Friday, October 13th, is Boobday!

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I’m not superstitious – unless you count Feng Shui as superstitious – so today holds no spooky or scary meaning for me.  It’s just an prime numbered Friday no different than the 7th or 17th.

For those of you avoiding black cats and ladders, may you have a very lucky day!

This week we have Miss SMN returning to us after a long time and Meredith from last week also has sent in her loveliness.  I’m missing Kim and Sandy these days.  I hope they’re well!

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:

Meredith pierced her nipples as a gift to herself post divorce. Pretty bad ass if you ask me.

::

SMN thought she’d be late with her Thursday at 6:45 pm email. Ha! I’m the one who’s always late! But check out her sexiness, y’all! Daaaaaammmn.

 

 


I’m feeling good.

There’s a spike in my desire to post and take pics.  

I could say it’s entirely due to sending the letter or I could say a month of working out, being sober, eating right, working hard, and some really nice sex with a really nice man have also contributed.

Or maybe it’s all of it.

Friday, March 3rd, is Boobday!

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It’s quiet around here. I nearly forgot to do this today (you’d think after this many years I wouldn’t, but you would be wrong!).

We only have one submission this week and I suspect that lots of those ladies who normally post are busy with the Eroticon Meet and Greet right now in London. Oh, how I wish I was there!

Anyway, have a wonderful first March weekend.

Love you 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.

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:

 

Weird little shadows…

NOT my tits:

Kate looks luscious.

I almost forgot!! :) Happy Boobday Hy.

A rushed on the couch boob pic. Thought it looked well in black and white.

 


The pursuit of happiness.

This expert from Walt Whitman’s I Sing the Body Electric seems fitting today.
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.
This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
Febraury Photofest
Sinful Sunday

Time flies.


It was more than two years ago when I took this pic.  I was with The Neighbor and I had no idea what was about to happen between us.  

I remember feeling lonely and ignored and thought that sharing these pics with him and my Internet Boyfriend would help right my wayward ship.

It was a fleeting moment of rightness and now stands as a monument to the angst and pain I was experiencing at the time.  

The half a dozen gifts my exhusband gave me during our marriage had the same effect on me.  It’s why I boxed them all up in a little time capsule.  

I’m sharing this pic today because I’m so far from that place I’d like to commemorate it with a new perspective: hope.

Febraury Photofest

It’s humpday.

It’s a quiet day.

My life is so blissfully peaceful and slow these days.  My phone lays just like a lump of metal and glass and gadgets rather than a hyper doorbell.

I have nights alone with The Great British Baking Show and This is Us and I waffle between urges to try my hand at homemade croissants or curling up into the fetal position and crying because life is just that beautiful.

And I love it.  

Love it, love it, love it.  

I can’t believe I’m saying that, but its true.  I love the stillness and the quiet.

My own shock about it is rather deafening, really, and that’s the loudest thing in my life: the boom of my disbelief.  

Febraury Photofest

Kiss. My. Grits.

A fine looking, grown ass man — who’s also looking for something serious and whom I met on AFF — grilled me yesterday via text. 

“How many guys are you talking to these days??”

I was taken aback.  Prior to this question he’d asked me how my day was going.

“My day is going alright.  And why do you ask that?? That’s sort of out of left field.”

He insisted it wasn’t.  “It’s just a question.”

Mmhm.  Right.

I was honest with him and said I was, though I use the term “dating” only to mean I’m chatting with and occasionally going for dinner or drinks.  There are no feelings involved or sex.  I’m browsing.  Then he called me a “serial dater.”

I didn’t know what that was so he clarified that it’s dating more than one person at once.  

I was confused.  Isn’t that the definition of dating??  Then he explained his opinions  further.

“It’s harder to get to know one guy when you’re dating several don’t you agree?  Nothing wrong with it, it’s just harder in my experience to get to know someone when my time is split between multiple people.”

I pointed out that clearly I don’t agree and he went on to say it one more time for good measure: you can’t successfully date if you’re talking to more than one person.

And maybe that’s true for him because he’s a man and he doesn’t get a dozen incredible emails from a dozen great women a week like a woman might (like I sometimes do).  How can I possibly decide who to invest my time in if the criteria are first come first served?

So whoever sent me the email first gets the girl??  I don’t think so.  I think we all have to earn someone’s time and being first in line is hardly considered doing any work.

Likewise, he clearly doesn’t want to be one of many and this was his way of strutting around the coop.  And I can respect that to a degree, except we’re not meeting people in grocery stores, dances, and shopping malls anymore (I heard that’s where it used to happen prior to the internet, anyway).  We shop online with endless choices.

