I haven’t written in 72 days.

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That’s 10 weeks and two days or two-and-a-half-months.  That’s nearly as long as the last blogging break I took way back when before I birthed A Dissolute Life Means… when I was between blogs.

Honestly, Boobday was dragging on me.  Memes are fun and all and then suddenly they’re not.  I’m not the orderly sort, though I am highly organized; I tend to do things in bursts and clusters, not on a schedule.  Meme-ing, therefore, is a mild form of torture for me and since I couldn’t figure out how to manage it I just stopped completely and abruptly.  I need to think about it some more, but I think I’m going to move it to once a month.  I’ll work out the details later and keep y’all posted.

And while I haven’t been writing here I’ve still been around.  I occasionally pop back on to IG and write painful things to go along with my sexy ass – as I tend to do – and I’m still on Twitter tweeting my little tweets here and there.  I even recorded a podcast with Molly – which was an absolute highlight of September – and have made it to the final round in the Smut Marathon!  What???

I’ve also been continuing with my therapy and my gentle exploration of myself – if “gentle” is a cold-gloved cavity search.  It’s been so hard this year.  I’ve been cracked wide open to all the trauma I’ve suffered, the sexual assaults, the abandonment, the lifelong pursuit for a real father’s love and affection.  I’m exhausted.

Almost two weeks ago Ann St. Vincent came to visit and it was wonderful.  She was as sweet and supportive and open and inquisitive as ever and my friends from another city drove in to see me and meet her and we all spent a decadent day together getting meat sweats and napping and eating pasta under an warm fall night sky.

And when everyone left the next day – after an afternoon of cheering on Pey doing all the athletic things – I fell to pieces, kicked off by Netflix’s Unbelievable.  For the third time in my life, I cut myself.  I sobbed and wept and tore at the tender skin beneath my breasts wailing for the girl who could never find safety, though she tried so hard.  The people she turned to again and again failing her in every way.

I’m talking about me, not the protagonist.

I didn’t know it was going to happen like that – I watch SVU all the time and various other heinous crimes-against-women type shows – but this one was different.  This one was so fucking real to me.  There she sat, this little thing in a stark room with two white men in power.  Their privilege and antipathy literally oozing off of them and she was there to do the right thing and share her pain and trauma and instead of opening their arms to her to soothe her and right the wrongs they shut her down.  They denied her.  They denied her existence.  They denied her visibility.

It knocked the breath from me as it thundered through me that that was me, I was her.  I was that girl looking for safety from my father, my boyfriend, men who were otherwise supposed to be safe.

I should be able to stand on a subway platform and trust that no one will hurdle me onto the tracks, but that is not how life is for me – for women.  I cannot stand too close lest someone shove me right off.  The tears were for this desperate realization that I want so badly to stand on the edge with no fear, but the reality is that I cannot and for all the times I’d been pushed.  A yin and yang of sorrow.

I woke up on Monday with an emotional hangover the size of the Empire State Building and lost all desire to drink.  All of it.  The ragged marks beneath my breasts meant I couldn’t wear a bra and the occasional sting I felt reminded me of the pain I had been denying I carried.  I was finally confronted with the truth of things: I hurt.

And I felt awake for the first time in years.  The kind of awake that makes you see each little brush stroke of fur on a cat’s nose like a masterpiece painting.  I could not unsee this part of me.

This might not be a surprise to some of you more critical readers – this entire blog is a diary of my flight from my pain and trauma via finding that one safe man – nor is it a surprise to me.  I know what I’ve been doing and why, I just never really understood the depths of what it was I was running from.  How dark and oozing it was, how cloying.  Now, I do.

I’m kinda sorta finding my footing.  I’m grateful for this mid-life awakening.

And then, this weekend was the last in my little apartment with my little offspring.  We watched movies, I hosted a kid sleepover, ran around, saw a movie, watched another sporting event from the bleachers.  I did very little in the way of packing, but I did a lot in the way of packing up emotionally.

I cried thinking this was my last Sunday on my tiny sunny balcony, the last Sunday sunrise with a kitty in the window.  The last Sunday my baby and I would fight over the bathroom sink.  It’s time to move on from my little haven and move us closer to my ex’s house and into the right school district, same bus, a bike ride apart from mom and dad’s.

I also cried thinking how alone I am in all of this.  Packing an entire house and moving all by myself while keeping it together for a watchful child.  It’s a lot.  I have to find ladders to reach all the high spots because I literally have no one who can help me.  I asked The Vet, but he has to work.  Peter says he’ll come and help, but he’s all wrapped up with his new girlfriend, so we’ll see if that actually comes to fruition.  (Yes, Peter and I are talking again.)

So, yeah.  I’ve been busy, just not writing.  Growing.  I’ve been growing.  I also had a week of really fun sex with a beautiful young man 18 years my junior.  Built like a little rugby player replete with a gorgeously furry chest and perfectly curved cock. We spent 3 nights together with one of them being a full 24 hours of fucking, smoking cigarettes, drinking, watching movies, eating, and fucking all over again.  Of course he then drew distant and announced he’s moving away for work.  Such is life.

This felt good, though, this writing thing.  Maybe I’ll do it some more.

