Feeling detached.

Despite eating like it’s my job, I’m feeling good.

I had a revelation this week about intimacy, false intimacy, specifically.

All these years I have struggled with how I am treated because I felt like there were connections, real things occurring between me and the men in my life.  And they were happening, I just called them the wrong things.  

I called them trust and respect and intimacy.  I should have been calling them hunting, playing, and gorging.  

We did the dance of lust and curiosity, girated and slobbered on one another.  Pulled hair and smacked flanks and spent hours cultivating a persona with 26 characters and a few vegetable emojis until our fingers were exhausted and our bellies full of pursuit.  Until we were over as quickly as we started.

I’m wondering how I could have been so wrong for so long, to expect so much of the right answer from the wrong equation.

First of all, how can anyone get to know me if all we do is text then drink in a dimly lit room bathed in each other’s pheromones?

Secondly, they haven’t done anything to earn my trust so why am I so surprised when they’ve broken it?  I hand it out like candy in Halloweeen night like the daddy-hungry little girl that I am.  

I have expected something from nothing, for a rose to bloom out of granite. 

So now I’m on my way to meet a man I hardly know and I don’t care about.  He’s from a neighboring city and used the word “laconic” to describe himself.  He’s 5’7″, good looking, charming as a Labrador and he will suffice for tonight because the truth is… I think I’m ok with nothing right now.

The rose can come later when it makes sense to grow.  Right now, all I want is to feel the honesty of cold, hard rock.  

You’d never guess.


Honestly, you probably wouldn’t expect this to come from the woman that is me you’d see on the street or in the grocery store.   The woman with her hair tangled in her purse strap fumbling with her phone.

I’m just your average woman, quite plain, mostly unassuming.  You might notice me if I bumped into you because I’d be sure to apologize, but I’m otherwise remarkably forgettable.

You’d never guess I was capable of a photo like this.  You’d never guess what lay beneath the clothes and social graces.  You’d never guess who I really am.
You’d just never guess.

And I like it that way.


Let the beat roll through you: Cum on a leg.

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I felt like my sports bra might cut me in half, so naturally, I documented the release.

I’m alone, but I am not even remotely lonely.

Isn’t loneliness somehow born from the belief that you shouldn’t be alone?  That there is supposed to be someone with you?

I miss my child when it’s my ex’s weeks, I miss [the idea of] a great boyfriend, I miss the herd-like life of college where I never did anything solo.  I miss things, but I am not lonely.

Despite the absence of one person or another, my heart and life are full; I have mothering, my career, my art, my friends and family, my four-legged free-loading fur babies, my health.

Also, not surprisingly, my Instagram and this blog fill my life with the most amazing people, men and women who are so vibrantly drawn I shy away from even attempting to illustrate them for you.  Women whose hearts are worn on their sleeves and on their luscious, ripe bodies and men whose hope is to be seen as more than their often negatively portrayed brothers, every-day-people who — just like me — have a richly deep and sensual life they share online with one another and with a select few in real life.

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Ahhhh….

I am often caught in conversations about shame and double lives, about the dichotomy of our desires and what we’re told is acceptable.  The number of people I know who “follow the rules” might be counted on a single hand.  We all make up our own rules and somehow think we’re the only ones doing it.

Maybe it’s age that has brought me to this place, maybe it’s my unique position in life in general, I’m not sure, all I know is I love it here.  I love all of you, I love being alone and free to choose whatever I like and being cut loose from pedantic convention.

While I might appear to be having a quiet night at home sharing the couch with the dog I’m also engaging with people from all over the world.  The Ladies of Instagram whom I have so quickly come to rely on and look to for comfort, laughs, and the poignant reminder that life is a mother fucking complex journey.  The young fellow from a big city whose provocative photos leave me salivating and squirming for more — and wishing the phone were a travel portal.  The man who got a special strip tease from the comfort of my kitchen.  The stupidly tall man whose complicated relationship status hasn’t stopped him — or us — from a lazy afternoon of flirting topped off by my tits covered with his hot, gloppy semen.  The Soldier…  fuck.

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Can you see the line cut in my side?

The Soldier texted me today and I nearly dropped my phone when I saw his name on my lock screen.  My coworker looked at my quizzically and I played it off like I was having a “moment.”  I haven’t heard from him since 2 pm on October 10th.

He apologized for being an asshole.

I asked him what happened.

It was a post-war “mental spasm” he said that could only be resolved via solitude, and then he’d been working nearly non-stop, but he couldn’t let me think that was the kind of man he was, a man that just disappeared like that.  And he’d missed me.

