Know when to hold ’em.

I’ve been wanting to write a lot lately, but have been keeping quiet and just thinking instead.  I don’t like it; I need to pour myself out onto the page, to see myself wind through the letters and lines like water through a little ravine.

The Rich Golfer, the man I met in person one fateful night has significantly highlighted some of my greater faults and weaknesses when it comes to love and relationships, namely that I love a good chase to the exclusion of all else.

I love the thrill of hunting a man and twisting him to my will, the dark heat of seduction and manipulation.  I mean no ill will, but I light up at the thought of moving pieces across a board.  If I knew any good chess move references, I’d use one here now, but I only know checkmate, and I am wise enough to know that scoring sex is far from the checkmate I really crave.

After our first incredible and drunken night we kept in touch with some basic sexting.  A pic here and there, no real communication.  Interest was mutual.  I finagled a second meeting to return his RayBans, to which he’d shown no real attachment and had even said if we couldn’t coordinate schedules that I could keep them.  But I insisted.  It was the ethical thing to do!

At his posh house near a golf course 5 miles outside of town (and a 30 minute drive from my house) he met me at the door in jeans, a tee, and barefoot.  We hugged and he sniffed my hair and made an appreciative sound.  I was sober and would have to stay that way for the night because of some antibiotics I was on; he had imbibed with some golf buddies earlier and he vibrated sex and oozed an easy confidence.

We sat in a separate sitting area with a record player and candles flickered around us.  His floofy dog made bids for attention while he rubbed my feet and we talked and laughed.

He massaged my feet with candle wax and sucked my toes and took me out back on his little patio and insisted I sit on his lap while we shared a cigarette, my occasional vice.

In his room he ravaged me and his cock stayed hard for hours, magically.  “Did you take something for this?” I panted, spent and cum dumb, my hand absentmindedly joy-sticking his dick.

“No.  I swear.  You’re doing this to me!”

We fucked all night long, my cum soaking the bed just like he’d been begging me for all week on our phones.  Sideways, backwards, standing, sitting.  On his insistence I’d brought my vibrator and as I sat on his hips I rocketed out my skull with a body-shaking orgasm, pouring my soul all over the bed sheets.  I would have cried for mercy had I any water left in my body.

He gently washed me in the shower and the bubbles were slick under his hot hands, his cock still unbelievably hard.

We fell asleep after one more long and punishing fuck with a movie on his big screen tv, sprawled in his king sized bed.

I slept fitfully.  There were moments throughout our coupling – with him inside of me – where I thought This can’t possibly be real.  He’s going to cum then tell me to leave, that it was all just a big joke.  He’s far too hot for me, too rich, too successful.  These thoughts ticked through my mind as I fell asleep cradled in his arms.

The next morning I woke before dawn.  I had to get home to let the dog out.

He got up with me and pulled me down on the couch for one last cuddle.  His hand found my pussy and dug inside.  I came almost instantly.

Without a word he stood up and I followed him into his room, dropping my panties along the way.  He took me one last time from behind with a grinding, gripping dump of cum on my back.

I showered quickly once more and he walked me to the door and gave me a long hug goodbye.  I drove with the windows down, the sun fully risen, my panties in my purse, and my mind racing.

I left for London the following Wednesday thinking about him.  Neither of us could believe that the second time was at least as good as the first and we were still in disbelief over the first time, drunken or not.

We texted a little here and there over the course of my trip.  He’s not much of a texter, but he couldn’t wait for me “to cum back.”

We made plans for me to come over that first Saturday I was home.  How do I like my steak?  Mooing.

I stopped and bought two bottles of wine and arrived in jeans and a tee with the dog.  “Yes, bring him,” he’d said.  I wouldn’t have to rush off this time.

The night flowed like the last time.  He cooked two filets and baked potatoes with a salad.  We ate at his dining room table, a first ever for him, and chatted and laughed about fuck knows what.  It was easy and fun and exciting.

