I don’t know what to do next.

I began writing because I had to.  Words crawled against the underside of my skin like so many marching ants, less like blood flowing and more like an itch that had to be scratched.  And so I did.

I began an anonymous sex blog on Blogger and wrote about the intersection of motherhood and being single, but I quickly realized I didn’t want to talk about my child in that iniquitous arena.  I morphed it into what I really wanted to talk about — my sex life — and wrote with an openness as wide as my legs.  Too wide, as it turned out, because I naively shared the URL with lovers and friends and soon felt the pinch of the gag in my mouth.  Semi-anonymous is not fun, y’all.

I decided to shut it down and regroup, but not before I somehow I caught Rori’s eye way back in 2011.  And thus began my journey to not only continue to write but to improve upon it.  I wanted to create content that was beautiful, yet compelling, thought-provoking yet welcoming and above all else entertaining and A Dissolute Life Means… was born.

Earning the top spot on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2015 list is what one might consider the pinnacle of my blogging “career.”  It’s what I ached to reach and worked so hard to achieve.  Its subjectivity humbles me, but the position also creates a welcome pressure to prove to everyone that I indeed earned that top slot.  I don’t want anyone to wonder, “Why the fuck did Hy get #1?”  At the very worst, I’d at least want someone to think that I’d worked hard to get there and at the best think it was well-deserved.

But with attaining a goal comes a strange dark side of achievement, the side of the mountain I couldn’t see as I was climbing the other: Now what??

Looking at the seven past #1s I find a variety of things ranging from a continued vibrant internet and writing presence to none at all.  One #1 disappeared shortly after her nomination under a dark cloud of allegations of illegal activity and another #1, Pandora, seems to have disappeared for nearly two years.  The other five #1s (Sinclair Sexsmith, Dangerous Lilly, Guy New York, Molly Moore, and Girl on the Net have all done exactly what I hope to do: grow.

They grew as writers, artists, and activists; they kept going, wrote books, gave talks, plugged in to the community of which they’re such a big part.  Some have even taken over Eroticon such is their dedication to all of us.

There’s a silence here in my life right now; I’m catching my breath.  Maybe I haven’t actually summitted anything.  Maybe I’m only half way there. 

This year has been a strange mix of unbelievable highs (Eroticon and London) and radical lows (health, finances, shitty anniversaries, continued heartbreak) and I have been bereft of my normally easily tappable imagination.  It’s not that writing feels like a chore, it’s just that I can’t seem to carve out the sacred space to allow it to happen.

And I have no shortage of stories to tell: Charlie the “Italian” waiter in Bristol, Poppy, Peter, George with the man bun, the many sub males with whom I am exploring my dominant side.  The men flow like the wine in my life – fast and continuous – but my creative juices not so much.

When I think about where else I want to go here a few things leap out at me: I want to convert this blog into a book, I want travel to London to attend and/or present at Eroticon 2017, 2018 and beyond if at all humanly possible, I want to keep advocating for body positivity and feminist sexual freedom.  And most of all, I want to keep writing.

I want to fill the world with my silly words that connect me to all of you.  I want to make art with these little black squiggly things pretty much for-fucking-ever since I can’t fathom my life without them – that’d be like eating food that tasted like nothing but chalk — but there’s a vacuum that my small success has created and I feel adrift.

I need to look more closely at my surroundings; there’s so much more beauty left to ascend and consume.

In lieu of a creative emotional space I have fallen still on my mountainside.  My exhausting summer of mind, body, and spirit must come to an end; fall, my most favorite, is oh so close.   Things will change because they must, but they’re going to change in the direction of my choosing.  I will regroup and refocus, double-down on my efforts because I’m not done.  Not even close.

I now know what is next for me: More — more art, more community, more Hy — and I will look at my achievements as flags staked along the way, not as stopping points, because I have higher to climb.  Hopefully, a lot higher.

 

Friday, August 5th, is Boobday!

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Thank god it’s August already!!  And as I write this, August 4th, it’s exactly 7 months before Eroticon 2017 in London!

So, please, if you have a minute, click here and contribute to my travel fund.  I need all the help I can get!

Or, click here, and buy tickets of your own to attend and learn amazing shit and grow as a writer and I’ll give you a hug in person!

(Or click on the appropriate lips in the sidebar if you’re on a computer, or at the bottom if you’re on your cell.)

