Friday, March 29th, is Boobday!

What is Boobday?

Boobday is a place for us to honor breasts of all shapes and sizes belonging to all types of folks. Transgender, queer, straight, bi, fit, fat, and in between.

All of us who are the owners of breasts know their magical powers, but not everyone gets to hear it. I hope this will become a place of support and praise. I hear all the time from The Neighbor how much he loves my breasts; I see it in his eyes and feel his cock get hard the instant my flesh hits his lips or touches his fingertips. I want every woman to feel special in that way. Just for being a woman.

Anyone may submit a photo and I take submissions throughout the week, so if you want to be included in next week’s go ahead and don’t wait! Let me know whether or not you want to be anonymous or not. If you’re a blogger and want me to link back, send me your Boobday url. One of these days I’ll figure out a better system, like one of those Linky deals.

It can be an exposed breast, covered, scarred, removed, big, small, augmented, whatever.

Boobs — I’m convinced — are loved by literally everyone. Gay men, straight men, women, children, babies, and hungry baby animals (apparently). EVERYONE LOVES BOOBS, so lets celebrate them!

Man… I so wish I could share this with TN. He’d be in hog heaven.

My boobs:

There's  weiner dog on my chest.
There’s wiener dog on my chest.

Not my boobs:DSC_6918   Twisted Angel 032913

Anon 032913

Anon 032913

April 032913

Grace 032913

Anon 032913

  Pink Panties Anon 032913

Anon 032913

Speechless and honored. This is only her 2nd public boob pic ever (click through).
The ubiquitous Molly of Molly’s Daily Kiss (click through).
LSAM in wet t-shirt glory (click through).
The lovely Grace (click through).
Twisted Angel  related to April (click through)
June Like the Month’s luscious ladies (click through).

Ok, last one for this weekend.  All others will be included next week:

Pillow-y (click through).

[Postscript: In doing this project this week, I’ve unearthed several emails in my junk folder from readers. God only knows how many have been lost forever. If you’ve ever emailed me and never heard back, email again! I always write y’all back!]

Tomorrow is Boobday!

Just a quick reminder that tomorrow is the breast day of the week!

Go here for info. I’ll take submissions today and all day tomorrow.

In TN-Hy news, we’re busy having sex every day this week. Sunday marked Day 0, Monday, Day 1, etc. I have so many filthy stories to share so far I can’t keep up.

Needless to say, I’m exhausted and stupidly happy.

I fucking love this kid…


He loves strawberries, sex, and submission.

My eyes were heavy and my head stung; that irritating need to sleep pulled at me from a distance. The house was cleaned, the floors bare for him to do his chore, my room glowed with candles and I curled under my down comforter with a leg bent on top. He’d said 10 o’clock.

At 10 after 10, I sneaked under the blankets effectively hiding the curve of my thigh and my soft thigh-high socks. In addition to the sting of exhaustion, irritation joined the fray.

My eyes closed and I relaxed into the feathers. One spank for each minute, I thought. This is unacceptable. I contemplated calling off the night all together, but felt that would be more of a punishment for me than him. Spanks would have to suffice. And then a little torture.

At 10:13 he texted, “ETA 2 minutes.” I grinned at the thought of a nice round 15 lashes on his white bottom. I dared him to make it 20 and closed my eyes again willing my anger away.

When I opened my eyes 2 minutes later he was in my room, naked. I looked at him quietly and rolled over to face him. His expression was clear and open, curious as I observed him. “You said 10 o’clock,” I told him flatly.

He leaned over me, a hand on either side of me, “I went and worked out and –” I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“There’s only one thing I want to hear from you. I don’t care about any of that other stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”


“I’m very, very sorry, Ma’am.”

“I was on top of the covers waiting for you, but it got too cold.”

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

In the short time we’ve been exploring D/s I can’t quite figure him out. He is supple in my hands inside defined parameters, but occasionally he steps out and I am forced to step up. I assume this is the nature of D/s: he wants and needs to be corrected. And the more he steps out, I’m discovering, the easier it becomes to deal with the slight to my ego, my heart, my whatever because I have a fall-back system with which to deal with it: punishment, and an old standby: communication.