It started with another foot massage and led straight to the bedroom.  We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more.

“I had such big plans for you tonight,” he whispered huskily in my ear, “but you’ve derailed them all.  I was going to tie you up, but I just can’t get enough of you…”

I purred and cuddled closer, pulled him into every hole I had and screamed with lust as the pleasure of this kindred spirit poured over me while he was buried deep in my ass. I watched him above me, eating me alive with his eyes, grimacing with his own elation. My bellybutton filled with my cum as the room filled with sounds of my orgasm.

“I wonder if it will always be like this,” he mused, collapsed beside me.

“We could find out.”

“Let’s do it Monday,” he suggested.  It was Saturday night.

We cleaned up under a hot rain and he asked if I’d ever had a golden shower.  My answer was to shake my head No and offer him my back side.  He smiled wickedly and peed on my rump as the clean water and piss mingled down my legs to the drain.

“I’ve had two ‘firsts’ tonight,” I said back in bed lying in his nook.  “I came on my back while getting fucked in the ass and I got a golden shower.  I didn’t know I still had ‘firsts’ left in me!”  I couldn’t stop smiling into the candlelight.

“I’m happy I could help.”

Our dogs had romped happily during our sex breaks outside and mine whined the night away as he was locked out of the bedroom, but we slept soundly and as dawn broke once again we fucked and bathed again and then he made us coffee.

He was quieter now and put golf on the tv.  I sipped his coffee and sat beside him, sensitive to the new vibe.  I didn’t have to rush off this time, but I didn’t feel welcome to stay, but stay I did because it felt silly to run off when it was unnecessary.  I didn’t want to acknowledge the shift.

Determined to end on a high note, I rubbed the bulge in his red sweat pants and it immediately hardened.  I pushed the coffee table away and knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth, fat and hard.

He moaned and gently touched my hair.  “Let’s go to my room.”

We hadn’t touched the vibrator the night before, but it lay on the ground on his side of the bed like a long-tailed lizard.  I pressed it to me as he pounded me from behind and came mightily.  His skin glistened with sweat and I pushed him on his back, crawled up his legs and licked me off of him and sucked every last bit of jizz right out of him.

He shook and got quiet.  I licked my lips and got up to redress.

Back on the couch, with more coffee in hand, I tried to engage him.  I asked questions about golf, his Game of Thrones encyclopedia that lay like a brick on the coffee table.  He answered, but showed no interest in the connection.  The dogs irritatingly played  on top of us and he kicked them outside.

When it finally felt like time to leave – after 3 too many cups of coffee – he hugged me goodbye, but deflected the kiss I attempted.  His lips fell on only the corner of mine.  I drove home with the windows down again, but my heart wasn’t light.  Something was off.  And I’d left my vibrator behind deliberately on accident.

The following three days opened up to nothingness.  We did not meet up on Monday or any other day.  He explained that it was a week-night and he couldn’t fuck like on a weekend, but I could “swing by anytime” to retrieve my vibrator.  He was also going out of town that weekend.

I suggested we get together the weekend after.  He said he should be around.   Slightly defeated, but not wanting to let on, I told him to send nudes with a smiley face.  He sent a winky face.  Since there was no urgency to see me again, I just ordered a new vibrator instead.  I’d see him when I saw him, I supposed.

It’s been two weeks since that text exchange and I haven’t heard from him.

Last night as I parked a few empty spaces away from The Neighbor’s car it hit me again that our entire 3-year relationship was mostly a product of my will, my plotting, my sheer seduction of him and manipulation of the situation.  He never wanted to date me and yet I moved us both across the board in spectacular fashion because I wanted him and nothing would stop me.

If I pursue RG while he is doing whatever it is he’s doing I will be contaminating the data.  How can I tell if he wants to spend time with me if I am fiddling with our dynamic?  How can I know if I want to spend time with him if I don’t allow him to show me more of who he is?

