his final words to me:

“Take care.”

He unfriended me on Facebook and has remained silent since, just as he said he would.

I doubled over and sobbed.  Lincoln seemed to be my lifeline to so many things.  The innocent girl I was to the wanton woman I am, the past to the future, from Hy to Me.  And he had chosen something else outright over any of it in even the slightest form.

I cried for a few more minutes, took a deep breath, and brushed myself off.  I had lived most of my adult life without him thus far; there was no reason I couldn’t easily go on without him for the rest.  But now the story is sad for far more reasons than youthful misgivings and childish anger.  Now I’m sad because I know I have truly lost him — forever — and I wish I had never found him again.

Soul searching, indeed.



Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

My wish is his command.

I told him to text every time he checked out my profile on CollarSpace; a first little test of our roles and how well we play them.

    just checked out your profile on CollarSpace

    Did you get aroused?

    and texting you about it made me hard

    So your cock is throbbing for me

    yes it’s pressing so tight against my jeans

    What a good boy you are
    I’m pleasantly surprised by this

i would love to come show you the effect you had
    it would be embarrassing to walk out in public with my jeans bulging out though. i’d have to use a book to cover it

    I would pay good money to see that
    And to touch it
    Feel the fabric warmed by the heat of your skin and flow of your blood

    oh please yes

    So very hot
    As a little reward… I’ll tell you… I’m going to cum to this
    I’m going to read your words and cum

 oh yes please cum!
    my cock is pleading with my jeans for release

    Are you somewhere where you can take it out?


    Then do
    Take it out and stroke it
    I’m about to cum
    And imagining you somewhere stroking to me will make it more than I can stand

    i took it out and it flopped heavy into my hand and i started stroking earnestly

   Mm good boy
   I just came for the first time

    i want to help with the second so badly. i’m aching for your summons

    My summons?

    if you asked me to come i would come. i’m swept up in the thought of it

    Yes, and be loud as you dare
    Mm imagining you cumming right now has me so aroused
    Think of your face buried in me, barely able to breathe

    just came so hard

    Me too

    haha again?

    That very moment your text came through I’d finished


    Vibrators are beautiful inventions


    As are words ;)

    yes, that was fun

    Mm indeed
    You like that little reward?  Lol

 haha. yes, very much
    thank you :)

    You’re welcome

I’m hiding.

I’m hiding from myself and what I know I need to do.

I need to drink less, stop all the horrible men, focus on my body, my baby, my work.  More.  Not as something to do, but as something to be.

I cried today on my new blue couch as the man with the same name as The Neighbor, the non-drinker who took me to breakfast many weeks ago, told me he missed me.

I had just told him I wasn’t up to seeing him tonight.

I can’t.

I don’t have it in me to poke beyond the failed morning we shared after a night spent playing pool and me drinking more than I needed to prove I wasn’t self-conscious that he wasn’t at all.  I don’t have it in me to give of myself, to his sweet attempts to connect and build a real friendship with me.  I feel my insides churl at the thought of anyone reaching me.  Least of all him and his soft, apologetic way.

The other day I let slip my iron grip and browsed the library of photos of my beautiful ex, the one who left me, The Neighbor.  I fell headlong into pictures of our long, three-year liaison, our passionate affair.  His giant, beautiful cock jut out from his thick, pale thighs in photo after photo and I sat still with tears in my eyes longing for what I felt with him.

This afternoon after I came twice to a submissive’s texts of obedience I was triggered to look for my old submissive’s gift: a video he once sent while I was in California.   A video of him cumming to me, calling out my name as his hand, a Caucasian blur on his giant erection, created an arc to and from the black lace panties he’d somehow procured while I was away.  “Fuck me, Hy.  Fuck me,” he panted “I’m gonna cum, Hy,” and then his body jerked and cum spurted onto his taught, furry belly as he moaned my name one last time.

But I couldn’t find it so finely buried deep in the tombs of my email.  It appears to be as gone as he is.

I feel as though I am festering, deliberately mistreating myself with booze, men, and inactivity.  Instead of moving or creating I sit, nearly comatose, binge watching this show or that.  Sex and the City, Golden Girls, Masters of Sex.  Each a parable, a lesson in human sexuality and society in its own right.  Be daring, be open, be free, be happy.

But I am none of those things anymore.

I am scared and alone and above all else lonely.  I am trapped between worlds and between decisions and I don’t know which way is the right way.  I am in some sort of stasis, my heart trapped in this place of low and sustained pain as if a pen were driven into it; not so far as to be fatal, but far enough to make every movement painful.  I don’t even fantasize about life without the pain.  That almost doesn’t seem possible.

But this – this feels like the moment before I choose to do something.  This paralysis surely predates movement and traction.  My psyche is merely gearing up for the heavy work, right??  For making the choices I know I need to make.  The tough, “This is the right thing to do,” shit.

Because if the thought of a kind man coming over because he cares about me and wants to get closer reduces me to tears then I do have work to do.  And lots of it.

Don’t look at me.


Sinful Sunday

Friday, May 5th, is Boobday!


I’ve been a zombie this week.  It started out with one of the worst dates of my life, possibly one of the worst I’ve ever heard of that didn’t end in a police report (honestly).  It’s left me shaken all over again after just barely having regained my composure after the abandonment of that kid.  Let’s just say that the Trump divide is great.  About equally as great as some men’s lunacy and brokenness.

The middle of the week I was completely limp with exhaustion from work and the end rounded out with a very bitter fight with my exhusband over his poor parenting choices and our flailing, hurting child.

I cancelled two dates and have nothing set up for the weekend and plan on laying very, very low until Monday when I get my poor, sweet Pey back.  I wonder where my fucks for anything else have gone.  It’s nice.

I almost didn’t want to do Boobday today and I marvel at the discipline of other bloggers… but this is just the same shit from me.  You all know I’ve been limping along for at least a year now.  But I’m here and the love is still here, too.

Enjoy, friends.  Love you.  And happy Cinco de Mayo!!




My tits:

I woke up and snapped today.

NOT my tits:

Lovely Kate, all warm and fuzzy.

Trying my best to own all those curves and folds.


Sandy blowing it out of the water. Or the kitchen…

Someone asked me recently why if I live alone I’m not naked all the time. Duh, I usually am.


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!


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!



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!


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,



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.


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