When the sun goes down.

When the sun is out shadows are cast, they are part of a sunny day.

But when the sun goes away, when it’s extinguished, all you have is darkness, a void.  An ugly bleakness.

The Neighbor has left me in this darkness.

I have discovered a trail of broken glass as he’s left my life and I am bleeding, gutted.

I see a sadness inside of me that is frightening.  All my life I have ignored my inner voice though it is loud.  I have wanted to be loved so badly that I have ignored so many things, everything.

There isn’t one bone of regret in my body about him because I acted on what I thought was real, but I am shaken and disturbed.  I hurt and yearn and want to vomit.

My heart is shredded, a disgusting, pulsing mess somewhere in my chest.  Flub-dub.  Flub-dub.  First I destroyed it with my own shaky hand when I wouldn’t — lo, couldn’t —  keep him away from me when he told me he didn’t want to be with me 3 years ago, and then he destroyed it as he proceeded to keep me close despite knowing it was going no where.

I let him in, closer to everything in my life — closer to Peyton — and meanwhile he’d been doing God knows what with an eye past me to something else.  Past me!

I am filled with rage and want to pull the walls down around his fucking ears.  I want to rail and scream and shout and list all the things it seems he’s done, but I won’t.  I won’t give him anything else at this point.   I can’t make sense of it, none of it.  And I am devastated.

I tell myself that of course he loved me, but I don’t know anymore now… it’s been tainted by his indiscretion and insensitivities.

This is fucking hell.

I spent a couple of hours with Troy and Jack on Saturday and my heart beamed as we recounted filthy stories and called each other cocksuckers between sips of our drinks.  It was wonderful to be with them, my two sex buddies from yesteryear.

The connection between me and Troy was as electric as ever, but he is nearly fianced and I respect that.  Jack is like a toy I keep under my bed that I bring out with a partner; he and I have never had one-on-one chemistry, but I love him all the same and was so happy to share my time with him with my Giant by my side once again.

What’s important about that minor event is I never in my life thought I’d be sitting with them in a dingy Johnny Cash-themed bar.

When things ended between me and Troy he had chewed me up and spit me out.  He’d screamed at me, betrayed me, called me names, assaulted my ears with stories of other women’s magical vaginas, you name it and he did it to me.  Yet, there I was feeling fondly about him asking him if I should wear a bra or not to my date.

It only took 4 years and endless apologies from him to make it happen, but happen it did, and all I hear is how happy he is I speak to him at all.

Perhaps that’s what will need to happen with The Neighbor: years apart and endless apologies.  Regardless, I don’t think I can do a friendship with him today and I am heartbroken all over again as I see the unpenetrable darkness around me without him.

I never wanted to feel this way about him.  I thought he was the sunshine, but maybe that was just me.



I turn to the sunrise.

I will say it with the soft sunrise.  With a dog on my hip, a cat on my legs, things to do just out of reach of the blankets atop me.  With my heart.

I always knew this day would come.  I always knew. 

Can you see me walking away?  Towards someone else?

Hy in the sunrise

Hy in the sunrise 2

Hy in the sunrise 3

Hy in the sunrise 5

Hy in the sunrise 4

Hy in the sunrise 6

Hy in the sunrise 7

Hy in the sunrise 10

I usually felt alone anyway.

Friday, March 27th, is MARCH MADNESS BOOBDAY!


When I chose this theme at the beginning of the month it was because it could be widely interpreted.  Basketball fans could go that route, the rest of us could go another (“madness,” is quite subjective, after all).  As I said before, I don’t give a shit about college basketball.  Some of you really took the bit between the teeth and ran and others struggled.  I’ve loved seeing what you’ve all come up with!

Let me remind you all that the themes are prompts and participants who follow the theme are given preference, but it’s not required for me to post.  If I like the image (read: this has nothing to do with your body shape/size/whatever, but the artistic mood of the image) then I’ll post it regardless.

In my experience of hosting this meme around 75 times over the course of two years, themes push us all to think outside the box and really embrace the artfulness of our bodies.  If you hate the themes, then by all means, there’s no pressure for you to participate.  I won’t hold a boob-gun to your head.  Wait for one that inspires you; no hard feelings!  Or maybe don’t play with us!  That’s totally ok, too!  I’m easy, y’all know that.

This Boobday I have asked the fearless and raw Becky Whee of Beck and Her Kinks to be Boobday’s featured star (@beckandherkinks).