The Prime Directive of dating here should have always been, Let him show you who he is.  Let him show me he wants me.  Rather than Hunt, chase, devour, win!  But I guess I’m a really slow learner and old habits die hard.  I need to fucking chill out and set my Seduction Level to zero.

So I have sat on my hands for two weeks and not said a peep.  I’ve felt hurt, confused, indignant, sad, hopeful, relieved, strong, weak, proud, humiliated.  I won a bet with a friend that I wouldn’t hear from him in a week.  My heart felt brittle and black.

When that next weekend that we might have met up came and went with no word I stayed the course, remained quiet.  I would not meddle.

And then I just re-read our last texts.

They were friendly, soft, not not interested, so I softened a little and felt my interest rise again.  I decided to place my piece back on the board, though with no strategy in mind, with a funny, sexy, innocuous text Hello.

I feel like I am observing myself in the wild.  What will Hy do now that she has peeked her head out from behind the Saharan bush and identified her target?

I guess we’ll see what his next move is and where I end up on the board. Also, he was probably just thinking about his golf game and taxes for the last two weeks.

 

 

[Ed. Note: the title is from Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler:]

 

Friday, April 12th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Late.  Again.  Big surprise!

I’ve been in a super funk all week.  I even bought a pack of smokes, which I have done only twice before in the past 4 years.  So that should tell you something about my mental state.

Lemme just give a quick update and I’ll fill in the gaps later:

Rich Golfer – the drunken hookup – and I have met up twice more.  Both glorious.  Of course now he is ignoring me.

Milwaukee –  A guy I met on Seeking Arrangement because apparently I lost my mind for about 5 days and reactivated my account for no good reason, but turned out to be a total surprise of a human.  He’s flying down next week to see me for a couple of days.

Peter – my longtime FWB – came over last Friday and we had a proper date and fucked like monkeys.  In my butt.  I loved it.

The Dom – a 50-something fella I stumbled on on AFF who also is on Fet.  Obviously being openly submissive is NOT my thing, but we met for coffee before I left for London and he emanated dominance and it felt so warm and lovely.  We’re meeting for wine next week.

The Vet(erinarian) – another AFF discovery.  He’s a GenXer like me and also wants to see me soon.  We’ll see.

Ok.  Time for boobs!

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:

Missing this little beautiful room and its incredible shower.

NOT my tits:

Miss B likes her red.

I love red bras anytime possible.  This is one of my favorites.

::

Sexxxy Sannndy.

When you can’t have His warm strong arms wrapped around you on a chilly morning, steal his jacket. Mmmm his smell awakens me

::

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

Friday, April 5th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Apologies for the late posting, but none of my shit was cooperating – still no clue what’s going on, but it just took foreverrrrrrr for everything load and open and blah blah blah, blah blahbityblah.

But here it is!  The linky tool changed, so if there are any glitches, lemme know.

I’ve been vegging out on the couch all day re-watching the last season of Game of Thrones.  Fuck, that show is good.

Also, I feel like Goldilocks.  The bed is always either too hard or too soft…

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:

Black and white photo of Hyacinth leaning over a white bed in only her white lace underwear
Just leaning in…

NOT my tits:

 

Sandy making me want to where checkers, too!

Someone went home shirtless 😁

::

Miss B rocking her gifts.

The attached picture is a beautiful handmade bra I received last week as a gift. I’m looking forward to wearing it under the sheer blouse picture I submitted for Boob Day last week.

::

 

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

Being alone together.

I needed that big, hot cock buried full tilt in my ass just like that.  With the world melted away in streaks and the sounds of the city clinging to my skin like sweat, his big hands gripped onto the softness of my hips.  I needed to feel myself from the inside out, to feel a big body slide against mine, a soft mouth on the apex of my legs, to laugh from ear to ear when we realized we were both carrying around LEGO men with us.  I needed this.