I am continually amazed by this dynamic, how safe it feels, how normal and natural. I routinely catch myself so languidly happy with “us” that I jerk awake and remind myself this isn’t entirely real, due to the nature of our relationship. It’s going to end in a non-traditional way and, most likely, come from left-fucking-field.

He pulled my shirt down to expose a breast and went for it with his mouth. “No, no, no,” I said stopping him with my hand on his face. “You haven’t earned the right to suck, yet.” His face fell.

Just then I stretched beneath him and noticed my sore legs from my earlier run. “Massage my leg,” I suggested. He jumped at the chance yo make amends.

He sat back and gripped my thigh with his hands and kneaded the skin. I moaned and closed my eyes. “Good, boy.”

For the next 10 minutes I writhed and moaned, and told him “harder,” “more,” and “do my knee again.” My bad mood sifted away like sands at high tide.

“I have a second part to your punishment,” I said, “but I can’t decide to do it before or after you vacuum.” He sighed audibly. “Do you want to go for 3 parts??” I asked incredulous.

His answer solved all the riddles. With my foot cradled in his hands and his face bathed in candlelight he said, “Maybe.”

That one word took me to a different sphere. He wanted me to discipline, to not back down, to demand he fall in line; he wanted to know where the invisible fence lay and feel the sting of the zap when he went beyond it. I was more than happy to fulfill his desire.

I pulled my pj shorts aside, licked my fingers, and flatly began to rub my flesh; my clit icy hot bulged like a little balloon. The Neighbor lay between my splayed legs and could only watch. I continued to stroke, letting him lick my fingers when necessary, my hand a little blur.

He kneeled between my legs, a question on his face. I looked down and his erection bobbed fiercely between us.

‘Ok, but just the tip,” I panted.

He eased himself in, even the tip big and filling. My fingers whizzed over my skin and I felt the orgasm gathering like a distant storm. With a devilish grin, his eyes locked on mine, he pushed in past the tip.

“You’re being very naughty,” I glared at him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied and pulled back further.

It was torture — pure motherfucking torture – to follow through on my directive, be consistent.

His little thrusts were more tantalizing, more sensual, more deliberate. He seemed utterly in control; I ached for him to plunge into me. “Ok,” I breathed finally, “You can go all the way in.”

He fell forward over me encasing me in his strawberry scent and kissed me as he squeezed fully into me… and held.

That hold, that pause, it’s the most magnificent part of sex. Better than cumming, better than sub-space/topping/swallowing/anything. It’s the moment my senses are alight and I am a nerve, a woman, human and pulsing. That thrust is everything.

He pulled back slowly and re-entered me, his lips soft and pliant on mine. He kissed my neck then and nibbled my shoulder as he thrust again, slowly. I grabbed his flanks and held him close again and with every ounce of self-control I could muster — I regained my position on top and pushed him away. “Assume the position, please,” I gently ordered.

My red leather belt made matching red marks on his lily white ass proffered to me like a virgin on the slab. He apologized for being late and for letting me get cold. Each loud smack was met with a grunt and an, “I’m sorry, Ma’am!” All my checked anger pooled in my cunt as I concentrated on hitting the same tender skin repeatedly; my arm felt like a sniper; my senses danced on pinpoints.

At 15 I kissed his red bottom and said, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t 16 minutes late?” and gave him the gift that he’d been begging to wear for 24 hours: The Oatmeal’s Hot Cock underpants.

He slipped them on, twirled about like a little boy with his new cowboy gear and went about cleaning my floors. I waited in my room, naked beneath the sheets.

When he was finished he peeled off the bright red shorts and climbed under the covers with me and I threaded my legs with his and nestled in his strawberry-patch chest. “I don’t know how you make strawberry so fucking sexy, but you do,” I murmured into his skin; his fingers traced lines on my arm.

I sat up then and threw the pillows off revealing black velcro wrist restraints that I’d gotten ready for him. He exclaimed happily and held still while I wrapped his wrists high where he couldn’t touch me. This was Part 3 of his punishment: a little torture.