Each month I will be highlighting one of you in an effort to say thank you for making Boobday happen.  Without all of you, it’d just be me and my tits.  If you’d like to nominate someone to be featured, email me (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) and tell me why.

I asked Beck to write about what Boobday means to her.  Here are her words:

When I first began posting photos of myself, I shied away from images that exposed my body. I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. I listened to that voice in my head yelling at me about every imperfection. I let my fear of judgement keep me at a distance with embracing myself. 

It wasn’t until memes like Sinful Sunday, Wicked Wednesday, and Boobday that I seen others so freely exposing themselves and embracing who they were.  These memes taught me that imperfection could still be beautiful. They helped guide me to becoming more confident. Now, sharing my body is so liberating. Exposing myself and capturing that perfect moment has changed the way I feel about myself and more importantly taught me that I love myself no matter how imperfect I might be. 

Boobday is a place where all boobs are welcomed. It’s a place where all boobs are celebrated. All shapes. All sizes. All colors. All boobs. 

I love that Beck is wearing a sport tank and teasing us with her cleavage.

I love these tops because of the cut on the under arms. I love when I get to see armpit hair. Anyhow, I decided to put this tank on and show a little cleavage.

Next month’s Boobday theme is YELLOW.  It’s one of my favorite spring (and fall!) colors and makes me think of sunshine, blonde hair, warm, runny yolks, poppies, the sun, and the warmth between hearts.

And, as always, thank you so much for all your love and support.  Not just with sharing your tits, but sharing your time and insight with me as I’ve been navigating this new phase of my life.   I have my first date since the breakup this afternoon with some guy who’s nervous to meet me, a quick happy hour tomorrow with Troy and Jack to reminisce before another date later that night with the tall eHarmony guy who’s already told me he’ll never send me “penis pics” – ha!

I’m beginning to see how long my list of things I want in a prospective partner is.

Must like sending me pics of your huge cock on the regular

Must like kneeling before me

Must have a career you love

Must be good with dogs, cats, kids, and my friends

Must have a retirement plan

Must not snore

Must love me

You know, the usual.

Wish me luck!



For Boobday Guidelines, click here.


Hy's mad tits.
I never sent this to him.

I chose this photo because it’s like I’m ripping them off my body in a mad frenzy, like the straps are about to snap.  I took them for The Neighbor, but for some reason I never sent them to him.


Anisa lost her mind and let her titties get burned, but check out that tan-line and beautiful belly!

Madness is how much the sunburn on my tits doesn’t hurt at all, but the sunburn on my belly that is barely visible stings like crazy. MADNESS!


I love it when you ladies include your hair in the pics. Here’s Anonymous Aussie tantalizing us all yet again!

We don’t have much of a March madness down under, but I thought of how I’d lost 10kgs (22 pounds) & let my hair grow quite long during last year & thought yeah, that’s a bit of good madness!  So my March madness is how I adore the way my long tresses that now float just above & frame my boobs.


R and her stunning 60 yo self is lithe and very net-y!

March madness….as a basketball fan all I can say is “nothing but net!”


I want to dive into @KaylaLord‘s softness.

I’m mad about Boobday!


I love K’s accidental coordination! Delish!

We don’t play basketball her in SA, so I improvised using my kid’s toys as props ;-) lol!!


First ever group Boobday photo! So hot, so fun, so amazing!!  I can’t gush enough about this!

 On the left is Miss V, center Mz Hyde, right La Shonna. Here you witness the friendship spanning 30+ years. We’ve seen the very best in each other from childhood, teen & adulthood (with & without clothes). I love these women to infinity and beyond. Hundreds of miles separate us but we talk, text, message nearly every single day.

This March Madness Boobday was super fun with props of pots of gold, basketball, clovers, oh and green glitter (leprechaun jizz). LOL. We are definitely doing this again at every opportunity.


I’m always struck by Dawn’s soft sensuality.
I’d had ideas about what to do for this month’s theme but here I am sitting in bed, in someone’s favourite nightgown, listening to  Freddie Mercury’s tribute, trying to work on a very serious project and I am overcome by the need to suddenly take this picture.
So I guess it’ll be a tame March Madness picture for me. Symbolizing the gentle madness that sometimes settles over me, while I’m singing at the top of my lungs “Find me somebody to love”. It’s only after the fact I realised how fitting it is for me at the moment.
St. Patty’s Day is my favorite holiday! I love that Miss V was part of this great group pic! Look at those lucky titties!