I came to London to runaway again, just like the last two times.  To escape the stifling real life of home where Hy exists only beneath the surface and between the sheets and where I struggle to combine the two very complete sides of me into a whole woman.  London is where I ooze and pulse and flow in all my exposed, dirty glory.

I came with him rooted deep inside of me and loosed my joy in rivulets down my thighs.  We collapsed like two dominoes briefly before he went to the shower to clean himself up.

He’d booked me this room in Soho and I’d wandered here aimlessly after my Eroticon goodbyes.  It was a pretty nice room after I’d upgraded it from a tiny hole-in-the-wall.

He had to work late and sent many apologies.  “Shall I meet you in the lobby?”

He was tall, bespectacled, nerdy.  My type.  I had to work to keep up to his long Londoner pace to the restaurant around the corner, a Scottish seafood place.  Over wine we unraveled our stories, our trials.  He met me as me, not Hy, but I immediately outted myself.

“Actually, I’m here for a convention…” and so the story goes.  Secret sex blogger, it’s a big part of my life, Instagram account, been doing it for 7 years, won awards, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah.  His eyes lit up.  He seemed to see it as a bonus.

We laughed at the ridiculous way we’d met, but really, he said, “It was just easier.”  He worked 60+ hours a week and every weekend, without fail, he traveled hours back to where his little boy lives with his ex.  “All I can do is this,” he motioned between the two of us.  “And few women understand.  I want intimacy, but I can’t offer more.  It all goes to my son.”

I nodded knowing all too well that drive to connect in any way possible while life swirled around and swept me out to sea far from the shore of another person.  “I get it,” was all I said.  “I really, really get it.”

Sitting there with him at that little marble table something happened to me again, that very thing I seek in the big, dark city of London: I opened up like some great force was attached to a zipper tab pulling down.  All the way, unzippered, exposed, opened up, me flapping in the wind.

The dim candle light which flickered lazily lit my unveiling.  Nothing was off limits for either of us.  Heartbreaks, family, love lost, babies, fears.  And then it was time to go and I had no doubts for our imminent future together.  I wanted to be even closer to this stranger.

Outside he reached for my hand – such a little thing that no one ever does – and I clasped it warmly.  He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly as we stood on a busy corner like we had done this before.

I nearly skipped back to the room; my heart was open, my hand held, my loins alert.

In the room I grabbed a pad of hotel paper and drew a gallows and ten dashes.  He guessed my BUTT FUCKER and I guessed his PEEPING TOM.  SEND NUDES, BOXERS OR BRIEFS, SQUIRTER, and so on with the giggles and innuendos and references to things we’d talked about over that lazy candle on the marble table.  We couldn’t seem to lose so I upped the ante.  It’d now be strip Hangman.

I lost my tights and he his pants before the final game.  It was my clue.

As the solution dawned on him he threw me a wicked smile and crushed my mouth with his, deeply and passionately.  I clung to him and willed my skin to dissolve to be ever closer.

We fucked until I drenched the bed with uncountable orgasms and screams, until I sparkled pink and the neighbors banged on the wall.  The concierge called twice and, unfettered, I unplugged the phone in a rosy haze while we kept fucking until he emptied his beautiful balls in a dark, tight place semen shouldn’t go.

He left me shortly after – he had a long day of work ahead and he wanted to get some rest for me for the next night we’d be together.

I lay alone in the king sized bed spread eagle, sated, full, not alone.

The next day, completely homeless between beds, I strolled through Covent Gardens’ cobblestone paths and listened to violinists play in the atrium.  I bought a double-decker bus key chain and a London Tube tea towel.  I crossed the Thames and sat on benches and quietly watched the skyline as barges scuttled by.  I had a drink at the top of the OXO building and Facetimed my baby who was in New York City with my ex and then strolled through the Tate flitting from art to art like a fat little bumble bee going from flower to flower.