I sat between his legs and kissed him and dragged my tender nipples along his thighs as I licked his shaft from balls to stern. He moaned and stretched beneath me and mumbled something ridiculous.

I crawled up his body and pushed the weight of my breasts into his face, not allowing my nipple to enter his mouth. He whimpered and rooted for one. He continued to babble despite my earlier warning to be quiet.

I pulled away abruptly and dug in my box of ties. “I warned you if you weren’t quiet I’d gag you. You’re much more appealing when you’re silent,” I said again. I tied a strip of green silk behind his head and, like a dutiful horse with a bit in his mouth, he was presented to me. He was magnificent.

Subdued, gloriously masculine for giving up his power and strength over me, muscled and broad, yet under my care and creativity. I was in total control by the look in his eyes. My heart raced and burst at the seams with love for him.

With the room nicely void of his musings I fell lustily on his cock, rabidly hard and impatient. I told him I was going to play with his beautiful little anus and that there was nothing he could do to stop me. He nodded.

I sucked and stroked with my mouth and hand and pushed tenderly at the pucker with my index finger. It flexed and withdrew from my touch like an anemone in the tide pools. I pushed gently in time with the motion of my head, never breaking the ring to his body.

I felt him begin to open beneath me, his passion taking him past embarrassment. I pulled away, stopped, dragged my breasts up to his face and pressed them into his eyes and against his closely shaven face.

He moaned and strained against the ties and I maneuvered a breast into a hand for a quick grab before I swung my left leg over him like I was mounting a saddle. I leaned forward to maneuver his cock inside of me, letting him see a wink of my own asshole. I sat back down, deeply, giving him a full view of my ample ass engulfing him.

He exclaimed around the gag as I moved slowly, exploring the sensation of his cock backwards inside of me. I moved faster and moaned uncontrollably. My chest and arms felt warm and heavy and I began to whimper when I heard a muffled, “Vibrator…” from behind me. I stopped and turned around. “Vibrator…” he said again.

I clicked it on and placed it on my tender skin. He twitched inside of me and I bucked against it as if scalded. I made noises I didn’t know I could make as the orgasm tore threw me and left me a quaking, shaking mess around his mischievous, twitching penis.

I pulled off of him, turned around and impaled my face on his erection and went back to his little ass-star. Happily, eagerly, and within seconds I felt him bear down on my finger. I slipped it just inside and pushed at the rim as I sucked.

As I felt him reopen to me I brought my breasts back to him, pausing my attention to his cock, and – finally – untied the gag. He suckled on my teats, greedy and ravenous.

I pulled away from his sweet mouth and returned to his delicious cock. He gasped and bucked as my finger went back to his hole and mouth continued to draw on him.

I heard velcro pop a little then, his sharp intake of breath, and held on as he arched into me spewing his seed into my hot little mouth. I tasted his tart, hot jizz and smiled around him. He shook and rattled to a stop and giggled and breathed jagged gulps of air.

I flopped down next to him and gently untied his hands. “Now your punishment is over.” We laughed and hugged each other.

He thanked me and kissed my temple. I lay in his arms for minutes more and we chatted about our night. “I love the three S’s”, he said, “Strawberries, sex, and submission.” I giggled and kissed his warm skin laced with sex and fruit. Then, it was time for him to go.

He tucked me in, thanked me for everything, and apologized again for being late.

“Thank you for saying that, but quite honestly, I’m glad you were late.”

“Me, too,” he said and left.

His penis is lemon-y.

I was trying to be cute and flirty by sending him a pic of his beautifully massive erection this morning.

He came over last night after Peyton was in bed to show me a sunburn, but ended up revealing my black lace panties beneath his shorts instead — and a boner to end all boners.

So, I snapped pics of his delicious bubble butt, our legs tangled, my hand on his ass, a rear view shot with his dangling nut sack falling out of the lace basket, and some with the cock itself bursting out of the top of the lace towards the camera lens. It was one of those I sent.

But autocorrect decided to reveal how dorky — and unsexy — I really am.