This months Boobday was so much fun. Had a great time “crafting” with my girls. Love the Holidays, Spring Break and Boobday!


Mz. Hyde gives us a little finger madness and some leprechaun jizz.

Some March MADness boobs!


Zoe channels a Vogue photo shoot.

Blurb: I’m not a sports person at all. “March Madness” makes me think of madness generally, “mad as a March hare”, and “mad as a hatter”. Hats it is, then.


‘Tis fucking rocks the photoshop AND her hot teddy!   And I’ll palm her balls!
I don’t even know what to say about this months theme. I feel like I had to work for it, as in be imaginative and really think outside the box. So what you see here is my interpretation of basketballs and a net with a little help from my lingerie and photo shop. Anyone want to try and palm my balls? lol
La Shonna really did strike gold! @sunsyne0915.
This Boobday was the best ever. Great friends, great memories, and they’ve got the best boobs.

It’s been 7 weeks.

[Ed. Note: I started writing this 4 days ago.]

Seven weeks ago today my little life changed.

The man I loved — the man I was thinking of having a future with — pointed out some of our fatal weaknesses and decided to end it.  Just like that, it was over.

There had been no fighting, no screaming, nothing.  Just a general malaise, a quiet and ongoing discomfort between us.  I had felt it and worked daily to adjust; I told myself things like, “He loves you, don’t worry about it.”  For months he refused to admit anything was wrong.

That morning I woke up safe and went to bed in a complete free fall.

Since then I’ve put one foot in front of the other, concentrated on the moments themselves, but also embraced the fact that this feeling of abject loss and rejection will pass.  Eventually.

Today, exactly seven weeks later, and a thousand miles away, I can admit to feeling ok.  Insisting on some space from him was the smartest thing I could’ve done.

For one, it’s given me the room I’ve needed to get some perspective.  I see the failings of our relationship so much clearer and with it my dissatisfaction and sadness within it.  Hearing my best friends say things like, “What?! He never stayed the weekend with you?!?!” have helped me immensely.

Not because the implication is that he’s a bad man, but that what I accepted as normal is actually far from it.  A man who loves me and wants to be with me — no matter how fucking introverted/odd/whatever he may be — will want to do things that are deeply important to me.  Like spend the weekend with me.

I know that — I knew that! — but the time apart has helped drive it home: he was never, ever really in it.

Second, since my two little back-to-back trips away, I’ve realized I’m still vulnerable to injury and must proceed with caution.

I wrote him a 6-page letter the weekend before I left which he would have found that Wednesday night.  Even while writing it I was reminded of Rachel’s doomed letter to Ross wherein he falls asleep reading it and in his embarrassment at not having finished it blindly agrees with her that basically “Yes, he was wrong.”  Naturally, it doesn’t go over well.

I didn’t write anything like that, but I did write a letter.  A personal, vulnerable, honest letter in an attempt to tie up loose ends [and help him take care of the cat].  Six days after I wrote it, while home on a brief layover, I left him a second note, this one all cat business.  When I didn’t hear from him by the following morning when I thought he’d be feeding the cat I texted to follow up.

It was then revealed that not only had he not seen the second one due to a flexible cat-feeding schedule, but he hadn’t read the first one despite having taken it from my kitchen island.

“I haven’t read it yet,” he texted thinking that the note I was inquiring about that morning was the 6-page one and not the more recent cat one.

Standing on the SFO curbside pick-up with the phone in my hand, bags staggered about and Peyton patiently and exhaustively leaning on me I couldn’t believe it.  I’d suffered through 5 days of  what I could only call personal mini fits wondering what he’d thought about my words.  Had I said the wrong thing?  What was he thinking?  And the dude hadn’t even bothered to read it.

Moments later my phone lit up with his face, a picture I’d taken years ago at one of our favorite restaurants.  He looked clean-cut and painfully handsome.

“Uh… hello?” I said.  It was weird having him burst through my self-imposed No-Neighbor-Bubble.

“Hi!  I figured it’d be easier to just call you rather than text back and forth.  So, when are you coming home?”

“Well, like my note said this morning, I came home for about 6 hours last night, but I’m standing in San Francisco right now.  I won’t be home till next Monday afternoon.”

“Ok, so I just have to feed the cat for another week?”

“Yes.  Are you feeding him twice a day?”  There had been evidence to the contrary, but nothing concrete.

“Yes; I’ve been coming home at lunch.”  That rung strange with me, too, but whatever.  “What time did you come home last night?  I guess I just missed you.”