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There’s been a lot of talk in the media lately about body shaming — too skinny, too fat, too something — and it’s reminded me of why I host this little meme each week: to prove that confidence is a choice and a skill, not something bestowed upon anyone.

I choose to be confident and have practiced it for many years.  Sharing my body on my terms exemplifies this, it contradicts the idea that anyone else but me has a say in how I feel about this body of mine.  I’m the only one in it — well, you know what I mean.

Today’s pic of me is one of my all time favorites.  Why? you might ask?  Because of how my breasts look loppy, full and juggly.  I know those aren’t really words, but just look at the picture and tell me you don’t think they’re the perfect words for them.

There was a time in my life when I would have been horrified to share this image, but today I am proud and I hope other women see it and the beauty in their own loppy, full and juggly breasts.

Or their toony, scanty breasts.

Or their sloopy, lushy breasts.

You get my drift…

We are more than the sum of our parts, but we should also celebrate those parts for being a part of us.

Happy fucking August, y’all!!

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

My tits:

Hy lopsided

I posted this a couple of weeks ago, but completely failed to do it justice in my comments.

NOT my tits:

Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.

Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.

ops, forgot my shirt….. 😉

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I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.

I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.

Napping in my car during lunch I realize I forgot to send a pic!!!

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This is Lauren’s 2nd Boobday and also her 1 year Boobday Anniversary. Welcome back, Lauren! Click the pic to see her blog.

Here I am lazing in bed before a busy day.

Click below for more amazingness!

Friday, July 1st, is Boobday! (With a surprise announcement!)

hy_tits_bannerLots of lovely boobs this week!

Thank you, as always, for lending me the images of your bodies and showing thousands of people that sexy and confident isn’t only what we see in a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

We’re far more diverse than just those lovely young women.

Ok, now for the big news!!

There were rumblings of something during this year’s Eroticon, but no one knew for sure what.  Well, it’s official!

EROTICON 2017 LONDON IS BACK!

The incredible, stupendous, fantastic trio of Molly Moore, @DomSigns, and Girl on the Net will be carrying the torch for the lovely and brilliant Ruby Kiddell!!  (You can also read all about them here.)

I knew by the end of my stay that I would have to find a way to make it back through fundraising and/or sponsorship.  There is absolutely no way I’m missing out on another one.  It’s too important to my writing, to my being, to my sense of community.

I encourage all of you fellow bloggers and writers to find a way to make it over there.  You won’t regret it.

LipsEroticon2tIWish LipsEroticon2trans250Attending LipsEroticon2HelpMeCurrently, I’m all three of these buttons, but grab yours and let’s get started!

Ok, I’ve been procrastinating enough today.  Time to get down to business and get these titties out to the world!

Love y’all!

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

My tits:

Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.

Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.

NOT my tits:

Miss Shy's first, delicious submission.

Miss Shy’s first, delicious submission.

I’m very shy so this is very hard for me to do and because my breasts are so large-I’m very self conscious. I chose this pic because it was right after a cool shower and some coconut oil makes them appear somewhat exotic.

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I love the open shirt on Kim.

I love the open shirt on Kim.

Such a versitile item, the denim jacket…..clothed or topless!!

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I haven't figured out if she's anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.

I haven’t figured out if she’s anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.

Happy weekend 😉

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Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.

Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.

Ms Green catching rays in the kitchen washing dishes.

Click below to see more!

It’s hard to leave your people: EroticonLive 2016

I’ve gone to ground since returning from London two weeks ago.  I’ve been unable to write, to think, to move.

Somewhere over the Atlantic — mid sobs — my lymph nodes swelled and my head cracked open.  For days after my skull blistered as I went through the motions of mothering and work.  By the following Monday the headache was gone, but so were my words.

I wrote in Heathrow and at 38,000 feet.  It took everything out of me.  I cried because of the beauty of the experience, but also because of the irony of my choice: a young man thousands of miles away.  Ben was safe to practice being all of me, Hy and the other woman.  He won’t want to be in my life full-time or even part-time.  He won’t demand I open up more than I want to.  Basically, he won’t need more of me and that feels fucking great right now as I navigate my way through zipping the two sides together.

It was a revelation to be more of me with one single person than I usually am with all of my closest of friends and those magical 36 hours never could never have happened were it not for the incredible previous 4 days at Eroticon.