 

[Ed. Note: I wrote this on my balcony on Sunday, but couldn’t get back to it until Monday am.  It feels good to hit “publish” again.]

Friday, August 16th, is Boobday!

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Holyyyyy shit.

Another intense week.

I reopened Bumble and feel strong and potent and ready to fuck. Easy come, easy go. We’ll see what I can manage next week.

And… I texted The Golfer. He replied. Three whole times even!! Lol He’s the last one who texted and I’ll just let that hang for a bit.

Also, online culture has changed a lot it seems in the few months since I’ve been on. In at least 5 instances I was propositioned within a page or two of dialogue. Hard and fast.

Like, Hi, Hi, let me stick my fingers in your pussy to see if you’re wet kind of fast.

Whoa.

Anyway, I’m digging deep into my stash of pics. I haven’t taken pics in so long. Oh well. My tits are still the same!

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:

NOT my tits:

Miss B in her pretty bra.

I enjoyed wearing this bra today under a very unsexy blouse at work (jean day), remembering that this bra shows my breasts in a very flattering way if they were seen (boyfriend would like knowing that…..?)

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


It’s been 23 years.

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This isn’t even remotely a sexy post.  My life is filled with less “sexy” these days and a lot more thinking.  I can’t find anyone I’m attracted to, first of all, and secondly, no one seems worth my time.  So I’m just going to write what’s in my heart instead.

I remember standing at the bus stop on my brand new college campus far away from home and feeling miserable.  I felt raw and overwhelmed and I hadn’t yet acclimated to anything about this city.  Not its culture, its heat, its weird streets and freeways, or its university with what seemed to me to be an atypical rabid loyalty from its students.  (Turns out, all colleges are like that, but I had no idea.)

“I just have to work hard and get out of here,” I thought as I watched throngs of students walk by and buses lumber past.  I’d been here for all of 2 months, but had already had a falling out with my father, and the mantra which got me out of California, painted on the wall of my room, didn’t really make sense.  I was where I’d worked so hard to get to.

That was the moment I realized I needed help, because everywhere you go, there you are.

I booked an appointment at the Student Mental Health Clinic that same day.  I want to say that I even walked there from the bus stop, but I can’t be certain.

For 16 weeks I met in one of the dark, windowless basement rooms with a beautiful PhD student whose name I can no longer recall.  Every session was recorded so his professor could monitor our progress and his acuity and I remember surreptitiously glancing at the red recording light on the camera mounted in the corner.

In that stack of email printouts I found recently I’d written someone about my sessions with him.  About how I struggled with feeling comfortable with his shockingly good looks and how much I cried about my dad and my friends from back home who never wrote. Sometimes it feels like my life started in that basement.

When the sessions ended (because 16 is plenty for a girl who’s been completely traumatized by her childhood and is on the brink of engaging in reckless drug and sexual activity) the center gave me a list of neighboring clinicians I could go to out of pocket.  My mom agreed to pay and for $100/hour in 1996 I sat on Sigmund Freud’s couch while he slurped his fast food drink and finished his lunch and I angrily wore sheer white shirts with no bra to get back at him for his disrespect.

It lasted 6 months before I realized he didn’t really give a shit about anything I had to say.  Besides, I felt better.  I felt generally more competent and emboldened: it was ok to do what I wanted.  I dated a girl, made lots of friends, drank and smoked weed with the honor students and smoked Benson and Hedges Menthol 100’s and requested them with a straight face.

By senior year my partying began to take its toll on me and my school work and I found myself back at the Mental Health Center, this time with a drug counselor of a sort who liked to draw me lots of diagrams and give me handouts.

She let my best friend come with me and we’d do a fun little couples session on how to set boundaries with our other friends and make better choices.  Debbie never judged us and she encouraged moderation over a hard line of abstinence only.  Obviously, we liked that.  But then those sessions ran out too, college ended, and I was out on my own in the big world at 21.

Twenty-one.  They say that’s a grown up adult with all the responsibilities and obligations of all the other adults, but when I think of that girl I think it’s a miracle she survived 22 more years.

I moved downtown and worked in a bar after graduation and snorted most of my piddly earnings and drunkenly fucked my way through my “industry” brothers.  Sex and alcohol were like peas and carrots in my book and the attention I was getting from men was its own intoxication as I’d been largely ignored since arriving at school.  What?  Men liked me??

That life only lasted a year before we all moved out and on and by 24 I was more or less behaving myself.  I’d gotten a cat and a dog, found steady work.  I still partied a little on weekends, still had drunken sex, but I also fell in love for the first time and had a “grown up” relationship where I practiced saying No for the first time.  I had varying degrees of success with that.

Therapy wasn’t a part of any of this.  My life was like a hamster ball rolling and bouncing downhill – and I was obviously the hamster just hanging on for dear life.  It worked just fine until my father crossed another line and I fell apart.  I kicked him back out of my sister’s and my lives, but that didn’t stop him from traveling from Colorado to knock on my front door one Sunday morning.

Disheveled and hungover, wearing my white satin Victoria’s Secret shorts and top ensemble I looked through the peep hole.  I should have pretended to not be home.

It was another traumatic visit which found me assailing him with my anger and him deflecting and blaming me.  What did he want?  Why was he there?  Why wouldn’t he fucking listen to me??!  It felt gross and needy and violating on every level and me being braless and in satin didn’t help.