I took pictures of the Millennium Bridge to send to Peyton (“Its the bridge Volemort’s followers destroy!”) and walked across briskly, like I knew where I was going.  I ended up back at Trafalgar Square and sat on the lip of a fountain and watched scores of tourists take pictures.  A Russian family next to me were particularly enamored with the lone duck paddling behind me.  Are there not ducks in Russia??

It was no where near time to meet Dave, my Legoman.  My legs ached from criss-crossing the city and I was sad.  The potion we created from the night before had long since worn off and the drop from the highs of the convention seemed to have replaced my heart beat.  I was so, so alone.

I tried to imagine the day with someone and wondered why that appealed to me.  This day was completely mine to do with as I wished.  The year before Jean Claude had dragged me all over the city and the south of England and while I’d enjoyed it immensely I had still felt disconnected, disjointed somehow.

I meandered back to Soho and was turned away from four restaurants in an attempt to find somewhere to rest and have a glass of wine.  Fucking London and their tiny restaurants.  Finally I found a place to land out of the cold night air and waited for directions to Dave’s near Greenwich.

It was the only Uber I took the entire week.  I couldn’t muster the emotional energy to drag my suitcase through the tunnels of the Tube and navigate another part of the system.  My Romanian driver was nervous about dropping me off in the dark side street his GPS took us.  “It’s fine.”  Dave was right around the corner, his overcoat billowed open behind him, his arms opened wide for a hug.

I nestled closer and said I needed to rinse the city off of me before we headed to dinner.  I dressed quickly and powered my nose while he watched me and we talked about our days. The Italian restaurant around the corner was cozy and I ate almost my entire bowl of carbonara like a hungry street urchin.

Back on his couch he told me how special I was, how beautiful and sensitive and intelligent and open and so many things my brain vibrated with the praise and I faltered with words.  “You’re pretty great, too,” I said.

Our coupling that night was less urgent and more searching.  This would be the last time, possibly ever, we would touch one another.  His mouth was softer, more delicate, his thrusts more thoughtful.  I came more quietly, but no less robustly.  We fell asleep curled around one another.

When morning dawned I watched him from beneath my lids doing the mundane things men do every day of their lives that I never get to see.  He stretched, he staggered to the toilet, he peed and showered and put on deodorant, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  He put his pants on one leg at a time and fiddled with his cuff links.

His cologne smelled grassy and masculine.

He kissed me goodbye with instructions for his keys.  I could stay as long as I liked.  He wouldn’t be home until after 7, but I was off to my next destination in Pimlico.  Jean Claude was flying down the next night.  I cried.

I cried at my loneliness, the empty bed, the quiet.  This time the potion wore off much faster.

Deep beneath the city of London I sat between many strangers and watched tiles and things whiz by.  My belongings wedged between my knees, my heart feeling like a crumpled piece of paper.  Everyone avoided looking at each other until an American family from Florida boarded.

The mother sniped at her young daughter’s gum chewing and some nice Englishman engaged them almost as if to save the rest of us from their obnoxiousness.  I wished I was home with my dog.

In Pimlico, at the swankiest place yet, I could barely form sentences to staff to get to my room.  I cried in the restaurant and dragged myself back to my room and wept into a scalding shower, the water not nearly hot enough to scorch the loneliness from my being.

I wept for everything I do to connect, everything I lose by doing so, and everything I wish for, but fail to obtain.  I wept for the little me who somewhere along the line was so hurt she cannot trust anyone but strangers and for the grown woman who knows the difference.

I cried until the water began to cool and then wrapped myself in thick terry cloth and spread my tears on the bed.  I dozed and cried for hours until it was time to take another train to meet Girl on the Net for drinks with her friends.  I perked up like a watered plant in her sunshine.  When I left my dirt was once again dry and I drooped sadly as I returned to my room.  Alone again.