“We got home around midnight and left at 6 this morning.”  It suddenly occurred to me that he was driving to his therapy session, hence the need for the phone call and not texting.  I felt a wave of humiliation that he hadn’t read my letter yet.

“Yeah, I was there about 20 minutes before you.”  My gut clenched at the thought of having nearly run into him in our current state.

We hung up and I deeply regretted answering the phone.  I was upset and not a little crushed by the entire interaction.

Since then I’ve spent the week wrangling my sister’s small children from dawn till bedtime and accidentally falling asleep when the children do.  I’ve been thinking constantly about TN in a disembodied way.  The lack of contact from him isn’t unlike what I’d have gotten had we still been dating, though of course that’s just speculation.  I’m sure he’d have called off an on, but there wouldn’t have been any early morning texts to check in or tell me he missed me, so no loss there.

What I do know is that the tall eHarmony fella — whom I’ve never met — has shown more interest in me and my life in a consistent, easily identifiable way than TN ever did.  No code-reading here: he wants to keep contact because he’s curious about me and that’s kinda what you do, right?  It’s weird and comforting all at once.  I’m not remotely sure what is in store for me and him (our first actual date isn’t until the last weekend of the month), but it has been an eye-opening experience and led me to the Wow, I Put Up With a Lot of Bullshit Phase of this breakup.

No entire weekends spent together.

No 24-hours together!

No lazy days fucking and eating and loving and watching movies.

Little to no interest in my family.

Virtually no trips together.

No messages of any kind just to say, “I love you,” or “I’m thinking of you.”

No planning for the future beyond vague allusions to being 61 and 70 years old bodies together.

No “I miss you, Hy, can we spend some time together?”

No immersion into my life beyond the fringe.

No excitement about me, my baby, or us.

I realize now the gap that created in me and it reinforces the breakup.  It’s not that I was ok with all of those things 7 weeks ago — I certainly wasn’t — but I believed that they would all resolve themselves, that we’d fix them.  He may have ended things now, but had things stayed the way they were it would have been me walking away instead.

I fell in love with him despite him telling me in no uncertain terms that he saw no future with me.  He never wavered from that.  He might have fallen in love with me, but it didn’t solve the basic problem that he felt I was the wrong woman for him, which by default made him the wrong man for me.  And now here we are.

I have boiled it down to the basics and only shared what I feel is necessary to close this particular arc in my life.  He’s not a villain or a bad guy and I have little doubt that he loved me to his fullest capacity.  Every second he gave me was a little testament to how much he loved me because deep down he knew it wasn’t going to last.  Nothing like a big spoonful of bittersweet.

To be honest, I don’t know what I want on April 7th when my self-imposed request for space is officially over.  I have been unbearably light these past 2 weeks without him.  I feel safe; he can’t hurt me from here.  He can not want me all he wants so long as he stays over there.

My last words to him the night I told him I needed space were for him to call me in a month.  I have no doubt that I am the only one keeping my eye on that little day and I don’t think I’ll want to burst the bubble by then.  I wonder what will happen.

I take a vacation without him.

I’m currently cruising at 30,000 ft — or maybe it’s 40 — the pilot hasn’t said much to us except that it’s going to be very bumpy.  He seems overly concerned about it.  He even went so far as to cancel the drink service.  Lucky for me, I’m in 8B, so I got my white wine.  “In case it’s bumpy, it’s better than red,” I explained to the flight attendant.

Peyton is next to me, sweet and beautiful and darling, drawing intricate fantasies in a notebook.  A woman with a 3 carat engagement ring with wedding band sits in the seats across the aisle.  She has two children with her.  The little girl is 5 and watching Frozen.  A large, white bow holds her hair behind her ears.  The baby is 10 mos old and has a little brunette fountain of hair spurting from atop her head.  When she smiles I can see all 4 of her teeth.

The Neighbor should be to my right.  Not these people.

This was going to be our first vacation together.  We’d gone to the beach once last summer, but that was because my best friend had pressured him into it.  He’d come late and driven separately.  I always felt that had I been the one to invite him he’d have said no, but since it was Amy asking and not me, he agreed immediately.

Peyton voiced a little wish earlier.  “I wish TN was coming with us still.”

“I know, baby,” I said, “but we’re not dating any more, so he can’t.”

“But you and Amy are friends and she’d come with us if we asked!” was the very logical retort.