Hours later he left and I crumpled into a hot mess of tears and blubbering.  I called my mom and she insisted I start therapy again.  I was 26 and – with the exception of the times I had a baby and toddler to care for – I have been in an office pouring my heart out ever since.

My last therapist was a father-figure in all ways.  He shared a look with my dad, a similar build, but where my father was disgusting and titillated by the world, Rich was calm and detached.  He was safe and encouraging.  He helped guide me to graduate school and into my marriage and helped me begin to trust men, just a little.  But when I left my husband, I lost him.

My wild sexual ways as Hy befuddled him.  He thought I needed to go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, he thought I was bipolar.  I relentlessly fought both: No, I was exploring and loving and feeling alive.  This wasn’t a manic episode, this was me!  I ended our 10 year relationship abruptly one afternoon and I haven’t looked back.

I was without therapy for another year before I called my couples counselor, the wizened woman who had tried her very best to help me and my husband reconcile.  Would she see me?  Yes, she would.

I have spent thousands of dollars over the years on therapy.  Thousands. That has meant I didn’t have money for travel, for fancy things, for a savings account.  It has been a monetary sacrifice, to be sure, but how do I put a price on saving my own life?  On having one person in this entire fucking world whom I can trust and be myself with?  When I feel so lost and isolated 99% of the time I feel at home on a couch.  I don’t even care that I’m paying her; I know she cares about me.

I cried yesterday on her sea-foam colored armchair because I miss Peter and his steady presence in my life, and where I am resolute in how I handled that situation, I feel less certain about The Golfer.  I am rehashing our times together trying to figure out what I may have done to make him reject me.  It’s a useless and silly exercise, a juvenile one like how little kids think they’re responsible for the terrible things their parents do to them, but I can’t help it.

And then I remember that one time in the very early days with The Neighbor when while walking up to a movie theater he grabbed my hand and I pulled it away.  “Friends with benes don’t hold hands,” I’d told him.  What if that one moment I rejected him shaped the entirety of the rest of our time together?  What if I had just let him hold my hand?

With TG I think, “What if when he was clearly being vulnerable with me and sharing that I was his only lover this year I had lied and said he was my only one, too?”  Perhaps my eluding the question hurt him deeply and that is why he is rejecting me now.

It’s embarrassing to admit such twisted logic.  I am a strong, intelligent, powerful woman after all, with more to give than most.  What is wrong with me??  But I don’t have to fear reprisal from my therapist.  She likes to sit quietly most days and ponder, absorb my flood of emotion, then speak thoughtfully.  Yesterday was no different.

“Hy,” she said at the end of the hour, “I shouldn’t be bringing this up right now [since we have to end], but I can’t help but think that both TN and TG are so similar for you.  With TG everything fun is on his own terms – everything – just like with TN.  He says when and where with no thought to your needs.  TN did the same thing.”

And that is why I will keep sitting on that couch until the day I die – hopefully more than another 23 years – because therapy is, quite literally, life.

 

 

 

Friday, August 9th, is Boobday!

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I continue to have my psychic tantrum on a rather large scale, but seem to be fooling everyone that I’m perfectly normal. I guess that’s good?

I’ve been sad about Peter and The Golfer. Sad about Peter because that was a relationship I counted on. Sad about TG for reasons less obvious to me. But I haven’t reached out to him like I said I would and that seems like progress, but the silence is deafening.

And I had a totally crappy first date last night with a man who brayed when he laughed and liked to jam his finger right in my face for emphasis. He also like to use that finger to poke me on occasion. I was looking for cameras because surely I was being Punk’d.

I pulled a “Chandler Bing” at the end of the night and suggested we meet again, though I have no intentions of doing so. I just don’t know how to dismount a bad date…

Anyway, the image I chose this week couldn’t be more fitting: dark and blurry. Like my heart right now.

Love you all and miss you! I’m following your lives as closely as I can am giving all the virtual hugs.

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:

It fits.

NOT my tits:

This is a beautiful LaPerla bra that I enjoy wearing under a Coldwater Creek sheer teal blouse.

::

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


Friday, August 2nd, is Boobday!

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Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I’m in San Francisco this morning, hence my lack of getting this together last night.  I fell asleep on the plane and was barely functional once at my sister’s.  It’s 55º this morning and I think I’m in heaven.

Believe it or not I actually took some pics this week – for my Irish friend I’d mentioned last week.  I was feelin’ it for some reason so decided to document.  Who knows when I’ll feel that again.

Ok, I gotta run.  Children everywhere and I have things to do.

xx

Hy

 

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:

All the workout clothes leaving marks.

 

NOT my tits

Lola has fanzzzzz.

A fan submission of her getting off to my pics.

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


A month of celibacy, possibly more.

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I haven’t had sex since June 22nd.  I have a period tracker I’ve been using for years to mark my sexual activity and all of July was e m p t y.  I had one tryst at a guy’s office that was hot, but it wasn’t sex.  We were both in the middle of our work day and I didn’t want our first time to be over his desk.  It was certainly a better lunch break than most others were having, though.

Other than that, not a thing has happened to me.  It’s so still, so quiet.