The next morning I lay in the cool dawn light, naked, and exposed.  On the agenda was only tea with a shy blogging friend at noon, then many more hours of nothing until Jean Claude arrived.  I decided to allow myself to sink into the solitary layout of my day and slept for several more hours twisted in hotel bedding, took another scorching hot shower, and boarded the Tube north once more.

Tea was lovely and I got to gaze into the most soulful eyes which, to my American eye, resembled exactly a lushly wooded English hillside with their greens and browns.  My friend was sweet and open and funny and flirty and, just like with Girl on the Net, my petals opened to his sunny disposition.  And, just like with GOTN, when I left I drooped again and could only just manage to crawl back in between my sheets until nearly after 10 pm when Jean Claude arrived.

We swept through the neighborhood looking for wine, bought two bottles and laid on my bed.  We talked for hours even though my eyes felt heavy and all I really wanted to do was fuck until I passed out.  But instead of rolling around with our clothes off we talked politics and finances and about family.  He asked about the convention and how I was doing.  He was interested and interesting and wanted to connect.  Finally I begged off, empty as a tin can, disrobed, and fell asleep in his big spoon.

On the second dawn in that room I fumbled for him and found his chubby meat resting in a pile on his thighs.  I stroked and petted and kissed.  I wanted to feel the connection from the night before, but whatever had happened between us was just a spell: his body remained aloof and uncompromising to my touch.

He managed to stuff himself inside of me a time or two and he swelled with concentration.  I  moaned and then he receded to some distant corner of his mind and I was left alone once again with a giant man on top of me who was not thinking of me.

Patiently and entertainingly, I played my fingertips along his skin and ran my body over his, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – come back to me.  I grew tired of the attempt to not to be alone and finally gave up, took up my position in his big spoon again and drifted back off to sleep.

We took showers separately and he bought me breakfast in Belgravia then walked me all the way through the Tube turnstile for the last leg of my trip.  He was nothing if not careful in his tender care of me.

We hugged goodbye and I felt a stillness where my heart should be.  I had already said goodbye to him in my own searching way in the dim morning light with him far, far away from me.

On the train north to Michael and Molly’s the urban countryside stopped and started half a dozen times.  I floated gently above my seat and the previous 9 days wove their way around me like silken branches.  I had transcended my earthly American body and inhabited the celestial London Hyacinth with complete abandon and whimsy.  I had never said no, never said too much, never stopped opening myself up.

As the train slowed down to my final stop I took a deep breath; one more day as Hyacinth was all I had left.

I crossed the tracks with my all my Hyacinth things and followed the pathway to an alley where Molly whooshed to a halt in her silver Peugeot.  Sitting on the wrong side of the car never felt so right.

At the house Michael crushed me in a bear hug then stuffed us all with homemade apple pie.  I hugged Cara hello and occupied her over-stuffed chair in the corner while she drank tea at the table.

The four of us, this motley crew of secret sex bloggers and advocates and writers and movers and shakers, perched in our chairs scattered around the kitchen table for hours.  We laughed and drank more tea, the other two women lamented at Michael’s rich foods and their potentially expanding waistlines.  I basked in the intimacy, the beautiful little family unit that I had somehow weaseled my way into yet again.

That’s when I realized: I needed that big, unconditional love and acceptance buried full tilt into my heart… just like that.

And then it was another dawn, another bleary-eyed Molly taking me to the airport, another hug goodbye, another security line to maneuver and another day-long journey home.

Alone.  Not together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, March 29th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Ahhhh, it’s the Big Boobday today!  This is where I share the most amazing group Boobday photo yet!  Thirty of us piled into a room at the end of Eroticon, unceremoniously stripped, and got up close and personal with one another.  It was glorious.

If you look closely, there are many, many body types represented here – though obviously we’re quite a pale bunch – the diversity in shapes, ages, and presentations is pretty fierce.

Thank you to all the folks who followed me to the back of the room and shared your bodies with me.  I promise to do something like this every single Eroticon I ever attend and hopefully someone else will organize it in my stead if I can’t come.