“True, but I’m not there with TN, yet.  One day soon, I hope.”

There was a little pause and then from the backseat I heard, “It’ll happen eventually.”

I left the house for the airport in a frenzy.  I couldn’t find my phone, we were up against the clock.  You know, regular travel travails.  I left a note for TN along with letters from both me and Peyton.  My letter was supposed to just be a, here’s what you need to do with my cat and the plants, but instead morphed into something that lasted for 6 pages.  I’ve never written him anything a day in my life save from a love-lorn note when he dumped me after Pisspants.

My handwriting is generally atrocious and it was no better despite my best efforts, but there’s something intimate about the curve of a letter, the idiosyncratic way an “I” is written.  I find handwriting to be deeply personal and revealing and I felt shy as I scribbled words on the college-lined paper.

I still love him, I’m working on acceptance, I want to do whatever I can to remain friends, I need space, feed the cat *this much*, take the perishables out of the refrigerator if you like, thanks again for doing this.

When I masturbate I think of him and of new men all mingled together.  I want to prep my body for a new scent, a new feel.  I’m not remotely interested in anyone, but there will come a time when I am forced from my cave.  It will be sooner rather than later.

Do I go the Adult Friend Finder route?  OK Cupid?  Do I fuck with this eHarmony guy?  No one can measure up to TN, I know that.  I want to be kind to people, but I want to get mine, too.

Each morning I wake up thinking about how much I miss him, how much I want him to be a part of my life and future.  Today was no different.  And even now, thousands of feet above him I feel his absence.  Instead of the squawking babe to my right it should be him with his bald head and red beard with ear buds in listening to some music while Pey and I chatted and did our thing.

I’ve been trying to think of times when I left someone because “it didn’t feel right”; I want to get inside his head.  I certainly wouldn’t have let it go on for 3 years, but maybe he was hoping his feelings would change.  Maybe he was trying to feel differently.  I don’t know.  All I know is there was a summer when I dated a friend and he fell in love with me.  There was something about his energy that I didn’t click with, though: too acquiescent, too easy.  It just didn’t feel right.  And I broke his heart and left him.

Is that what TN is holding on to?  But how can he feel that way after everything we’ve been through, how we relate, how we love and play and fuck and talk and laugh.  I had none of that with my summer friend.  We had no chemistry.  The Neighbor and I lit up the sky with our friendship and sexual chemistry; we relied on one another for everything and found so much solace there.  In our case, though, love didn’t light the way, it darkened it.  It became too complicated, too dangerous, and generally too undesirable.

Love infiltrated his being and shut him down.  Love was my enemy.

I have to remind myself to just breathe, to wait for the feelings to pass through me, and that this too shall pass.  Nothing lasts forever, after all.  At least I got my wine.

I’ve started a new book.

Though rejection draws me like a flame, its burn is no less devastating.

I am a flawed, stupid, irrational human being a lot of the time.  So are you.

The Neighbor and I are two idiots who happened to bump into one another by sheer luck.  I didn’t waste a single second with him, but I’m fairly certain I’ll waste many seconds as I writhe in longing for him and thrash around in the viscous binding that is his walking away.  His abandoning of me, of us.

There’s no explanation.  Only a feeling.  It’s a cloud moving across a sky.  A moment, a shift, an evaporation.  Poof, and it’s gone.

He is the only person who knows me.  That is my own doing, obviously, but he knows about Hy, about the real me, my child and ex and family, all my friends.  And he doesn’t want it.

It is so unbelievably painful, so Herculean of me, to not latch onto that inherent rejection.  I’m fighting it.

He never truly submitted to me.  He whet my appetite and begged for me to take the reins only to slip out of my grasp almost as often as he took breath.  I gave up and blamed myself, let him set the pace of everything.

What if I had wrapped him up inside of me and turned him inside out?  What if he’d come to me and said, “Please, open me up.”  There is no taking, only the offering.  And he never offered and therefore I never took.  I never had.

He might find someone else to do that for him and it gnashes at my limping, thumping heart to let that thought pass through me, but he is allowed his journey, right?

He can use whatever tools are at his disposal; he owes nothing to me.  He may turn my art into his bait because it was my gift to him and it no longer is a part of me.  Though, I’m not sure I believe that’s true.  That art is still me.

I couldn’t breathe, I thought of a tool to slash across my skin, but I refrained.  I let the tears pour out, the breath to run ragged through me, felt my belly pinch against my spine in a nauseating tumble.  Instead I  reached out to those who care instead of inflicting a point’s bleeding rejection through my innocent skin.  I wasn’t going to punctuate the betrayal.