The Golfer is heavy on my mind and I’m deciding what to do with him.  The best sex of your life with a drunken, wealthy, golfer with issues basically balances out to a zero sum game.  I feel trapped in my own lustful desires.  My heart isn’t involved, but my molecules are.

Sex like what we share doesn’t happen every day and I feel closer to the Universe in those moments of release and abandon.

I can’t stop thinking about his turgid member pounding me in all my holes, the twinkle in his eye as he pulls out a new toy he’s bought for me, for us, or his sweet, praising words.  “Fuck, you are so fucking sexy I can’t keep my hands off of you!”

I haven’t heard anything like that in so long and I don’t see any respite in sight.

I pop onto some sites here and there and engage, but immediately disengage.  Do I even have the time or energy to expend on searching?  Perhaps the best course is to commit to celibacy and wait for my lover to resurface then greedily drive to his little suburban paradise and lose myself in our buckets of cum.

Perhaps the best course is to cut all ties and just focus on other things.

Perhaps the best course is to find a replacement.

Perhaps the best course is to sleep.

Perhaps the best course is to make love to my Hitachi more.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I am lost, but a little found.  Fuck, I want to fuck.  Fuck, is this what it feels like to be lonely?  Is this loneliness?  I can’t tell.

I’m fidgety and angsty and frustrated.  I want my atoms to mingle with the stars, but I also want to get lost in a love’s eyes.  A love’s.  But I don’t know if I’m built for love anymore, just lust.  Lust I know, lust I trust.

I wish TG would hurry up and just come back already so I didn’t have to feel a thing.  I like not feeling.

 

WickedWednesday

A quiet morning.

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I woke up this morning to quiet, a stillness. No one was texting me and – more importantly- no was not texting me.

I told The Golfer last week that I was busy for two weeks and would hit him up when I got free again. This morning I realized I could see him tonight, but my resistance to rejection is either high or low, depending on how you look at it: I don’t want to process yet someone else not wanting to spend time with me.

I don’t remember the last time my life was this man-free. I have always jockeyed for attention and sex from someone. If there wasn’t someone on deck, then I was plotting how to get someone there.

Today, I took my baby to the airport at 5 am to fly to the west coast to be with my sister, took the dog to the river for a two-hour hike and binge-watched Broadchurch on Netflix – the entire first season.

And I completely forgot about The Golfer.

I also avoided doing some administrative life things, but oh well. Sometimes I’m a shitty adult. Sometimes I kill it. Who’s signed up for 4 gym classes this week? This girl.

I took a selfie for the first time in weeks while on the trail and it’s so not sexy, so not revealing, so not sexual in any way I felt like it was worth sharing.

Just me being me. Hot and sweaty at the water’s edge sitting on an exposed root of a 50 ft tall cypress. No nipples, no nudity. Paddle boarders and kayakers rowed by in the baking sun while the dog cooled off in the dark waters along the bank behind me.

I felt calm. And relieved. No one was hurting me and more importantly, I wasn’t allowing it.

Sweat it out.
Sinful Sunday

Friday, July 26th, is Boobday!

Posted on

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Omg I forgot again, but remembered! I’m so proud of me!! I’m still all kinds of fucked up in the head, and my little boat is being tossed around by the waves quite a bit, but I’m still in it and there aren’t any holes. So that’s good.

Ok, short and sweet this week.

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.

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:

I’m so tired. I probably posted this one already, but oh well.

NOT my tits:

Miss B rocking the sheer look.

I wish to submit this photo of a sheer top that I have worn in public with a blazer on, yet I do not feel any shame in knowing my breasts may show. 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


See what’s in my Inbox.

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First, I would like to like to say that this post is dedicated to Ferns in honor of her Day of Birth.  She is my friend, my Fairy Domme-mother, and an inspiration to us all on how to have and hold boundaries, be open and communicative, and be damn funny.

Second, I would like to more formally introduce someone who’s been in my life for nearly a year, but has gotten little to no blog air time, an Irishman I met on a D/s site.  Originally we were going to meet while I was in London in March this year, but I called it off just days before because it didn’t feel right: he’d be on borrowed time so as not to hurt a vanilla woman he was seeing and I didn’t want to be #2.  He understood and our friendship remained and blossomed.

We grew closer as he opened up about his challenges dating in little bitty Ireland as a kinky man.  His real life relationships are all vanilla and traditional and he spends an enormous amount of energy avoiding babies and marriage.  He has no interest in either.

He tenderly focuses on one woman at a time, but is very much an “in the moment” only kind of guy.  I sympathize with his plight and share any warning signs I might see in a new lady of his.  And he counsels me on The Golfer and Peter.

“They’re assholes, Hy, and I don’t know why they’re treating you this way.  I would never treat a woman like that.”

“That’s how American men do ‘casual’.”

“Well that’s bullshit… though I do think The Golfer secretly has feelings for you and he’s just pushing you away because he’s afraid of his own feelings.”  He’s irksomely optimistic about me and my love life.  It’s kinda cute.

He’s also sweetly empathetic when my endeavors with other subs fall through, but one of my all time favorite things that we do – that I do to him – is sharing the contents of my inbox with him.

He roars with laughter and guffaws with appall at what men send in hopes of “catching” a woman and so I thought that maybe I would share some of them with you.  And because Ferns.