After several hours of catching up he sent me a pic of him laying in bed, his big, tattooed arms crossed in front of him, his bow lips smirking just a little.  His watch read 7:54, the exact time he sent it.  I felt like crawling through the phone and up his long, beautiful body.  So many men to crawl on through phones and not enough time [space continum]!

We reminisced a little and then he said the words I was hoping to hear, “We need to do it again.”

I only replied, “Yes.”

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Can you see it better now?

I look at all of these interactions as part of the hive, part of being human.  We need contact, right?  What is life if not experienced?  If not grasped by the horns??  And I want connections, whether they’re fleeting or real.  Of course a lasting connection is extra special, but I don’t discount the ones that are equivalent to being wrapped in a stranger’s arms on the dance floor, the pulsing lights, and deep rhythmic beats throbbing through me until our lips meet and hips lock.  I’ve cum on lots of rock hard thighs in my lifetime both in real life and online.  I dig it.  Sorry about your pussy jeans, man.

This peace of mind, this quiet, yet thrumming place, feels good.  Like a long and low orgasm of beautiful breath and freedom.  My legs are strong and pumping beneath me as I race across the meadow towards what, I don’t know, but I also don’t fucking care.  It just feels right.

I might be over the hump, y’all.  I might finally be over the cruel, hunched back of heartbreak.  Goddamn, it feels good.

And, you guys… The Soldier.  With any luck, he’s coming to wake me up Monday morning.

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Never under estimate the power of an image.  I might get fucked right here like this thanks to my little striptease documentation.

My paint brush is empty.

I write about sex here, this is not an online life journal.  It’s a sex blog.  It’s an account of my sexuality and the adventures that come with that.  I’m stingy with the other stuff.  Very.

I’m ok writing about countless sexual encounters, my insipid dating travails, my feelings about The Neighbor and some of our relationship.  I shared with you all a little of my broken heart when I lost a friend last summer and I open up a little on occasion about my ongoing frustrations with my exhusband.  You might remember I have difficult, complicated relationships with my mother and sister.  My father was a bastard, but is dead.  I miss my baby when it’s not my turn for custody.

But what’s left to share when I don’t feel like shagging?

I can’t share what I do for a living, where I live, or who my friends are.  I try to mix things up to keep the vibe of what I share truthful without giving away accurate details.

I could write volumes more if I opened the doors, but I don’t feel like I’m allowed.  I’m not certain it would ruin my life, but it’s possible and I’m not at all willing to take that chance.  We don’t like it when people are open with their sexuality or opinions on sex.  Teachers and state representatives better never show their tits online.   I certainly don’t want people I work with professionally seeing my breasts and knowing how I like it in bed.  Yet, here I am, compelled to risk it all because I need this space for something.  At least I used to.

I’m at an impasse.  My writing has waned, or at least the urge to write has.  I don’t feel negatively towards the blog, but I don’t feel positively towards it, either.  I get lots from it, but it also takes a lot.  I’m feeling less inclined to open up and share because I have less to share about my sex life.

I look at other longtime bloggers and see what they’ve done with their spaces.  Many of them have monetized their spaces brilliantly and others have become little sexy cottage industries.  I admire their fortitude and work ethic.  I look at myself and don’t see it happening.  I’m self-hosted and have the ability, but I don’t know what to do with the opportunity.  I’m overwhelmed.  I’ve thrown together an Amazon shop, but that’s it.

And these other bloggers, they haven’t seemed to paint themselves into such a corner as I have; they have other avenues of expression that they’ve worked out that don’t revolve around the sex they have.

On top of all that, I don’t feel sexy.  Ugh.

I’ve gained a couple of pounds, I’m constantly tired, I’m choked with fear about my financial situation, TN and I are wading through the doldrums of stability and a long-term relationship.  I’m working so goddamned hard at important, life-altering things that I have zero energy left for passion or creativity.  And I’m sad.  I miss being excited about my body and my art.

This blog used to be an oasis in the desert of my life, but these days it’s like it’s evaporated into a mirage.  My body and its pleasures are like an old memory I smile at when lost in thought.  I barely even masturbate anymore.  I’m tapped out.

I have to figure out what I’m going to do here.  I have some ideas — I still have hot sex on occasion — but I’m wrung out and I’m scared and I’m tired and I’m bored.  With my life, my lover, myself. I’ve lost something over time, it’s slowly leaked out of me.  Or maybe I’m just tired.  Pinched and wilted and dry, forgotten flowers in a pretty vase.

I am a horrible mess of a woman lately.  I’m painstakingly sifting through my life to untangle the negatives I was hand-fed growing up.  I’m struggling, but I’m committed to being as patient as possible about the process in general, but it still takes the winds out of my sails and that fucking sucks.