I landed in the middle of the tarmac at Heathrow and we had to load onto a bus and drive for 15 minutes to even reach the terminal.  It was 3 am my time and I clung tiredly to my backpack and tried desperately to look like I knew what I was doing.  In a fog I shuffled through customs and angled for wi-fi to contact Michael and Molly, my fairy godparents for the trip, and let them know of my whereabouts.

“I’m here!  Gotta run to the bathroom and grab my my luggage then I’ll be right out!” I texted.

“Ok.  Just look for the short, fat man with a small penis,” was Michael’s response.

I knew at that moment the weekend would be remembered in the grooves of my marrow.

To be called “Hy” by everyone who saw me, to be hugged, to have casual discussions about sexual pleasure, agency and consent, to be in a massive conference hall with dozens of strangers and realize many of them had seen my tits, to know that each night couples frantically coupled high off the day’s activities, to drink and laugh and cry, to speak passionately about writing and sex.  All of this meant that I was a part of this small, yet vibrant and committed community and I felt like I was home.  Real fucking HOME.

There are many people who made my days in Bristol magical and who need to know their impact on me.  Of course my fear is I will forget some since it’s been so long now, but if I do, just email me and I’ll fix it.  My memory is utter shit, which is why I typically write about sexual encounters the day of or following day.

I called them my fairy godparents, but Michael (@DomSigns) and Molly are so much more than that.  At the train station Monday afternoon I had to fight tears as I hugged them for our 3rd goodbye in 24 hours (I had a couple of false starts). I didn’t want to leave them.

Not only did they drive me around western England, but they also took me under their wings and made sure I was fed, knew where I was going, how to get home safely from the “Italian” waiter’s house (he turned out to be Brazilian, for what it’s worth).  They answered my endless questions about the universe in general and never made me feel like a burden.  On the contrary, I felt like part of their little kinky family, their little sister.

Molly was a co-panelist on Ask a Sex Blogger and she conducted a brilliant session on photography and how not to take shit photos.  Michael did tech-y sessions and hauled out their BDSM arsenal for the last session on Saturday where he’d intermittently scare the shit out of all of us cracking his purple whip.  (I’m pretty sure the lovely Honey made that whip for them.)

They even set me up with the most incredible roommate known to man, Girl on the Net.  She wrote she could write an entire essay on me, well, the feeling is entirely mutual.  She’s vibrant and hilarious with a mile-a-minute intellect.  She’s sensitive, but tough and seems to be a shrewd business woman beyond what she’s alluded to in her writings.  She taught me how to get from our apartment to the hotel with long, Londoner strides and what “bell end” meant.

I went home earlyish Saturday night and bought a bottle of wine on my way home just in case.  She burst through the door not long after having DMd me, “Shit!  I didn’t buy any wine!”  We drank and talked until fatigue set in and in the dark in our little twin beds on wheels we talked more like kids at camp until we both suddenly agreed we’d never stop talking unless we just decided to.

The next morning she was my co-panelist for Ask a Sex Blogger and by the end of the night we were deep in our cups laughing until our sides ached.  That night I got home after her and flung open the bedroom door.

“GOTN!  Come talk to me!” I shouted to the mound of covers in the dark.

“I’m tired!” she answered.

“No!  Get up!  THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!” I insisted.

And guess what she did??  Guess what this wonderful, funny, bad ass, wickedly awesome woman did?

She got up.

And we watched Babestation together and she fed me her peanuts and we drank more wine and she recorded us rambling about what, God only knows, until nothing but sleep was an option.

The next morning she walked with me for a bit back towards the Raddison then gave me a fierce hug and just as hurriedly as she’d run into my life 3 days earlier she was off to catch her train home.

Marie Rebelle is another I can’t forget to mention.  I could lay cuddled in her arms for days.  She’s focused, sexy, and kind and her love for the community was evident each time she saw a familiar face who’d embrace her.  We dined together and drank and talked endlessly about life and kids and kink.  And of course there’s her indelible partner, the quiet Master T, whose wit and sweetness was a perfect compliment to Rebel’s.

Remittance Girl wowed me with her intensity and sharp wit; eye and I somehow found each other in the Raddison lounge and shared at least two bottles of bubbles on two separate occasions; Liza and I talked and laughed like sisters.

F. Dot Leonora and Exposing40 burst into my life simultaneously with hugs and smiles and by the end of the weekend I had promised Leonora some fiction and was saying Hello! just like Exposing40.

The Other Livvy and EA were at the end of at least a couple of friendly toasts to the weekend.  Livvy lent her tits to our Boobday endeavor and EA showed me the edits he made to his reading once he’d taken my session.