What’s important to know about all of these emails is that in my profile I very clearly state to 1) not call me by an honorific, 2) not ask me for anything, and 3) tell me their favorite color.  If all of those things are adhered to and they meet my other specifications such as being local and fit I will reply.  Otherwise, they get zilch.  Clearly, the Irishman was a location exception for me and I have no regrets.

I gave all of these guys a huge benefit of the doubt and assumed that any personal info included was true and accurate, so I’ve edited their notes to obscure any identifying facts.  I’m not sure I needed to do that seeing as some of what they wrote is completely fucking ludicrous, but you know: better safe than sorry.

Without further ado, I give you:

Subs Attempting to Attract a Domme and Failing Miserably and Instead Highlighting Their Ridiculous Sense of Male Entitlement and Privilege and Basically Making a Complete Ass of Themselves:

Mistress i am 24 years old sub. I like feminization and anal play very much. You can keep me in chastity or make me have ruined orgasms. I used wear panties all day for my last mistress. You can do a lot with me, But because of many fakes here i would like to know you a bit more, Have some connection so that both of us are comfortable with each other. If you like we can talk a bit. i have and i am fine with you not opening cam

This guy was from the Middle East, which is definitely local.  Plus, he’s obviously read my profile.  I’m so glad he wrote to me.

Hi Miss.

Hi, Another Dude Who Doesn’t Read.

Goddess
Impressed with you profile, thought to reach out.
I have been a closet sub for long and have recently ventured out to seek a Goddess jus like You who I can worship, serve, adore and devote myself, i have read a lot about serving a true Lady and believe have enough knowledge to be a good sub, am willing to learn what you like, dislike, wishes and serve You accordingly.

I like to be a devoted service sub and will focus on pleasing You by various means like providing relaxing massage when you arrive home, foot worship, foot rubs followed by foot bath n tongue massage, serving as shower boy, etc. I am very humble, obedient and respectful all times, its not about satisfying my needs but its always about focusing on Your pleasure Goddess.

Would you like to chat Goddess?

Not humble.  Not obedient.  Not even remotely appealing.

you have a great build maam.

do you like sounding maam?

It’s like talking to a walrus.

Good evening Goddess

Another walrus.

good afternoon Miss you do smoke cigarettes?

Walruses everywhere!

Hello, Maam.
Would i know Your Goddess Ass more closer? I’m just a slave.
Your David

My “Goddess Ass” will stay right here, thank you.

I am interested in meeting you to see how we like each othe.r I am very healthy man living in your city. I have been single for a while, and I want an ongoing, perhaps permanent, relationship. I am an educated and creative man I work seasonally, and I am off for a while now I am working on developing some websites, and look forward to this new career. Spiritual awakening is at the center of my life. I am mostly in the western esoteric tradition, and I may be studying to become a woo woo practitioner.  I practice yoga and cultivate health and happiness. I have been told I am well hung, and I am sexually potent I am very open minded to new sexual experiences.
Will you meet me?

This lovely form letter was accompanied by a photo of a what could be a serial killer in sandals and bright purple pants.  Send halp.

26, 8 inch.

I kinda appreciate this guy in Germany’s brevity.

Greetings Maam,
You have a nice profile and I wanted to introduce myself to you.
I am a very obedient, mature, educated and financially secure sub I travel a lot and been in the lifestyle for many years.
I live in Denver but distance is not an issue for me I am looking for something real, serious and not looking to waste your time.
I hope that you will find it worth replying back to me.
Have wonderful day.

You. Are. Not. Obedient!

Dear gorgeous Miss Hyacinth,

This subhuman slave applicant is looking for an extremely cruel and sadistic goddess to belong to completely and would like to be allowed no right, no limits or safewords at all. So far it seems to be too extreme for every mistress this creature spoke to

May this subhuman piece of shit ask if you would be open for a very special consensual blackmailing agreement, your Highness, in case you should accept this creature as your property?

This pathetic toilet does have very extreme material that will send it to prison for a long time. It would beg you for the only consent being that you will someday use the material and send this piece of shit to prison, when you are done with it, drained and destroyed it completely and there is nothing useful left for you.

You could even make sure prison would not be an easy way out for this pathetic piece of shit by eg tattooing it with things like shit in here on the upper lip, kick to flush above the cock, cumdisposal on ass or forhead, even torture me all over its body, before using the bm material to send it to prison.

Of course this scum will write all that down and sign it, and record a video stating this as well, to hand over along with the bm material when it arrives, beautiful Miss Hyacinth

This subhuman creature would like to experience hell on earth, a true nightmare with no waking up, a life without any hope or joy, an existence in constant pain, despair, misery, abuse and way more suffering and torture than this pathetic subhuman piece of shit could have ever dreamed of, hoped for or even feared gorgeous Miss Hyacinth.

Yet another brilliant example of entitlement.  I am no where in this laboriously created prose because it’s a form letter.  Pretty sure this dude just replaced whatever other woman’s name was there with “Hyacinth.”  Also, this fella might need a hug.  Jesus fucking Christ.

Miss Hyacinth you are holding great for your age.

Croatian men sure know how to flatter a gal.