:: sigh ::


Hyacinth takes a shower.

I never feel more ridiculous than when I bring my iPhone into the shower with me.  However, I love the results.

Rub-a-dub-dub, Hy in a tub.
Rub-a-dub-dub, Hy in a tub.

Sinful Sunday

Friday will henceforth be known as Boobday – First Boobday Post!

Friday is a rough and beautiful day. We’re all dragging our sorry asses through until we get home and can rest for the weekend.

The coffee’s long since worn off, happy hour sounds like heaven on earth, and Saturday morning calls to us like a siren on a rock.

I both love and hate Friday for taking so long to get here and then for being so goddamned glorious. It hurts it’s so pretty.

So, in honor of this day — and to reward ourselves — I’m making Friday Boobday around these parts.!

I know I’m a prolific poster-of-boobs, but I’d like to open it up to all my readers and fellow bloggers, so it’s not just my boring ol’ tits all the time.

And, more importantly, I want to showcase all the beautiful varieties of breasts out there. I want big ones, little ones, lopsided, scarred, removed, augmented, all of them on here one day. I can dream!

This can happen a couple of different ways:

1. If you have a blog, post your pics and link back to my post for that day. The ping back will show up in my comments and I’ll add the link to the body of the post, as well as the image itself.

2. If you want to post your pic only on my blog and not on yours OR you don’t have a blog, then send me an email ( with your image(s) and let me know if you’d like to be anonymous or not.

I encourage all you women reading this to participate. I want everyone to be proud, feel beautiful, and bask in the love of boobs with me. I get crazy amounts if boob-loving and I’d like to share the wealth.

Pics can be anything you like, so long as luscious lady bags are in them somehow. What that looks like is entirely up to you.

Readers, your job is to leave lots of that sticky love for all the girls and their girls.

It’s not too late to do it today!

So, without further ado, here are my boobs.





NOT my boobs:

cara_march22_boobday cara_march22_boobday


::boobday boobday

I do as promised.

This shirt is 8 years old.
This shirt is 8 years old.

Last night The Neighbor came over a little past 10. Peyton was soundly asleep and I was at my kitchen table doing some work.

I was tired, but happy to see him — a new morning gig has me up at the crack of dawn every day and 10pm more feels like 4am. I just looked at him with an open expression. He felt silly and made to leave. I told him to stop and to come closer and put his bubble butt “here, in my hand.”

He came closer and I discovered he had on tight workout clothes. Unacceptable. “What’s all this?” I asked.

“Oh. I tried to workout tonight, but my leg hurt, so I had to stop.” I rubbed his legs. “I think I hurt my knee yesterday on the stair climber.” I kept rubbing. “I’m going to go lie down now,” he said then and disappeared to my room.

I followed him, thoughtful. Hours earlier, I’d gone back to my writings of March of last year and reread them all. And I was mortified.

I ached for the woman I read on the pages. She was so confused, in a lot of pain, and wrestling with burgeoning feelings for her neighbor who told her repeatedly their affair would soon end and he would date the woman of his dreams, his future wife.

I read how he’d taken the-girl-who-wouldn’t-touch-him to his best friend’s birthday party and my stomach had clenched. This year, I was resoundingly not invited to the same best friend’s birthday dinner.

Immediately I thought back to the night several weeks ago when he told me 4 am girl and his ex girlfriend were different from me because, as he said “They were his girlfriends,” and I am not and I felt small and silly and misused.

I wrestled with the proverbial kick to my gut. Had I not just written an essay about how I wasn’t afraid of loss anymore? That I was in charge of myself and my feelings?? I dug deeper.

It wasn’t a fear of loss that was twisting me up. It was a feeling of being less-than, not as important, being tucked away in a dark corner. Not right.

I entered my room and took off my pants and climbed into bed with him, my mind in a flurry. “Just so you know, I’m too tired to fuck or get sucked,” he said. He reached out his arm to me and I sighed and snuggled into his nook. “Here,” he said lifting his shirt.

“That’s ok. Me, too.”

