Life imitating art.

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C’mon, Baby.

“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.

“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever.  I don’t want to stop.”  His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.

I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his.  This didn’t even feel real.

Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real.  Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real.  Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real.  Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.

“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.

“I wish you could, too.”

He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby.  His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder.  I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.

He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails.  I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.

I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him.  Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day.  No one is ever interested in my day.  But Peter is.

And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle.  When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height.  We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs.  Oh, Peter.

Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night.  No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all.  Eat your heart out, perfumers. 

We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms.  Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.

No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.

And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

An afternoon affair.

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I’ll be here.

 

 

 

February Photofest

Spending time in pink.

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I have spent a lovely afternoon and early evening in the arms of Peter.  His long, long limbs entwined with mine.  Soft, beautiful words falling all over my everything like snowflakes on flower petals on a comet tail.
Now I know how pink feels.
Little Spoon reporting for duty.
February Photofest

Friday, February 15th, is Boobday!

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Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt
No time to talk!  Have a great Boobday!
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:

Hanging out as one does.

NOT my tits:

Sandy IS an hourglass.

Worked from home today. Had some down time.

::


February Photofest

Happy VD.

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I felt a wave of sadness tonight at dinner with my family.

That I wasn’t being adored and lusted after by my man. That my outfit was for me and no one else. That no one gave two shits if I felt that kind of special.

Then I slipped the waitress my card and made my parents feel a regular special instead.

Maybe someday it’ll be my turn to feel any kind of special.

Hi.

February Photofest

I believe I can fly.

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Don’t look.

This long gaze and wide view of me makes me tremble.  There are no slights of hand here, no cut of a shadow or kiss of a sunbeam to contour my shape.  I feel more exposed in this open frame than in all of my thousands of arm’s length, close-up photos.  You can actually see me.

I believe that confidence is a mix of a magic feather and willing audience.  They want to see me fly and so I fly.  High and light and beautiful above them, gripping my feather tight because it can’t possibly be real, this unconditional appreciation and love.

When I was 10 my little heart was ground to a pulp by a silly boy and a group of heckling friends.  They didn’t believe in me except my gullibility.  I was detestable, an easy target.  That wasn’t the thing that broke me, but it was by far the most memorable – and earliest – instance when I felt unacceptable.

Growing up in this world that presents a very narrow path to society’s acceptance – skinny, young, pouty lips, clear skin, big tits, shiny hair, fun, funny, pretty, easy, cool, sweet, and and and – I suffered like most of us do.  I wasn’t special in that narrative.  I hated everything about my body.  My hair color, my ass, my little breasts.  I never wanted to be what I was.

Then I began to find my audience as I grew older.  No one was kicking me out of bed.  I may not have been stopping traffic, but I seemed to be holding my own.  Boys in bars and men online and folks online, people whose acceptance of me was never narrow treated me like I was a desirable, beautiful woman.

It took a while – 36 years to be exact – but I finally discovered the equation to feel 7 feet tall: a little cleavage and a controlled image plus an approving audience equals a performance that even I could believe in.  It was as if I believed in them believing in me which helped me believe in myself.  I truly am not an island: I need you all.

I worry sometimes about the passage of time and my inevitable move away from the narrow definition of attractiveness and this self-esteem equation but perhaps by then I will have shifted things around.  Less audience, more just me.  I’ve seen enough little old ladies with white chin hairs like dorsal fins above the water’s surface to know that it could happen.

For now it looks like something like this: Some Hy x my mood + some audience approval = a confident, relaxed Hy.  My mood is the variable that affects the need for audience approval.  For example, had I not gotten laid February 1st after taking a months worth of long-view photos for this project I may have taken a hit right in the gut and stayed in bed for the weekend periodically wondering how anyone can stand being around me.

But I didn’t have to worry about that because my smoke and mirrors worked in person, too, and I got to rub my hands all over his chiseled abs even as my soft thighs spread down around on either side of hips.  My act so seamless and sublime that he didn’t now he was really with a dumpy middle-aged woman.  He truly thought he was with a voluptuous goddess that night.  And so did I.  Because I am.

February Photofest

I got an extra belt.

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I noticed his belt on my dresser this afternoon, coiled like a snake.  Dark brown, almost black, smooth and well-made.  Its low-key fanciness surprised me.

I pulled it through my fingers and watched its shine bend and flex with my hands and smiled.  It was a nice meaty weight.

I’ll think of him, he who couldn’t be bothered to text me after sex, when I wrap it around the throat of my next sublime and willing lover.  If he ever calls to get it back I’ll tell him the dog ate it.

Eat your heart out, asshole.

February Photofest

Hyperventilating and pushing through.

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I’ve told a handful more of real life friends about this blog.  It was during a love-fuzzy day for two friends and I felt wrapped in friendship and so was brave.

“Ladies,” I said in the crowded cafe, “in the interest of being open and deepening friendships I have something to share with you.”  And then I blabbed my own deepest and darkest secret and probably shit my pants a little.

No one was surprised – as no one has been yet – and they were all eager to be sent the URL (Hi, if any of you are reading – eek! – but I’m still gonna write like no one is reading.)  I explained why I’ve felt the need to keep it a secret and each of them admitted to their own versions of hiding their true selves from the world.  It was nice.  But I’m still queasy.

It’s a lot to bare.  And to bear.

Speaking of sticking my neck out, I’ve decided to join in the Smut Marathon again.  There’s a giant pool of starting writers (102!) which will be quickly cut down to a more manageable number by Round 3.  Last year I got knocked out in Round 2, so if I make it to 3 I’ll consider it a win.  If not, that’s ok, too.  I’m not actually that great up against “real writers” who know their grammar and whose creative tools are more sharpened.

I just slap my emotions on a page and disdain commas for effect and hope y’all like what you read.

I can’t tell you which entry is mine – but I can tell you to go vote.  You get to pick your top 3 choices and if you’re feeling really benevolent you can leave a comment with some feedback about them (and your least favorite 3).  I’ll be the one reading the comments between her fingers.

Voting is open until Friday.

My heart is open until I don’t know when.

Here I am.
February Photofest

Seeing the matrix.

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It’s hard to ignore things when you know the truth.
Here I am.
February Photofest

This is how you lose me and this is how you get me.

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How I like to be approached.

Good sex cannot be underestimated.  Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness.  Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us.  It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.

I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday.  We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on.  Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.

A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin.  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower.   Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.

When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him.  There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.

The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over.  I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang?  Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close).  He nodded and the kisses commenced.

His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs.  I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.

He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs.  I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor.  Whoops.

Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day.  Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today.  I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is.  He’s done it.

And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before.  I have no room for that person in my life.

Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes.  Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend.  I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.

As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.

 

 

February Photofest

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