[Ed. Note: Are we tired of reading these yet???  I’m not sure I’m ready to quit just yet…]

Hello, how are you doing?

Doms are so funny.

Hello. Sub looking to meet. I would like to write you a quick note to introduce myself, hoping that you might reply back. Well a bit more about myself: Physically I am 6 foot 1, 185 lbs, athletic build, clean cut look, other characteristics are that I am college educated, undergrad in engineering with an MBA from BYU. I am also outgoing like to travel and communicative currently live and work in PNW. I am 45 years old but nobody thinks I look my age. Will answer any questions that you may have of me, Hope to hear back soon, bye for now Bob

Thanks, Bob, for telling me things I could see in your profile next to height, weight, and location.  Also, thank you for telling me a bunch of meaningless bullshit then telling me that if I want to know more I have to do all the legwork.  Sounds great.  Talk to you soon! xx Hy

May I please still ask if you kiik or s k y p e with subs at times in hopes of making your acquaintance and being of use to you as you see fit? I apologize to not be in a position to fully respond to all your questions as I’m driving.

Friends don’t let friends drive and sub.  Also, I didn’t ask him anything, though this is the second time he’s asking me for my KIK and Skype.

[Ed. Note: Apologies in advance, but I’m too worn out from exposing myself to all of this to correct punctuation on the next email.  You’ll still get the gist.]

Good Day to you my Lady,

You will doubtless get scores of messages each week from idiotic jerk off merchants but I am seeking to return to my natural state of being
I saw your profile and read it I believe that I may be of some practical use to you in the near future That will depend upon the establishment of mature and fruitful dialogue and the building of trust between us I will not suit every womans needs but may well suit yours It is nothing strange or weird but it is not conventional either So if you are actually engaged in securing the services of one such as myself to own as legitimate freehold consensual property I may well suit you
Until 8 years ago I was a Bonded Manservant to a Dominant Lady who was a Professional Career Lady in a high profile role She was of Lesbian sexual orientation and had been a clandestine practitioner of the alternative lifestyle
She had a number of women friends who were professional women of all sexual orientations who like here had certain interests outside of their professions that back then would have been catastrophic for their careers
She wanted to acquire a male who would be as legally close to a traditional slave as possible in the modern world so that her manservant did the bulk of the work and she could relax in her home and not bother with the tedious domestic aspects of life She consulted with Attorney friends and it was suggested she adopt a number of voluntary power exchange enactments to achieve her ambition These ranged from Adult Guardianship Order, Adult Adoption Agreement, Durable Power of Attorney, Voluntary Worker Agreements with Employment rights waivers and more besides
When aged 23 she and several of her friends interviewed me after I had answered her Advert in a then contact magazine Several further interviews took place I had to sign a number of documents and also agree on tape and on video to serve her for an indeterminate period of time and to forgo any and all contact with family and friends I had no friends and no close family so that posed no problem for me
Her house was large and had private walled gardens and was in a leafy suburb with few other houses nearby and had plenty of security and the residents paid for a private security company to have two employees patrol the area 24 hours a day
Initially I worked 8 hours each day in the home and attended college to learn culinary skills, and Stewarding skills and took a few do it yourself courses Then I worked variable hours from 12 to 16 daily I had no days off and no vacation leave and this was by agreement I also had to con towards my own board and lodging and utility bill share I was orphaned as a baby and left a legacy in my parents will and a firm of accountants and another firm of lawyers oversee the legacy and I am paid a set sum each month which increases periodically with inflation
My Employer who was in effect my Owner in lifestyle protocols was 70 when she acquired me and the age gap was significant but she had wanted a young, fit and healthy male Bonded Servant, effectively a consensual slave I had for many long years sort to become and remain a real slave and so the opportunity was gred by me when presented to me Yes it was unorthodox but it was sensible and practical and served her needs and my own She also had a female maid companion who oversaw my daily servile labors I was not permitted to speak unless spoken to and had to remain in the background I had to bow my head in respect when a lady friend of hers past by as I engaged in my work and had to kneel down in front of her when summoned to her My accommodation was small and Spartan I was not allowed to use the Telephone, Write letters, use the Computer, Watch Television, listen to the Radio are read any Newspapers I cooked meals, vacuum cleaned the floors, scrubbed and polished kitchen and bathroom, aired and made the beds and changed linen, washed and ironed cloths, worked in the Garden and more besides I was also subject to physical chastisement as and when she are any of her friends required it and that was not in the least pleasant and often painful but tolerable I was also frequently kept in another required state
She died suddenly at her practice 8 years ago after I had been in her service ownership for 12 years and she was 82 at the time I was automatically released as none of her friends either wanted to or were in a position to acquire me
I have now been searching in vain for 8 years to become owned again and am now 43 years of age
I still live in hope of becoming and remaining a Bonded Manservant again My future lady owner can be of any occupation and social class,any race and color, physical disability, sexual orientation, married, single,divorced,with are without children, as the only requirement being that they have a genuine want and need to own a bonded manservant as their voluntary servile property I relocated to serve and be owned by her and can certainly do so again after travelling to a series of face to face meetings at my own expense I no longer have a profile because nowadays if you wish to change a single word and do so the profile either takes months to be reviewed and approved are is not approved at all I am of muscular build, 6 feet 3 inches tall, with a large but flaccid masculine endowment

TL;DR: I’m full of utter shit, read some historical romances and thought I’d emulate a really bad one.