I giggled and pressed my nose to his warm, clean skin as I would a bouquet of fragrant roses. He smelled of strawberries and skin and love. “Mmm,” I purred, shoving thoughts from my brain. “My favorite place o be.”

He pulled the covers up over my head and I was encased in a strawberry scented biodome. We both giggled.

We cuddled then and I tried to forget about that girl from forever ago who was so easily allowed into an important part of his life when I am not, but it still bothered me.

And there was more: there were two other conversations we’ve had recently that had lodged in my skin like splinters. Splinters that I strained to ignore, but became inflamed last night.

There was the chat a week ago when I asked him if his best friend knew who I was yet. The answer is somewhat ridiculous: the best friend knows that TN’s fucking a woman named Hyacinth and that TN is close friends with his neighbor. The best friend doesn’t know she’s the same woman.

At the time I was in our usual position when alone: in his arms. “Well, that’s weird,” I countered playing with his chest hair, my feelings bruised.

He became defensive.

“It’s not ‘weird,’ Hy. He doesn’t care and neither do I.”

I felt sucker punched.

And the second talk took place two nights ago when I shared a disturbing dream with him.

We lay in bed, naked, and I was filled with embarrassment and dread. He was going to propose and I didn’t want him to. Like a sunrise I was unable to stop, he drew out a little chocolate cake-ball and inside — I knew — was the ring he’d painstakingly chosen for me.

I acted surprised and grateful and slipped it on. A round solitaire, big, but not gaudy. I told him neither yes or no, but asked for some time. In truth, I needed to figure out how to turn him down.

I didn’t want to marry him because I didn’t want to inflict him on Peyton; a man who’s sworn he could never love another man’s child will not be invited to be in my child’s life in that way. Though, you’d never know it by watching them together — he seems to enjoy and care for my baby –but I figured he’d forgotten about Peyton’s existence. Our time together is rarely a threesome.

What I shared with him was that he’d proposed, I wasn’t happy about it, didn’t really trust that it was him, and then the lengthy part of the dream wherein my mother lost her shit on me and co-opted my feelings.

I knew immediately it was a mistake telling him. He tensed and seemed strange and I could hear the wheels spinning in his fat brain. I knew what the dream meant and it certainly wasn’t the desire for a wedding with him. It actually represented my growing sense of closeness with him and the inevitable decision I am going to make for the safety of my child’s heart, which is to leave. Pretty simple. But what he heard was, “HY DREAMED I PROPOSED TO HER.”

And so last night, in my strawberry bubble of sweetness, I felt compelled to bring up the best-friend-birthday-dinner-thing to ward off a an early attack of the 90-day-Hy-freaks-out schedule (I’m due in April, in case you were wondering, so these early scrambles are actually like clock work).

I told him how I’d read my old journals from a year ago and I’d discovered the note about the girl. He explained that she was actually a part of that circle of friends and that’s why she was there. Where’s my dunce’s hat?, I wondered. What an epic fucking fail on my part.

As we talked he pushed my hand down his pants, but his tight shorts were restrictive. “Take these horrible things off,” I said. He raised his hips and slid them off and pulled down his underwear. His erection sprang free and he placed my hand on it. We kept talking.

“Are you weirded out?” I asked.

“Yeah, a little,” he admitted.

“I felt I had to tell you how I was feeling. I’m trying hard to communicate with you. Are you still freaking out about my dream last night, too?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

“Why?” I asked squeezing his cock.

“Because, it’s a little upsetting!”

“But why? I never get inside your head. You have to tell me how you’re feeling or what you’re thinking.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” he said evading the question still.

“No, because I said clearly that I did not want to marry you and that I was upset that you’d proposed in the first place, but all you’re focusing on is the proposal part and not the rest!” I sighed. “I swear, I’m cool. I don’t want to marry you and I don’t want anything to change.”

“Ok, but you have to understand how that could freak me out because of the nature of our relationship.”

I froze.

The “nature of our relationship”? What did that mean? Holy fucking shit. He still thinks we’re not together! All the breakups we’ve ever shared flashed before my eyes where we cried and my heart was ripped out; his icy blue eyes looking directly into my darker ones and saying, “I do not love you. You will never be my girlfriend.”