You don’t know you helped me past that desire to slice into my tender whiteness — just enough to be colorful — but you did.  I mourn the absence of fresh red marks upon my breast, badges of pain, each one of them, but it’s better.  I am intact, saved from drowning in loss and abandonment and reminded that I have work to do.  Tonight, in life, tomorrow.

This chapter is officially closed.  I’ve started a new book.



I’ve picked a theme for March BOOBDAY!


I’m so sorry I didn’t post this yesterday.  Frankly, I’m fried; been working my fingers to the bone and trying to be on top of the stuff that pays the bills.  You know how that goes.

Anyway, a bunch of you sent me some really fantastic ideas, but one really jumped out at me from LaShonna.

LaShonna's lil' chat

March’s Boobday theme is MARCH MADNESS!

Or balls or big black dudes.

What’s funny about this is I pretty much disdain college sports of all kinds and never bother to even watch a professional basketball game, but I really love that this can be interpreted in so many different and fun ways.  I’m thinking I’ll get jerseys of all kinds, crazy “mad” pics of ladies in fields naked as the day they were born.  I dunno!

Personally, I have no clue what I’ll do for this.  Maybe I’ll paint my tits to look like basketballs.

Remember, it’s never too early to get me your pics.  I’ll be traveling for 10 days soon and the week that Boobday goes up I hit the ground running with work and real life again.  I’m sure I won’t be the only one who gets surprised by the deadline for this, so who wants reminders?  Comment below or email me and I’ll be your little booby helper to the best of my abilities!

I love you guys, all of you, the boobied and the non-boobied!  Thank you for making Boobday so wonderful in spirit and reality.

Ok, now all the official stuff is below.



For Boobday Guidelines, click here.  Remember, I don’t clarify or double check.  I post what you give me, so be sure to get me all the info I’ve asked for and tell me whether you’re to be anonymous or not.  I won’t assume a thing about what you need and want!

It’s beautiful out there.

Am I here?
Am I here?

I’m at a plateau of quiet discomfort.  It’s like sitting on a hard cold rock surrounded by beauty.

My heart is in a not ungentle vice.  Its movements are restricted, but it beats.

I have subtly moved myself into a position of distance from The Neighbor and the other men who are vying for my attention.  No to one, and yes, maybe, not yet, sorry to the others.  My moves are deliberate and calculated.  You must come for me; work for it, want it, need it.  I am of high value, fellas. 

I am peeking around the bend.  When I masturbate I think of TN’s giant cock and his furry body and I still cry when I cum imagining his warm skin and thick muscles, but it’s spliced with what the other cocks might be like.  I think of their smells, both real and imagined, and I’m transported back to the time when I played with many bodies, not just TN’s.  I feel some excitement.

I am in between a past and a future, but it doesn’t feel like my present somehow.  It feels somehow other worldly.  Who is Hyacinth Jones if she isn’t fucking?  If she isn’t loving The Neighbor? 

Well, I’ve answered that to a degree this past month of being alone and sexless:

She’s loved.

She’s a mother.

She’s a businesswoman.

She’s an artist.

She’s sexual.

She’s beautiful.

She’s smart.

She’s patiently impatient.

She’s driven.

She’s afraid.

What I’m afraid of is what makes this entire process more difficult: I’m afraid I’ll never find anything as great as what I had with The Neighbor.  His disposition matched mine perfectly, his cock was magnificent, he was a spectacular lover, he was whip smart, he was financially stable, he was good with my baby, my friends, and my animals.  The fear is because the bar is set so high I may be denied all these things I love and need so much for a very long while and then what?  Will I find a new muse??

Well, something else I’ve figured out is that I don’t have to have it all figured out.  This is my life and my  journey and I can do what I like with it and there are some things I need to discard entirely from the fringes of my life, contraindicating factors such as, “If I don’t have sex, then I am not sexy.”

I relied on sex to help me dig myself out of years worth of a sexless relationship, but I don’t need to use it for that purpose.  Now, finally, sex gets to be something else.  Sport, perhaps?  Connection, depth, fun, release, exploration, fill-in-the-blank.  Once I release sex from Hy as a personal identifier I am free from its trappings to deliver upon it.