Would you like spanking my pathetic manhood with a wooden ruler, spatula or other item until it cums from the pain?

Not today Mr. Guy From the South.  Maybe tomorrow.  HMU.

Greetings Miss

I’m a submissive male seeking to serve a genuinely dominant lady which is why I messaged you.

I seek to serve you in anyway you choose, without reservations Im humble, obedient, sincere and dedicated. Please consider my request. Waiting humbly for your response.

He’s still waiting, obvs.

[Ed. Note: Ok, I’m tiring…]

hi Miss my name is sam. i am a divorced male, very successful, yet i struggled for much of my life with awkward feelings when around powerful Women. it took alot, but i finally learned my place as a male. i have been reading alot about female domination, and i know it is becoming the norm for todays males, even though many males dont realize it. when i was young i was raised by a very strict mom and she instilled fear and respect for Women in me. She made sure i was always kept in place while at the same time she tended to boost my sister’s ego.  She restricted me but gave her freedoms i never knew i tried rebelling as i grew up, i tried to act like an alpha male around Women, and even into my marriage, but that didnt work out so well for me. i am now divorced because i didnt focus on putting Her needs first but since then i spent time reflecting on what i am, i read, learned, interacted, and i finally fully accept my place as a male, which is rightly at the feet of my Superiors and in servitude

Or… she might have divorced you because you. don’t. listen.

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock

Sure thing, Bossypants.  Please hold.

Hello.  do you accept online pay piggie slaves?

I’m pretty sure I’m leaving money on the table…  Will research later.

Hello Mistress, im a 27 year old virgin slut with an uncut cock. I want to be kept by you and trained to be a good whore, i want more than the anal pleasure i give myself. Keep me Mistress

Is it feasible to achieve virginal slut-hood??

Ok, I’m finally done now.  I’m exhausted.

No wait!  Let me leave you with just one more from Adult Friend Finder:

I want to fall asleep between your pussy walls with my tongue licking up and down both of your warm and wet holes, then while gently sucking on your click (pearl tongue) like a pacifier, go night, night. “Imagine That”

I’d rather not.  Fucking A, man.  Anyone else’s retinas burning??

Ok.  Now I’m done!

Happy birthday, Ferns!!!

 

It’s been quite the month.

Posted on

I know I’ve said I’ve cleared things out of my life before, but I’ll be the first to admit I never really did.  I’d always have some hanger-on, some dude whose bad manners and nice dick lingered on the peripheries of my consciousness, but this time I have truly swept it all away.

I officially ended things with Peter yesterday.  After he ignored a bid of mine to connect and discuss things between us I decided I needed to pull the trigger.

Hy:

Hey there.  I didn’t want to write this, but I’m not sure what else to do with you since you don’t seem to want to talk to me.  So I’m just gonna call it and say thank you and goodbye.

I wish you the absolute best, always, and I’ll be happy to hear from you one day when your time is your own and we don’t have to rush or sneak around.

Take care, sweet Peter.  Thanks for being kind to me.  I’m sorry it had to end. x

Peter:

Fuck, that hurts but I also totally get it. I’ve been very Reckless with your feelings and it was never my intention to hurt you. You’ve been a true champion to deal with me and I sincerely apologize. I will always wish the best for you and yours and I’m sorry it had to end too. Take care, sweetheart. Never forget how amazing you are

I cried when I read his message.  I’m not amazing enough for him.

And then I got mad.

I got mad that he couldn’t have been respectful and mature and told me he was in a new serious relationship with that new woman, mad that he’d flaked on me 5 out of the last 6 times we tried to get together, mad that he glossed over me.

I also ended things with a young man who sat too close to me all night and argued with me about non-monogamy, then showed up to our second date a wasted version of himself because he’d blown his wad doing something else before we met.  When I eventually lost patience with his toddler-about-to-pass-out-in-his-spaghetti-bowl attitude and called him on it he seemed to lose patience with me.  Several days later I called it with him, too:

Hy:

Hey there – so, I’d like to thank you for the drinks and for dinner, but also put a bow on this.  I’m just really not into dating anyone right now.  I’ll say Hi if I see you down on the river, though ?

Dude:

Sure no prob.

Even his response was lackluster.

I said a polite goodbye to the dad who emanated dad-vibes and grilled me about my shitty relationship with my ex:

Hy:

Hey Dad-Vibe Guy, I’m so sorry for being an asshole and not responding to your nice note sooner.  The truth is, my heart is just not into dating right now.  I had fun, too though, and thanks for the adult grilled cheese ?

Dad-Vibe Guy:

Appreciate the note. Best of luck to you.

And lastly, I tied it up with a potential sub whose conversational skills were severely lacking which I’d gently pointed out to him at dinner, as was his sex appeal (no, I didn’t point that out):

Potential Sub:

Hey thanks again:) I had such a great time chatting with you. Sorry I didn’t have more questions for you! I hope you didn’t take it as a lack of interest.