I caught Jilly’s session on how to let real life inspire a story and wrote my first piece of fiction in years and Innocent Loverboy helped me with what -ing words are called in my own session and was my go-to guy for all the proper grammar words and then came up with a terrific story in my workshop.

I made sure to meet Charlie Powell and catch her session about writing about disability intelligently and she was everything I’d hoped and more.  Also, an extremely good hugger.

I lusted after Zak’s pants, watched in awe as Pandora paddled Celine’s bottom while Gryphon branded people in the other corner and Kerry used ropes on eye, became mesmerized by Andriy’s eyes which were like an Icelandic pool at dawn as we talked about sex and culture and he nibbled on his pie.  Every chat was another petal on the sunflower that was the weekend.

Adam and Monika are the two masterminds behind Godemiche and the dildo making duo can only be called artisans, really.  Their Technicolored phallic forest a testament to their dedication to beauty and functionality.  I blushed mercilessly as I chatted with Adam while holding a silicon replica of his beautiful cock.  Not every day that happens.  And Monika lent not only her breasts, but also her creativity to the group Boobday pic.

Alyson of Hot Octopuss (makers of ) and I chatted about sexual pleasure and the amazingness of their toy and their #SexWithoutStigma cause and Will from Doxy and I talked about vibrators until my cheeks were red.  The folks from Mystery Vibe told me they were fans of my Instagram account even before the realized who I was and I regret not having more time to speak with them about their creation.

Ruby Kiddell, the creator of this event, deserves a gold medal and every gold star known to man.  She single-handedly carved out a space for us to all meet and though it’s sad that her book is now closed as the steward of this gathering she has nonetheless set the bar high.  And though it was her “job” to run the show throughout the weekend we still shared good laughs and lots of toasts.

She’s a tough cookie and I can’t wait to see what she comes up with next and I hope she comes to whatever incarnation Eroticon becomes next because without a doubt I will be there, too.

The very last person I saw from the weekend was Stella who rode with Michael and Molly and I from Bristol and who then rode with me on the train until her stop which was miraculously just one before mine.  We laughed at the indecipherable message about 4 cars ahead in a London station and any numerous other things and she patiently answered all my questions about how one rides a train.  More excellent hugs were had and given.

Lastly, I’d be remiss if I forgot to announce that while floating on the waves of many glasses of crisp white wine at the very purple Raddison Blu Hotel bar in Bristol, England I got married.

To three stunning women.

I won’t tell you the order in which it all happened since there was some debate about this, but Molly, Girl on the Net and Rebel made me a very happy woman that night.

It’s no wonder my heart broke when it was all over for where else on the planet can a weekend like mine be topped off by three incredible women wanting to be your sister-wives?  Who argued over who should be my #1?

The truth is, I don’t deserve any of them, but I will endeavor to always be that woman they found me to be, because I want to be that person all the time.  I want to be the woman everyone met and hugged and spoke and laughed with that weekend.  I want to be more of me all the time, not just once in a lifetime.

I guess it’s time to let Hy take over a little more

 

Friday, June 3rd, is Boobday!

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This week I’ve been quiet.  I’m dealing with some funky health things and to be quite honest I still miss London.  I miss everyone I met while at Eroticon and I’m still transitioning back to my life after Ben.  That week abroad recalibrated me and I’m struggling to figure out what that means moving forward.

So, I apologize for my silence (and my late Boobday posting) yet again, but I’m still here, not exactly “stewing,” but more or less digesting everything.  It boggles my mind that barely over a week ago I was immersed in a completely different world than the one I continually find my self waking up to here.

Anyway, lots of ladies have sent in their pics to me this week.  Some new, some old.  As always, thank you so much for your continued support and love.

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

My tits:

My "Smile often and always" shirt.

My “Smile often and always” shirt.

NOT my tits:

Kate (pictured here) and Kim (next image) have almost identical photos this week and I kinda love it.

Kate’s pic makes me want to cuddle.

You can always tell when my boobday pic is taken last minute as it will usually be in bed. It’s almost midnight here. 🙂
Very tired boobs tonight. Sun shining brightly over here today. I should have remembered earlier and taken a boobday photo in the sun!
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I love the peak of the South African sunrise over Kim’s shoulder.