When sex began to wane between me and TN I knew it was a red flag — who couldn’t think that?  But he denied it and excused it and I was left to wrestle with the question on my own, “Am I sexy if I’m not having sex?”  It’s why I started my Instagram account.  I needed more feedback and then I realized I didn’t need it anymore.  I am sexy with or without the sex.

I’m hoping my new outlook serves me well and the cocks I’m dreaming about really are the stuff that dreams are made of because it’s beautiful out there.  Just look.

It’s a roller coaster.

Hy is back
It feels weird to post a sexy pic. Now you get to see what he no longer does.

After much soul searching I decided to keep our appointed Monday night reading date.  I dreaded it.

I picked up the house in order for him to vacuum and prepped Peyton that after tonight we’d be seeing very little of The Neighbor because, “Mommy’s heart hurts too much still.”  My explanation was accepted with youthful wisdom.

“How do you feel about that, Pey?” I asked.

There was a thoughtful pause then, “I’m happy and sad.  Happy for you [that you won’t hurt anymore] and sad because I’ll miss him.  But I’m ok.”

I was vacuuming Peyton’s room when I saw him sneak in trying to foil the dog’s senses.  Once both the little person and dog realized he was there there was much exuberance and bouncing by all.   TN finished vacuuming the apartment and I was strangely uncomfortable when he disappeared into my bedroom to clean.

When he was finished we picked out books and settled in and TN intermittently cuddled with the dog and read to Peyton.  When we were done I kissed my baby goodnight and turned out the light without fanfare.  TN didn’t know that Peyton saw this as the last reading for some time.

I felt heavy and sad and far, far away.  And he looked good.  Very good.

He’d shaved his head recently and his better eating habits over the last few weeks showed.  I sighed as I grabbed a mug of tea and we sat down on the couch.

Hy is back
Sexy is so subjective.

“I can’t stay for long,” he said immediately.

“I know.”

“So how are you?”

And for the first time in weeks we talked and I didn’t feel emotional.  He was just a friend on my couch.  My mind was made up: this is the last week I’ll see him for some time and the decision being mine this time makes me feel stronger than I have in weeks.

I’m leaving town in 10 days and he has agreed to take care of Faisal for me while I’m gone.  The dog has been farmed out to another friend, but the cat, well, there’s literally no one else to take care of him.  I don’t mind, really.  I won’t be around anyway.

As we discussed hanging out on Saturday night I mentioned that I would have a list of things to go over with him.  “And I’m taking you to the airport, right?”

“No,” I shook my head confused.  “You convinced me it was easier to just leave my car there last time we talked about it.”  He remembered us discussing the cost, but he’s been operating under the assumption all this time that he would be my taxi.  “No, I’m driving.”

“Oh,” he said staring out into space.

There was a shift last night and if I had to guess he noticed it, too.  I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t obviously in pain, I wasn’t all there.  Truth was I’d been a wreck since I’d seen him last — crying off and on for days — and once I’d made the decision to cut ties soon I felt freer and stronger than ever.  My noodle had stiffened.

The dog lay with his big head pillowed by TN’s crotch.  TN’s thick, muscular thigh was on top of his paws and I wished so badly to make some lewd comment, but that wasn’t appropriate anymore so I kept my mouth shut.

I adjusted my bralette, the one he’s never seen or touched, and tied my hair into a knot atop my head.  My aching heart felt icy, a distant rattle from just a few days before.

Hy in her new bralette
This is the bralette he hasn’t seen.

We talked about work, said we were both doing ok, caught up on the messy lives of friends.  Then I was suddenly stricken with the need to be away from him.

“Well, you better go cook that steak you mentioned earlier,” I gently prompted.

His eyebrows shot up, surprised.  This was only the second time in 3 years I’d cut a visit short.

“Yeah, ok.”

I walked him downstairs to the back door and let the dog out to pee as he got his shoes on.  I don’t know why I was surprised when he opened his arms to hug me, but I was.

I wrapped my arms around his body and buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled his clean, manly scent.  His warmth seared the parts of me touching him.

“You must be in heaven with this cold weather,” he said as we pulled apart.

“You know me well,” I replied.

“Call me this week,” he said and added, “If you want.”

I said, “Ok,” without having any intention of doing so.

I let the dog back in and shut the door.

Hy lets you see what no one else is
I miss him…


I can’t feel my heart.

I fell asleep sobbing last night, Friday, too.

I’m crying now.