Don’t forget, Boobday is all about body confidence, seeing yourself through others’ eyes and loving the skin you’re in because I know that sometimes it can be a struggle.  We all need to see how delectable we are, to believe in our beauty, and to feel accepted.  Controlling your image, being in charge of what you show and when can be a big part of that for some people – I know it is for me.  I feel like a different person when I see an image of my body, like Wow, that’s me??  I want that for everyone.

I love you all and if I didn’t thank you personally that day I’d like to say it again now.  Thank you.  Boobday wouldn’t exist without you, your support, or your participation.

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 (and lots of others!):

Black and white image of a group of 30 white women naked from the waist up with their hands covering their faces
Glorious, glorious boobs! Pic taken by the talented Missy.

NOT my tits:

Miss B gets shady.

This is one of my first sheer blouse purchases and my favorite. Of course, you COULD wear a camisole underneath if you wish, but I do not wish to do so! I wish my boyfriend and others to be able to see my great boobs!

::

Sandy torturing her pretty titties.

A little rubber band play

 

 


Friday, March 22nd, is Boobday!

I’m sitting in Pimlico, a neighborhood I never even heard of before yesterday, having a glass of wine and a bite to eat alone.

Jean Luc of last year’s Eroticon adventure is en route to meet me for the night then I’m set loose back on to Michael and Molly’s for my last day here.

I won’t go into too much detail here, but suffice it to say I’ve never been so bone tired in my life. If I haven’t been walking around homeless between hotels, I’ve been sleeping or fucking. Mostly sleeping, though.

And I guess I’m blogging?? Gah. So. Tired.

Hopefully next week I’ll have the go-ahead to post the epic Boobday pic 30 of us took together the last minutes of the convention. It’s stunning and I know you’ll love it.

Ok, my pate has arrived and I need to eat before this leg of my trip commences.

Wish me luck!

xx

Hy

My tits:

Pimlico plums.

NOT my tits:

Miss B’s lovely tank top tits.

This is a men’s tank top that I like wearing with a black jacket and leather pants or skirt and heels for evenings out.  

Anonymous Aussie and her lovely breasts.

I simply adore the old world charm of black & white….

Sandy sizzling in ropes!

Bound.


Friday, March 15th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

True to form, I’m late posting this.

I was up 28 hours yesterday with jet lag and the time change back in the States and having coffee after 12 pm London time.  Fuck.

I thought about posting Boobday, but didn’t want to tempt myself with falling down an internet rabbit hole when I should have been sleeping, so I put myself to bed at approximately 9 o’clock then proceeded to torture myself for the next 4 hours ruminating on wishing I’d brought a different suitcase (among other things).

So, here we are, on regular Hy time.

My friend, Miss K is back!  She used to submit ages ago; it’s so lovely to see women come back to Boobday after long breaks.  Sandy is sexy as ever and Miss B is here once again, as well!  She’s on a 3 week streak, I think!

To all my fellow Eroticon-goers, I’d like to get a group shot this weekend for next week’s Boobday.  Hit me up on Twitter or email hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com – or just come find me – if you’d like to join in!  Here’s the group shot from Eroticon 2016.  Just gorgeous, ladies!

I’m currently sitting at a little Italian Cafe a stone’s throw from the convention hall and about to set myself loose on London for a few hours to stretch my legs and beat this fucking awful jet lag.

See some of you tonight at the Meet and Greet!  And to everyone else, Happy Friday!

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 think the nuts and olives are the real stars here.

 

NOT my tits:

Miss B masters the art of revealing all by keeping her clothes on.

This is a men’s tank top that I like wearing with a black jacket and leather pants or skirt and heels for evenings out.

::

Sexy Sandyyyyyy.

On the days I work from home has its benefits

::

I’m a sucker for a good tease and K nails it.