Hy:

You’re welcome! And really, it was my pleasure :)

I didn’t take it as a lack of interest, per se, but more of a lack of effort.You’re very chatty and curious about me via text.  I didn’t feel much curiosity about me from you and I was looking/hoping for that.  I can talk to anyone and carry any conversation, so I didn’t want that to skew things bn us.

I still don’t feel like I have a good read on you.  I can be very disarming and seductive and lose sight of being seduced myself.  That’s why I mentioned the questions of me – or lack there of.  I’m actually paying attention to what’s going on lol

*bc I take this stuff seriously

It’s about more than just getting laid after all ?? lol

Oh sorry – I forgot the ?

Lol

PS:

Haha! Gotta get all the necessary elements in there

Hy:

Yep haha

PS:

I totally hear you, and that makes sense. I do find myself more chatty and open via texting than in person, at least at first meeting. But I do open up more.

I think also my sense of someone and our connection comes more from just “hanging out” rather than any interview-style questioning

I feel like I get to know someone better that way. But I can totally see how it would come across as a lack of effort!

You were definitely disarming, easy to talk to, fun to be around

And very pretty

Hy:

Haha thanks ??‍♀️

PS:

You’re welcome!!!

[The next morning:]

Hope you slept well:) I definitely did after that meal and glass of wine!

Hy:

Morning

Your text woke me up haha

I have my phone set to sleep until 7 am but I forgot to mute it.Oops

PS:

Oh no, I’m so sorry!!!

Hy:

No it’s ok!It was my fault for not turning my ringer off

But I was slow to wake up which is why I didn’t text back right away

PS:

Sure, that totally makes sense:)

What are you up to today?

[Some small talk, then two days later:]

Hy:

Hey there

How’s it goin?

PS:

Hey!! Thanks for the text:) just out at the creek right now getting some sun. How’s your Monday so far?

Hy:

So far, so good.Just wanted to be transparent with you that I’m not sure we have the kind of connection I‘m looking for based off our one date.I can usually tell these things, but I don’t want to be rash about it either.What are your thoughts?

PS:

I gotcha! No worries, I kinda got that vibe from you. It’s okay.

I’m glad we met and at least tried

PS:

Agreed.Best of luck to you :)

There’s one you might notice not on here, The Golfer.  I don’t know what to do with him, honestly, so I’m going to just let it lie.  He’s consumed with work at the moment – and booze and golf – and I don’t feel like letting that one go just yet.  It may be that it’s already gone, but knowing he’s still in my solar system makes me feel better.  I can’t be that healthy.

Sunday morning I drifted between lucid dreams and consciousness and felt myself being led down a path.  Curious, I followed the Hy who was leading me and she took me to a box.  In it were things I’d chosen to keep years ago when my father’s boxes arrived at my house after he died.

I had sat crumpled on the floor with his baby teeth and drawings of 1950’s cars with fins and bawled: there was no one left on the planet to care about these things.  I got rid of most of it, his photos as a young man with my mother, hair long and straggly, sideburns and mustache down to his jaw line, anything of him as my father who hurt me past the age of 15.  I kept the drawings, the baby pictures, and him as a young father.  Before he was a monster.

This is what remained in my box.

When I woke, I knew it was time to get rid of it all.

I listened to Joni Mitchell and carefully went through all my boxes, 5 in total.  My mother was a great historian and I culled through my ABC books and old classwork and report cards filled with Cs and Ds in anything mathematical and shining with As in everything English and creative.  Note after note she’d left me and my sister (we were disowned at one point for leaving all the lights on and our curling iron) and letters to Santa.  Peppered throughout were littles bits of Dad.

A letter chastising me for not cleaning the rat’s cage, but pleading with me to call him collect from my grandma’s house, cards scribbled in crayon announcing my love for him, drawings of him with his glasses and big mustache.  Those were ok to get through; I made a special pile of his things.

The very last box at the very end of the night was where I began to falter.  This was the box I had meant to clean out all along.  There were the baby pictures of him, fat and smiling, his blonde hair glistening.  I sat on the couch and cried as I passed the pictures to Peyton, wanting my baby to see my father before I erased him completely from our world.

Then I found a manilla folder with an inch of printouts dated from 1996.  Emails between me and my mother, sister and father, and some between my mom and dad.  I had forgotten that year, the year I had railed against my father and screamed at him to Please stop being awful!  Please stop leaving me!

I loved him, I said, but I couldn’t keep allowing him to treat me the way he did, to make me feel so less than and undeserving.  I didn’t even know he’d hurt my sister yet.  His responses to me swung from touches of compassion to all out disdain, “Everyone has a fucked up childhood, Hyacinth.  It’s time to suck it up.  You’re not special,” he said. My childhood being fucked up hadn’t even been a complaint of mine.

I contemplated taking a few of the more vitriolic emails to my therapist this Friday, but in the end decided I didn’t want them anywhere near me anymore.  They had to go.

It took three trips to the recycling bin to get rid of all my homework and drawings of rainbows and by the time I took the box with the framed pictures of Dad with his arms wrapped around my mother, his drawings and letters it was full.  It went into the dumpster instead.

When I told my mom there wasn’t any room in the recycle bin she laughed.  “There’s no need to recycle that anyway.”

“Sorry for putting that negative mojo in you, Mother Earth,” I quipped.

But it’s done.

I’m all done.

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