I drank a bottle of sunshine last night, a cheap Chardonnay with a twist off cap.  It prickled on my tongue as I nursed it over the course of 7 hours and it wrapped its languid arms around my shredded heart and whispered in my ear to just do it.  No surprise that I am regretting all of it because the first thing I thought of when I awoke was The Neighbor.  And then I cried with the rain in the early grey morning.

Late last night while lying in bed I discovered a photo of us together.

It was May 31st, a bright summer morning.  The image is of me on my back in a white tank and The Neighbor is pressed against me, shirtless, his mouth is in a slight curve against my arm.  His face is relaxed, serene, eyes are closed.  His beard is red, he still has his hair.  The arm his lips are kissing is holding the phone up and I am smiling softly, lips together.

I texted it to him and said, “Stumbled upon this just now.  Kinda breaks my heart.”

As I looked at this image of two people in love the tears burst from me.  I set the phone down on the covers and curled up and wailed.  The dog and cat shook with me as my cries tumbled out.  It was several minutes before I noticed he’d responded with a sad face.  The long, lonely night behind me was like gasoline on the fire of my sadness.  The other men aren’t going to help me feel better like I hoped.

He came over on Friday as planned.  We spoke for some time before we watched our show.  It’s not getting any easier to see each other — we are clearly both in a lot of pain — but I wanted to see him, to drink him in.  I had a glass of red wine waiting for him and the vacuum cleaner to do his promised cleaning, but our talk ate up the energy to make that happen.  He only sipped the wine and promised to vacuum on Monday when he comes to read to Peyton.

We talked more about how we were doing and I shared with him more of my thoughts, how it’s a struggle because I still want him.  He asked me if I felt he didn’t want me and seemed hurt that I would.  I pointed out that he’d broken up with me, but I guess it isn’t that black and white for him, either.  He does still want me, there is just a larger governing force within him that thinks I’m not the right one.

He said he wants to be single for a very long time.  It hurt to hear, obviously, but I can accept that.  I can even accept that he believes I’m not the right woman for him.  What is excruciatingly difficult for me is convincing myself that he is not the right man for me, because it never felt that way and it still doesn’t.

It was the best relationship I’ve ever had.  The sex, the companionship, the trust.  He made me feel special, even if I didn’t feel like a priority, but I know why now.

I don’t have a list of things he did that I can rely on to spurn my anger into resolution; I don’t have a laundry list of wrongdoing to ignite my fury.  Every single thing he did that hurt me was at its core due to the one reason he left me: he didn’t want to be with me.

His occasional, odd shadiness, his unwillingness to commit, his aversion to blending our lives, his emotional distance, our dwindling sex life.  All of it was caused by the conflict within him of loving me, but not believing I’m the one for him.  Which in its own fucked up way makes this feel even more insurmountable because it was only  one thing.  It just happened to be a doozy.  One ring to rule them all.

And I can’t be mad at him for that.  It’s not me.

While I was riding the crest of that sweet, warm buzz last night I made a date with a tall, handsome eHarmony man.  I gave my number to hot black guy on OK Cupid.  I reconnected with Phillip who lives in CA full time now and no longer has business here, but who wants to see me somehow anyway.  And I even reluctantly agreed to go on a date with an old high school friend who professed to having a massive crush on me for the last 25 years.

Those few hours of man-juggling before I stumbled on the photo of TN and me were like being suspended above ground and not fearing the fall.  I felt beautiful, desirable, happy, invincible.  I felt safely tucked away from the pain of his rejection, but it was relatively short-lived because I knew even as I cried myself to sleep last night that it had been just a fancy, frilly, empty façade.  I’m not ready to be with anyone else, and this morning’s regrets confirmed it.

I can’t feel my fucking heart.

It’s not in me or even near me.  Its absence is made obvious by the leaky sadness which oozes out of me nearly every moment of every day I’m not focused on something else, by the hiss of longing in my ear when I think of never having him in me again.

I can’t feel my heart because he still has it.

He’s trying to hand it back, but I don’t think he’s entirely prepared to do that, either.  It’s half-assed because he does still want me and miss me and love me.  So now there are puzzles to solve and terrain to traverse.  I have to work to get it back with patience and understanding and know that it will be returned in pretty bad shape.  I’ll need to let it catch its breath and heal, become stronger, before I try to use it again.  The tall guy was understanding when I cancelled our date today.

TN isn’t hurting it on purpose, but one thing is for sure: the longer he has it the less opportunity I have to care for it.  I’m just now understanding this.  Somehow, I have to get my heart back.