Good Morning Boobie World xxx

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It’s my boob-twin, Anonymous Aussie! xx

I finally got my act together for Boobday this week.
As I was leaving the bathroom, bathed in the light from my hallway, I’d noticed how long my hair had grown & the soft glow of the light on my skin. I just had to capture it.

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Welcome, Miss Green, to Boobday! Thank you for sharing with us and showing that beauty is everywhere.

I chose this picture because it reminded me of two water melons in a string bag (you know the 1970’s red string shopping bags lol) all juicy and ripe. I like the way they look in the picture less saggy more luscious lol.

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lolamoi03jun16

This is also Lola’s first time here at Boobday. I love the corner of blank space and how her dark hair leads us to her nipple. Check her out at her blog.

Teaching myself to love my bold, bulbous nipples.

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Sandy has been remiss with her sunscreen.

Tan lines (ok ok…sunburn lines)

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Check out the links below to see who else is participating!

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.

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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.  

Eroticon 2016: What do you want to learn from me in my session?

When I thought about attending Eroticon this year I had only one clear goal in mind: talk to people about getting published while I’m there.

It’s long been a dream of mine to transform my blog into a book, but I have no idea how to do it.  Do I self-publish like so many of you?  Do I find a publisher who puts it on paper?  What about an editor?  I’m certain I’d need one of those.  I already have a full time job in addition to the tons of work the blog requires.  When on earth would I find the time to put a book together??

Besides just publishing goals to explore while there, there were also all the people I’d finally get to meet. England, London, all the sexy British people.  It’s not exactly the best time financially for me to go, but fuck it.  When is it ever??

I took the plunge and  purchased the tickets and began to poke around the website and saw that Ruby was calling for panelists.  A panelist you say??  Well, double fuck it.  Go big or go home!

I downloaded the form, thought for a minute about what the fuck I was any good at and then came up with the title for my session:

How to write about [real life] sex and not make it sound like a To Do List.

Too often the recounting of a real life sexual encounter can fall into a list of things that
happened. This session will help you identify ways to make it a literary experience for
your readers.

For example, instead of “We removed our clothes and then we kissed,” you’ll hopefully
learn how to pull from real life, art,and movement and illustrate the scene with more
depth and nuance.

Attendees will learn how to dip into a personal experience – possibly unrelated to sex –
to better illustrate it in a meaningful way.

And for some unknown reason it was accepted.

I still laugh thinking about it.  Do I really sound like I know what I’m talking about?!

So, here’s the deal and what you need to know about me: I am NOT an English teacher. I do NOT make a living off of my writing.  I can’t remember all the names of the grammatical things I’m doing even now as I write.  (Wait, I do know this is a parenthetical thought and that last sentence ended with what’s called a period.)  I cannot help with grammar in a specific way or probably even a “correct” way.  I can’t promise you this won’t be a colossal waste of your time.

What I might do is provide a new perspective, a new leaping off point.  I might give you some new ideas or maybe even some newfound confidence.  I might even not waste your time.  Yay!

What I can do — and what I hope to do — is share with everyone my personal approach.  It seems some of you dig the way that I write and so I’m using that as a springboard for the session.  This will not be a How to Write Like Hy session, but a How Do I Write? session.  I can point out the things I like and dislike about a written scene.  I can do my absolute best to answer all your questions.

I also think there are some things that can elevate a writer’s connection with his or her readers that some people might struggle with and I am going to try to put to words some things I just riff.  There are also lots of things people do that push a reader away or make them skip to the next paragraph.  I’ll touch on those, as well, to the best of my abilities.

The session is relatively short (only 45 minutes), so I’ll have to be succinct and focused, but I’m also willing to be flexible and go where y’all need me to.

I’ve read that other presenters are bringing goodies (I have to bring goodies?!  Fuck.), slides, handouts, and any other number of accoutrements.  Seeing as I’m flying across a large ocean to get there, room in my luggage is scarce, so y’all just might only get me, my smile, and my words.

So, those are my plans, but I am open to what you all want to learn from me.

What were your thoughts when you read about the session?  Did you think, “Yes!  Sounds great!  Everything I want to know!”  Or did you think, “Hmm, I wonder if she’d also cover _____.”?

Let me know where you think you’re weak as a writer or what you’d like to improve upon or just give me suggestions of things you’d like for me to address.   Seeing as I’ve never done this before any insight whatsoever would be greatly appreciated!

Email me at hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com or leave your thoughts in a comment.