Today women are inundated with suitors and men are put in the undesirable position of having to stand out and they can do that in one of two ways: complain about the game or pretend it doesn’t exist.  

You can guess which one is more appealing.

No one wants a man who gripes that there are others when it’s the very nature of what we’re all doing.  I’ve thought a lot about what he said and I keep returning to the same conclusion each time: Until the cream rises to the top, you keep on churning.  Eventually the right person will show himself.

Kiss ’em.

Febraury Photofest

Doing chores.

Straightening up.

We stood in the parking lot with another car’s lights shining on our legs.  The restaurant lights cast a shadow on his face, but I still saw his smile.  I closed the distance and stood on my toes to touch my lips to his.

Instantly I knew our kisses matched.  A nibble here, a nip there, a chuckle.  I felt his smile against mine.

He made a pleased sound.  “Mm, I think we’re going to have some fun.”  I giggled and kissed him again, let my hands roam up his broad back and to his neck.  He smelled good, too, this big, brawny man.

I flashed back to the night I kissed Bones for the first time and that pleasant surprise at being kissed expertly.  It’s so rare, that perfect kissing match.

I don’t put too much stock in it beyond the pleasure of the moment, but a good kiss is something special.  It feels like catching a glimpse of the first firefly light or seeing a shooting star streak across a dark night sky.  It feels lucky.

The date had been pleasant, but the kiss instilled a sliver of hope I hadn’t felt as we talked over dinner.  He was outgoing, bold, sexy, confident, very successful, a father, and filled with stories to share.  I shared my own stories, but not because he asked.  He never asked.

He texted later to say that he’d checked both chemistry and communication off his list.  I have only checked chemistry; date #2 will help decide the communication box.

Earlier in the day my mother asked me if I was going on a date for my dinner plans.  “Yes,” I said obliquely.

“Ooh!  Who is it?” She tried to sound casually interested, but didn’t even come close.

“He’s just a dude, mom.”

“Oh, ok.”  She sounded hurt, but there’s no other way of describing him.  He is just a dude I met — on a sex site — and I knew very little about him beyond one pleasant late night phone conversation.

My sister called minutes later and also inquired about my evening plans.  “I’ve got a date.”

“Stay home and talk to me,” she said.

“No, I made a commitment!” I laughed.

“You’re such a Golden Retriever, Hy.  You say yes to everyone.”

I didn’t like that she said that and don’t think it’s true.  “No, maybe he will be someone worth knowing,” I said, “and I won’t know unless I go out with him.”  I hung up and drove to the restaurant thinking about what she said.

I’m the first to admit that I might give a man more chances than he deserves, but can you blame me?  What if someone is spectacular on the 3rd date?  The 5th?  I suppose if there’s nothing by #5 it’s a pretty done deal and even sometimes I know by #1.

It’s the repetitive nature of the whole ordeal that gets tiresome.  The date, the kiss, the processing.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  It’s like a tedious chore on the one hand and a meditative practice on the other.  After all, everyone loves to slip into a nicely made bed.

 

Febraury Photofest

I have blisters.


I made calamari for Peyton last night and the oil popped and sizzled on my wrist as I held the pan.  It hurt that hot-oil-hurt, long, low and seething, but I didn’t miss a beat.  Shit had to be done.

I fed the kids (mine and the neighbor girl) and was in bed by 10.  The week had been long and full.  I also hadn’t heard from Rex.

After our misbegotten pot roast date things slowed to a whimper.  We texted Sunday when he got back into town and a little bit each morning throughout the week, but by Friday that disappeared and I almost hadn’t noticed.

Today, Saturday, I woke up naturally to a soft blue light and a purring cat.  Sometime in the late afternoon a blister popped.  It was some hours after that I relalized I’d heard nothing from Rex since Thursday morning.

Such a shame I had to get burned at all, but so be it.  

Febraury Photofest

Everything.

Patience isn’t something I’m very good at.  I have so little control over much of what happens to me that I compensate with the hunt for instant gratification.  At least then I feel activated, in charge.

Immediately checking my phone when I hear it ding.

Uncorking the bottle.

Unbuckling his pants.

His hot, hard flesh in my hand.

My body wrapped around his.

I can saunter and seduce and feel powerful when in reality I have absolutely none.  I’m just a passenger on this rock like everyone else, circling a bright little star.

A recent-ish Sinful Sunday submission.
Febraury Photofest