I cringed and took a deep breath, pretended that I totally agreed. Of course! The nature of our relationship precludes any kind of commitment or long-term feelings, therefore he has every right to be freaked the fuck out that I was dreaming about marrying him.

We cuddled a little longer. I felt stupid and like finding the nearest rock to climb under instead of basking on top of the warm rock of my lover’s body. He stood up and got dressed, tucked me in and gave me a long, easy kiss goodnight, his heart safely behind steel.

Countdown to Freakout #6 continues… also, how human am I?

These tits are 37 years old.

He gets on his knees.

“Do you want me on my knees in front of the fireplace?” he asked sweetly.

“I’m not sure,” I answered, thoughtful. “I plan on being out late tonight and drinking.”

“Well, ok. Just let me know.” I gave him the customary swat out the door and clicked the lock behind him.


When I go back a year and read my posts, my yearning for something is palpable. I wanted connection, love, trust, passion. I was locked in a terrible embrace with fear of loss and all it entails and The Neighbor was a complicit partner.

He was uncommunicative and distant. He liked to taunt me, torture me and basically flog my ego until I would literally beg for parts of him, at which point he might deign to humor me. Or possibly not.

What I didn’t know then, that I’m beginning to understand now, is that my offered position of subservience kept him away and it never had the potential to draw him nearer like I hoped. He wanted me on top. Always. Somewhere near his marrow he is some kind of submissive.

He needs me to be in charge, confident and independent, not simpering and desperate for attention. He needs me to think of him and his pleasure first. I need his trust and for him to need me.

Since the sun has risen on this slumbering side of me I feel taller — I’m the tallest 5’5″ woman you know — and I am no longer scared of him walking off. Maybe I’ll walk off instead.

And now my stark, raving fear has gone away like the steam from a kettle. I am gentle. I am strong. I am changing. I make the decisions.

The shift isn’t perceptible to the outside. It’s a private contract we’ve signed between each other. When he calls me “Ma’am” in public I swell with pride and excitement. The rules are making themselves known with each step; I could never have laid them all out myself.

One thing is clear: I’m more in love with him than ever.


“I’m coming to get you. Text me the address,” he said, his deep voice clear and vibrant.

It hadn’t been the plan at all, but he’d been texting me all night asking my whereabouts and my ETA and things weren’t going according to plan.

Apparently, he was coming to rescue me from the hipster-clogged streets and over-extended taxis. I would soon be in his kneeling arms after all.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up in his dark luxury car at the end of the street and my friend and I hopped in, to be greeted by his boyish face dusted with whiskers and split with a smile.

We lavished thanks on him and he was gracious and kind as he dropped off my friend. When she was gone, the silent whisper of the car taunted me to rub the bulge between his legs. My white knight in a black car was aroused.

Moving shadows played across his face, his thick hands gripped the steering wheel, and I continued to make him grow.

We parked and climbed the stairs. He fondled my bottom and I giggled. A pat and a tickle. A love and a whisper.

A minute later, naked and pressed against him my body flexed and received him. Ever ready, always wet at the slightest glance, we both exclaimed as he pressed deep inside of me.

“I’m not going to look away,” I said, more to myself than him and my lashes fluttered.

His broad shoulders over me, his arms locked and flexed, his beautifully shadowed face nodded approval. Then he began to move.

The flower of my passion opened like the hussy that she is and I dug my nails into his flanks to draw him ever closer. His tempo increased and he hitched my ankles up to his shoulders and pile drove into me.

Bloom after bloom of little g-spot fireworks peppered me from the inside and I coasted for a minute like a rag doll. I begged him to stop, said I was going to die, but never truly cried uncle. The torture was too sweet.

I grabbed his head and pulled his face down to mine and kissed him passionately.

“Ok, stop. Stop for real,” I panted. He instantly stilled and waited. For me.

“Get on your knees,” I whispered. “I want your cum on my tits. Now.” He raised his eyebrows for a second, but didn’t hesitate. Slowly he pulled out and kneeled to my left. This wasn’t the kneeling man I’d envisioned earlier, but this was a beautiful man.