Can’t wait to see you all in 10/11ish days at the Friday mixer at the Radisson!

Woohoo!

xx

Hy

 

I’ll show you mine – Eroticon Live 2016

So, I’ll be taking my happy American ass off to England in roughly a week and a half for Eroticon.  HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  Go ahead and ask me if I have my presentation ready for my panel.  I dare you. I’m basically in denial about the trip meaning I have no where to stay Thursday night or Monday-Wednesday.  I’ve had a handful of offers from kind souls, but for whatever reason(s) I haven’t accepted. I sort of want to just be footloose and fancy free, I suppose, so I’m going with it.

Anyway, Molly has put together this little Q&A for all of us who are attending in the hopes that we’ll all get a sense of who’s who.  I can’t believe I actually get to fill out one of these things!

NAME (and Twitter name if you have one)

Hyacinth Jones.  @adissolutelife

If you had the opportunity to rename yourself (or your blog) what would you pick?

Nope.  Love the name and my pseudonym!

What are you most looking forward to at Eroticon Live and/or is there anything you are nervous about?

I’m looking forward to being Hy as a real person, not just as a two-dementional person with lots of words to say and tits to flash.  And of course I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in the flesh and sharing a bunch of hugs.  I’m a hugger.

I should be nervous about presenting my session, but I am painfully aware that I’m lacking any fear or nerves.  Perhaps they’ll hit me later, but I guess I’m confident in how open and non-judgmental everyone will be or maybe I’m just really excited about what I’ll be presenting and it’s wiping out any jitters.  Either way, I’m nothing but excited at this point.  Ask me 30 minutes before I go on, though.  The answer might be very different.

Have you planned which sessions you will be attending or are you more of a spur of the moment kind of person?

Not even a little bit.  As my lack of lodging arrangements should tell you, I’m pretty much just winging it.  Naturally I’ll be attending the two I’m on, though.

What essential items to your life will you be bringing with you to Eroticon Live? (you can have a maximum of 5)

My phone, my laptop, an international converter plug thingy, two pairs of contact lenses, and an open mind.

A new cocktail has been made in your honor.  What would be the key ingredient and what would it be called?

Gin, because ever since my grandmother gave me my first G&T when I was 19 I’ve had a love affair with it, and I’d call it the Hey, Barb.

And finally… Complete the sentence; I have yet to…..

…see the faces of so many.

The last time I went to England I fucked Peter the Swedish bartender. I wonder what will happen this time?

I'll definitely pack this for my trip.

I’ll definitely pack this for my trip.

In late spring of 1999 I flew to Heathrow International Airport and took one of those funny, old-fashioned looking taxis to meet up with my family at some flat my father had rented.  It was above a pub (everything seemed to have a pub below it) and within mere hours of close proximity to everyone I found myself downstairs without one cent of UK currency.

The pub looked like the Irish-themed bars in my city: dark wood, brass touches, a long, polished bar from years’ worth of elbow-rubbing.

I sat at a gap at the bar and listened to two ruddy-faced men with caps on.  Their accents lilted, their laughter rumbled.  The tall, curly blond bartender who looked to be about my age loped from one end of the service area to the other as they called out his name, “PEE-tah!  PEE-tah!” and he deftly filled their orders calling them by name with a foreign accent of his own.

His partner behind the bar was a short man with salt and pepper hair and darting eyes.  He missed nothing.  “How can I help you, miss?” he asked me.

I explained to him I’d just arrived and had no British money.  “That’s alright, I’ll give you one on the house.  What do you want?”

“Gin, please,” 24-year-old me answered.

He gave me a drink called the Virgin Mary, a triple gin and tonic in a very tall glass.

By the time I hit the bottom of it I’d tried to talk to the two gentlemen beside me in my best British accent but had failed miserably.  “Where are you from, lassie?” they asked.

“Guess!” I said coyly, worried they’d know I was faking.

They talked quietly amongst themselves for a few seconds before they began guessing out loud to me.  “Denmark?  Finland?  Sweden!!” they blurted all the Nordic counties.  They were convinced my bone structure gave me away.

I don’t remember which of those countries I picked — maybe it was Norway — but they were very impressed with my grammar!  (I still laugh thinking about it.)  I told them I’d spent a summer in Los Angeles recently to work on my English.  They bought it.

Peter, however, didn’t.  

He’d been hanging around our end of the bar and listening surreptitiously as he washed barware.  “Where are you from?” he asked me directly.