I wish I could work on all the important emotional things and still want to fuck my brains out. 

Fucking is fun, it’s fantastical, it’s freeing.  This other work robs from me the one thing I have always felt was a way to define who I was: sex.

Growing up my mother said, No, Hyacinth!  No, no, no!  You’re not to feel that way!  You’re not to want those things!  You’re not to need this, that, or the other.  Don’t be that way!  And as a young adult I used sex (and drugs) to differentiate myself from her… all without her knowing.  I did what I wanted the way I wanted when I wanted.

After the divorce, and a long relationship with a man who wasn’t unlike the dominant voice in my ear as a child, I used sex (and alcohol) to differentiate myself once again.  Like an adolescent, all over again, wild and wanton.  Dissolute.

Only this time, I had more success without all the fallout.  I kept an eye on my behavior and didn’t go off the rails like I did as a young woman.  I created a blog where I could channel my behaviors and become a writer, an artist, not just a woman who was fucking through her grief and secretly piecing herself together probably for the first time in her life.

My mother still doesn’t know about the woman I am, but at least I have friends and a lover who do and who love me anyway.  Maybe I need to sit with this a little more and I’ll come back to my body sooner than I think and I’ll get to slip back into my sexy pants.  Then I’ll have lots of sexy shit to share and this blog will be busy and thrumming with energy and sex and love and lots of Hy’s words.

All I know is that I’m ready whenever I am; to have lots of sloppy sex so I have the paint in which to dip my blogging brush and make beautiful, sexy art.   I want to fill the pages here with over-flowing content that titillates both you and  — just as importantly —  me.  This space is my blank canvas.  I guess I’ll just have to wait for inspiration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m an asshole who needs you.

I don’t talk much about my “real” life here.  A Dissolute Life Means… is for my heart, my pussy, and my creativity.  For you all.  Nearly every word I write is true save for some creative juggling for story flow.

For better or worse, what I write here is my life, though – Me – but it never reflects what happens outside the walls of my apartment.  Today, I am going to break down that wall a little.

My real life, the one that demands I pay bills on time and keep a roof over my head, is speeding ahead of my slow-moving career and I am forced to open up this space for accepting payments from readers for what I produce here.

That’s the bottom line.

And that bottom line looks like a vast, black yawning hole of failure if I can’t buy myself some more time while I continue to work hard to get my career going full steam ahead.

I wrote another long post apologizing and explaining why I had to do this, but it doesn’t matter.  Not really.  Simply put, I’m asking for some support if you want to give it.

So, I sit here like an asshole with my hand out.  To you, my readers and friends, hoping you have $10 to spare every once in a while for the writer who delivers herself and her art to you every week for free.

I want to cry just writing that sentence.  Good thing I’ve squirreled myself away into the corner of this coffee shop.

I did not come to this decision lightly.  It’s a sign of my seriousness, the precarious situation that I currently find myself in, that I’m trying to figure out how to monetize this thing that I love so much. — I’ve even asked my exhusband to help with childcare expenses by covering the total for the next six months instead of splitting it with me, but he said No.  “You should be able to support yourself.  I don’t want to get involved in this,” he said not unkindly.  It’s easy to say that when you make six figures; not so easy to hear when you make $0.

But, he’s right, so here I am: asking for you to put a dollar amount to the work I do here, because as much as it’s a labor of love, it is also work.   My creative work, to be sure, and I have been only this proud of two other things in my life: Peyton and the fledgling career I’m currently nurturing and hoping more than anything takes flight sooner rather than later.

The only thing I can think of is to call it the Wine and Writing Fund because, let’s face it, I’m not without my sense of humor.  And I get fucking thirsty from time to time.

UPDATE: A reader has asked that I tell you how to support me in detail and to also make the button more obvious.

I’ve put a Click Here button on my upper right hand side bar under the Wine and Writing Fund heading. Click there and you can send me a gift through PayPal.

Your personal information will be dumped immediately.  Discretion — as you all know — is my middle name.

UPDATE #2 4/23/14: It’s been a little more than a year since I broke down and asked you all for some support and I want to thank every one of you that sent me some.  The truth is, however, that I still need it.  I am not yet solvent and every month I am in the red and if it weren’t for a savings account I got in my divorce settlement I would have had to move in with  my parents two years ago.  But that money is now about to run out and I will have no emergency funds in a handful of months.  Hopefully by then I will be solvent, but my career cannot be rushed.  I am doing literally everything I can think of to grow it (and it is growing), but it moves at a snail’s pace.  All this to say, if you can find it in your heart and pocketbooks to send me a few extra dollars every so often, I would greatly appreciate it.  xx Hy