I love the feel of my boyfriends jacket against my skin. K~

 


Meet me and greet me: Eroticon 2019

I’m sitting in the airport about to leave my city and am finally able to get around to this.  I’ve been waking up every night since Sunday at 3 am (my body’s time) since we jumped ahead to Daylight Savings Time (for real, when are we going to stop doing this to ourselves?!) and my mind has been spinning with everything I’ve had to do both at work and home to get ready for this moment.

My entire Eroticon session is done… in my head.  Actually, technically, it’s completely finished!  I just assume that people want visuals, so visuals they’ll get! and that’s the bit I haven’t done yet.

If you’d like for me and the group to give feedback on your feed and or a photo you can either email it to me (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) or DM me on Twitter.   It will all be friendly and supportive, of course!

Ok, on to the bidness of the Meet and Greet!  Can’t wait to see everyone!

 

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

@adissolutelife

Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2019

1. Hugging my wifeys.  No joke, I just got teary at the airport bar thinking about being back in their arms.

2. Being with the incredible group of people that make up this vibrant, creative, smart, sensitive, evolving, and strong community.

3. Leading a session again and participating on a panel about memes!  Wanna know which ones?  Click here for deets!

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song.

I’m completely useless when it comes to this.  I adore music, but always seem to miss the artist and song name – all the important details.  How about… The Police Greatest Hits??

What is your favourite item or book you’ve purchased so far this year?

Hands down it’d be my $85 smart watch with a pedometer from AmazBit.

You can have an unlimited supply of one thing for the rest of your life, what is it? Sushi? Scotch Tape?

Money, obviously.

What is your favourite quote from a movie?

Well, I believe in the soul. The cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing AstroTurf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. [pause] Goodnight. – Crash Davis, Bull Durham

 

What is your word suggestion to next years Eroticon anthology?

Freedom

Complete the sentence:
I feel…

… this glass of rosé like it’s sunshine on my soul.

Friday, March 8th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Well, as I suspected I blew my writing wad on February Photo Fest and so I’ve been languishing in not writing much this week.  I’m also on an antibiotic for BV and I can’t drink for 10 days.  Not a big deal at all, but it has allowed me to just really have chill and introspective nights alone with myself which I’ve been enjoying a lot.

I suspect I got the infection from my raunchy night with the Rich Golfer.  Drunk men aren’t the best at not cross-contaminating with fingers in holes, after all.  So no booze what so ever and no sex what so ever, either this week.  It’s been really really great, actually.

Friends and men both have teased me about giving either or both a try, but I have been unwilling to experiment.  I need the puss in tip top shape for my trip to London in the event I get lucky.  I also don’t need to feel the wrath of whatever my body would do to me if I were to introduce alcohol.

So, here I am: sober and sexless and loving it.

Of course, having said that, I will be seeing RG tonight to finally get him his RayBans.  I think I’m going to bring my vibrator and some Topo Chico.

This weekend is the last mad push to get ready for Eroticon and I have lists as long as my arm to get finished before I leave next Wednesday.

As far as boobs go, I think y’all will like this week’s submissions – read Sandy’s comment closely.

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 love doing these selfies again.

NOT my tits:

I love the sparkles on Sandy’s fingers and wrist.

Mother of the groom.

::

Strappy black on Miss B for the win.

This is a fun band bra to wear under anything and protects the precious boobs!

::

 


Friday, March 1st, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Ahhhhhh, March!  In 13 days I’ll board a plane and cross the Pond and land in my fairy tale land, London Town.  Ten days later I’ll board another plane, cross back over the Pond and cry my eyes out as I return to real life.

It would also appear that my time doing February Photo Fest got me back in fine blogging form seeing as I had this post at middle midnight!

Let the countdown begin to the best part of my year!

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!

Feels good to be back in a selfie.

NOT my tits:

Miss B basking in the sun.
This photo was taken on my home balcony on a very cool day by my photographer boyfriend.  It was a quick picture!

::

 

I reallllly wish we could see Sandy in that reflection, too.

Post workout boobs


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