Plugging back in.

Something wonderful happened the instant I shut down my dating profiles.  Gone were the twitches to check email.  Gone was the guilt in my delay, my sloppy responses.  And gone was the worry I was missing out.

For years now I have operated under the assumption that if I said Yes to everyone I might be surprised.  Truth was I was mostly disappointed.

I feel lighter, more focused, more energized.  I’m cautiously exploring what it means to let someone get to know me while folding in this life as Hy.  I also feel the extra energy in my mothering and my work.

Peyton’s colors glow brighter somehow; my baby’s voice like bubblegum and sunshine.  I feel more, hear more, am more.

Had I known shutting off that faucet of illicit want and depravity could bring me this level of calm I’d have done it long ago, but perhaps I wasn’t ready.  Perhaps I had to wait for a million other things to line up to feel like pulling the shades on those windows (shutting the doors?).

When I think back over the many years of my life (for there are many) I am reminded of other moments like this where I feel like my life is beautiful.  The first time I ever rode a horse.  The smell, that rich mix of hay, dirt, and live animal; his warmth beneath my hand and between my legs; the muffled sound of hooves on dirt and a breathy whicker.

When I was accepted to a prestigious university 1200 miles from home.  I packed my little car with all my things and struck out on my own and never looked back.  I sorted out the bureaucracy of the school itself and life as a young woman all while taking 12 to 17 hours worth of classes a semester.  I hobbled through the finish line, but I did it.

I remember the first time I ever fell in love.  It was such a revelation; I felt like I suddenly understood all of humanity.  Why wars had been started over a love, why heartbreak could drag a lonely lover down with the fallen.  What a miraculous thing, love.  Does anything in our lifetimes even compare?

Again when I completed my graduate program with a 4.0.  Never before had I been so ravenous with my schoolwork.  The words I consumed melded to my bones; I am them now, they are me.  How lucky am I to be born in a time when a woman is allowed to achieve and grow and become an expert.

I discovered my body and its pleasures at a time when my life was torn apart.  Alone, nearly penniless, and wounded from a lonely marriage I found solace in the space between me and others, a cock the key to my emotional freedom.  I played in the sparkling pools of orgasm and unreality for many months like a toddler and accidentally realized my own power in my life.

My writing and this blog has outshone so many other relationships in my life.  It has survived The Neighbor and even other real life friendships.  It is a constant, wondrous, evolving thing.  I suppose just like its creator.  The friendships I’ve forged I will have till the end of my days, I have no doubt.  Who knew that my creative outlet and need to expose myself could harvest such a boon of love.

But by far the most outstanding memory I have of my life — which is a universe of emotion compared to even the simple joyful moon I am experiencing today — is the day Peyton was born.  The day I pushed a small body out of mine and held that little blinking face to my breast.  The wash of feeling that poured through me a cosmic binding to my helpless babe.

And every day since feeling the bond between us, knowing I am the protector, the mentor, the safe place.  There is no highlight greater in my life than that.

I’m plugging back in, I can feel it.  I want to be back here with you, Internet Boyfriend, and I want to return to me.  Hello.  Can you feel the hug??


That breast. My body reminds me of so much love.



Febraury Photofest

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

There was an unexpected end.

I’ve never done a Wicked Wednesday before not because I haven’t loved the idea, but because I’m not an organized blogger.  I can barely keep it together for my own meme and I think I only participate in Sinful Sunday about once every 6 weeks or so — again, same fucking problem: disorganized — but as I saw this week’s prompt and posts roll in I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The prompt reads:

End of what? A story? A relationship? End of a project? Or maybe the end of a movie, or a song, or a holiday? Tell us about “the end” – a happy one, a sad one, a funny one. Share your “ends” for Wicked Wednesday.


My life this year as a single person has been filled with ends.  Ends of week-long courtships, of interminable dates, of a 3-year love affair, of nights with clouds of semen sprayed in the space between us like little gloppy paratroopers.

The other night was the end of The Soldier.  He stood me up and disappeared into the black void of non-communiqué.  Drunk and supremely disappointed I texted David, the fireman.

He towered in my doorway and then he towered inside of me.  He hooked his fingers into my body and made me weep around him like a faucet.  He rammed into me like he was angry at me and I hit back with all my might.  His body blocked out the candlelight and he growled in my ear, his words as punishing as his hips.  I trembled my finish and my chest heaved with sobs of release and sadness.  I didn’t want it to be this man.  It was supposed to be The Soldier.  I wasn’t prepared.

I had planned on tracing his tattoos with my fingertips, my hot, wet tongue.  I had planned on relearning my body around his.  I had planned on becoming friends.  I had planned on kicking his ass at dominoes.  However, before it even began, it ended and with a crescendo of confusion and hurt feelings.

I also ended the reel where I pretend I don’t care about being mistreated.  Late at night — lo, early in the morning — limp from [mis]use by the giant fireman I checked my phone one last time.  Still nothing.

So I guess you don’t give a shit about me.

Super glad that I arranged my entire day around meeting up with you tonight.

I don’t get it.  I thought you liked me…

(pissy emojis)

I’m actually super sad (super sad emojis)

I broke character that night in order to admit I wasn’t the sex robot I appear to be.  I’m a person who has expectations.  Low ones half the time, but expectations nonetheless.   Like showing up when you say you will or, at the very least, letting me know that something’s changed for you and it can’t happen, or never will again.  It’s all good.  I’m actually more like a robot in that way than you might imagine.  I have a program for communication and understanding; I resort to full on reactionary human, however, when I am disregarded.  I think it’s a pretty good new start to things.

I’d like to say that this is the end of all the bullshit, but I reckon it’s somewhere in the beginning to middle of a long brown streak of shit in my life until I settle down.  The threat of harm from indecent, ignorant, or otherwise incapable people is always there, but when you deliberately — and unknowingly — put yourself directly in their path, well, you know: shit happens.

Saturday night was the end of one particular story line in my life, a continuation of another I thought had ended.  As many endings as I’ve experienced the past 10 months I’m not entirely convinced they’re all true.  People reemerge, they change, they soften.  Sometimes, my resolve is weak.

I wish I could say I want the endings to stop, but that’s not true.  As tiresome and hurtful as some are, others are equally hilarious and enlightening.  Like the fella on Tinder today who unmatched me when I said that in addition to no strings sex, I’d also like to be able to enjoy a beer with my lover.  I’d say that end afforded me to dodge a bullet.  Thanks for that, Jordan, 30.  4 miles from you.

Then there are the endings at the end of a cock, the ones which keep me warm at night.  The kinds where I shiver and cum streams upon us both and he quivers with climax and holds me close.  The kinds when our hot mouths part and the heady spell dissipates into pressed, smiling lips and crinkled eyes.  And the kinds that were high, kept above the fray of tangled feelings and left alone on the perch of fond memory.  The kinds of ends that remind me of why I persist with the beginnings.


wicked wednesday