I didn’t even try.  “America,” I giggled.

He winked at me and I left.

A few nights later I returned with money in hand and a plan in mind.  I wanted to hang out with Peter.  Several days with my divorced parents, grandmother and judgmental sister had driven me to need time alone to be myself, to be Hy.

There were two American kids in the pub with me and the three of us chatted with Peter throughout his shift.  When it was over  they invited us to their rented flat across the street to get high.  Sure, why not go somewhere with 3 strange young men and smoke weed?  Sounds like fun!

The room was strewn with backpacks and travel guides and a little bong was on a coffee table.  We sat around and smoked and laughed and if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you the names of the other two Americans; I only had eyes for Peter.

He was Swedish and well over 6 feet tall.  He’d been in England for several months while he tried to figure out what to do with his life.  His accent reminded me of snow and blonde braids and his smile was large and toothsome.

We decided to leave together and find another place to drink.  His pub had closed at 9 so we walked some distance to an even darker pub below street level.  We drank and made out, sloppy revelers in the bowels of a London neighborhood.

That pub closed at 10 and we staggered on to yet another and when that one closed at 11 — Why do all the pubs close at random times and so early?! I wondered noisily and repeatedly to Peter as we lurched down the street — he suggested we go home to his place.  Above the pub.

“I live there for free and work below and Jimmy my manager also lives there.  I’m not allowed to have anyone over.”

We sneaked through the darkened pub with only the shiny bits reflecting the street lamps outside as our guiding lights.  “Shhh,” he reminded me as I began to laugh.

“Here.  Get on my back.”  We were at the base of the narrowest staircase I’d ever seen, tucked behind the bar.  “He’ll only hear one set of footsteps.”

I jumped up and clung to him as he ascended each creaky, screaming step.  I nibbled his neck and he giggled, told me to stop.  He tripped and we muffled our laughs as he caught himself.  Up three flights of stairs we were at his carved, wooden door.

His room was dark and shadowy and his window was eye-level with the street lamp.  Light poured in and illuminated a window box with a cushion like a block of pale, artificial sun.

We were all over each other.  Drunken, half-strangers.  Our height difference made my neck hurt and he split his stance like a giraffe at a watering hole.  My face in his hands, his mouth on mine.

The window box was long and we moved to it.  I straddled him, the window to my right, and pulled my shirt off.  My little 34B breasts were pierced then, perky.  He moaned and took one in his mouth and I clutched his curls to me.

Our clothes peeled back to reveal our yummy bits and I sucked his deliciously uncut cock.  “They don’t do that in Europe,” he explained in his loopy Swedish sound when I remarked on it.  Literally drunk with lust I asked him if he had a condom.  He shook his head.

I thought for a split second about it and decided to throw caution to the wind.  I peeled off my jeans and pressed his naked body back on the cushion and sat astride him, his cock pressed against me, but not in me.

Above him like this I saw a beauty, a lithe young man heavy with passion — and me — bathed in light on his left side and melting into darkness on his right.  His nose had a bump in it, his mouth a Cupid’s Bow.  I cupped his face and felt his blond scruffy cheek against my palm.

I bent down and kissed him and wrapped my hand around his cock and slowly guided him in.  This was me, this was what I really wanted to be doing in London.

He gasped as I sat back on him, my mouth locked on his, his air mine.  I slowly sat up and wiggled him into me and he said, “Hyacinth, you are so beautiful.  You are like an angel spreading her wings.  I cannot bear it…”

I smiled and felt as though everywhere the light touched my skin and us I shimmered, and where we joined in the dark was cool and quiet.  I felt alive and humming, utterly beautiful.

Sadly, Peter couldn’t go much further than just that.  He was overwhelmed he said.

Instead, he pulled me down onto him and we cuddled in the window box beneath the city lamp.

Eventually, I had to head back upstairs to my family, but I gave Peter my email address before I left and for a number of years — nearly 5 — I would get an email from him saying he wanted to come to America and see me.

But I had moved on from that night and that place, though Peter would forever remain one of my fondest memories.

::

I’m returning to London in roughly a month for Eroticon where I’ll be speaking on a couple of panels.  I’ll be in Bristol for the first few days of my stay for the convention itself and then will flit about after that until it’s time to come back home on the very next Wednesday.  It’s not a very long stay, only a week, but I had less time than that my first time over.

I wonder if I’ll have as much fun this time around.