I leaned over and grabbed the Hitachi and the head buzzed noisily on my clit as his hand became a blur above me.

“Oh my god, you are so hot, Hy,” he gritted out. I closed my eyes to imagine the sight we made: a creamy and muscled man, with dark hair across his chest, his tree-trunk legs spread wide and kneeling, his hand fapping at his enormous erection like a teenager with a box of porn and me, a thickly curved woman on her back, breasts large and plump like domes of Jell-O, knees slightly splayed, breath heavy, eyes closed beneath her dark and staring lover.

My revery was broken by a lusty, “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum on your tits.”

“Cum on my face,” I offered.

He exploded and cried out and I closed my eyes as semen rained down on me, landing on my breasts, my jaw, and my cheek.

He fell forward and giggled a little. I pressed the wand down harder and concentrated as the jizz’s magic heat began to cool on my skin. He laid down beside me and made little patterns in it over the swells of my breasts and the flat stretch of my chest. He followed the trail up to my jaw and kissed some off of me.

My build jumped forward and I chuckled that a glob was under my eye. Carefully, he wiped it away and closed his mouth over mine. My pussy clenched and I inhaled the fragrance of his seed and remembered the look in his eyes moments before and I came long and hard in his arms and to his words of encouragement.


I am not the boss of him — I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t really want to do, but my loss of fear has opened me up to the possibility of being something else for a change: myself.

Dominance and submission, compersion via swinging, good old fashioned vanilla, a blowjob and a handjob. It doesn’t matter what I do so long as I’m real, so long as I’m me.

And me — I think — is a horny, self-esteemed, loving, curious, bashful schmuck who is no longer afraid of losing someone because she’s sorta found a little more of herself.

Fancy fucking that.

Someone called me skinny.

And then I asked her if she needed glasses.

She insisted I looked “super skinny,” which in our fucked up sexist, fat-hating world means, “I think you look great!”

So then I asked her if she was feeling well, pushing the ungracious envelope a far as I could.

She insisted she was fine and so I finally accepted her compliment. I even hugged her, because the truth is I haven’t been feeling all that good looking lately.

“What’s your diet?” she wanted to know. It took every ounce of self control in my body not to answer, “Lots of sex, wine, and smoothies.” I said, “The no-diet diet,” instead.

The Neighbor hasn’t been as amorous. He’s been asking for TN Time and knowing introverts as I do, I always oblige, with no hard feelings.

But I can’t help but feel a little low in the sexy/pretty department. It’s likely why I’ve been posting so many pics here lately.

I refute the notion that I shouldn’t rely on outside feedback for confidence; it’s a mixture. I need a look in a man’s eye, a friend’s kind word and my own inner sense of badassery. Fuck anyone who tells me I should feel differently about myself.

And so I took myself on a little walk today in that Spring weather I waxed melodic about the other day and it was glorious.

My hips swung, my breasts bounced, and I filled my lungs with river-cooled air.

I am not skinny, nor – god forbid – will I ever be — I imagine only illness could scrape off my layers of voluptuousness.

I am feeling much better.

So between my walk today, my sweet interlude with TN last night where he told me again how much he loved my breasts — not just “breasts,” but my breasts — and his kisses on my stinging palms, I am feeling right as rain and really pretty good looking again. Skinny or not.

The weather makes me perky.

Spring is chaotic here.

The weather swings daily from the 40s to the 80s with intermittent streaks of one or the other.

The skies are bright and the trees’ fragrant blooms perfume the gusts of wind which race through the skyscrapers and tangle between hipsters’ legs.

It’s wonderful here this time of year.

A peaceful moment before the land gets scorched and people huddle inside to languish under blasting AC. The summers are brutal and unrelenting. Ugly, ugly fucking things.

But, I like it this time of year.

I take a deep breath, stretch out of my plump winter skin and play, play, play. Friends and people and hikes and icy-cold beer and chilly, bright mornings capped off with a chilly goodnight to the long, warm day in between.

Hello, Spring! I say.

And so say my nipples.

I like it here this time of year.