I’m Mrs. Robinson.

“People are coming” I whispered into his neck.  The two people and their dogs I’d spotted down the street continued to walk toward the two of us leaning against my car under the streetlight.  The thick night pressed in around us.

At 6 foot 4 he he stooped to hook his long fingers into me and straightened as he removed himself from between my legs.  I moaned a little.

As the dog walkers passed, he rolled me to the side and pressed my back against my car door and bent to kiss me again.  We’d been kissing for minutes on end and my neck was beginning to hurt, my feet cramp from lifting up to meet him, but it was magnificent.

He paused and I said, “What should I call you when I write about you in my diary?”

“You can call me Remington Steele,” he laughed, in reference to a lame character reference I’d made earlier in the night.  I had been surprised he’d even heard of the show.  Remington is only 24.

When we first met at the dive bar yesterday I wasn’t at all sure how our date would go.  He was trim and wore a button-down dark green shirt and had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow; he wore black sneakers and Ray-Bans and was quite dashing, but also obviously very, very young.  He’s also wickedly smart, but too busy for a girlfriend.  He wants something ongoing, fun, exploratory and respectful.

When he saw me walk in his eyes lit up and we hugged, got some drinks and began to chat.  His face cracked into a smile often and he was open and interesting.  This was his first date off of AFF.

I ran into a girlfriend and as we ordered beers at the bar she lowered her voice and whispered, “He’s awfully young, isn’t he, Hy?”  I laughed and shrugged.

“I’m totally your Mrs. Robinson, aren’t I?” I teased him when I returned to our table.

“Yeah, kinda.  I like older women,” he admitted.

He wants to be my pool boy and shyly shared that he wants to explore his submissive side which is why, out by my car in the dark with random passersby, I was so taken aback at his bold moves, his confidence.  He blew me away with his skill and expertise and each time he released my mouth I would lower to my heels and shake my head, dizzy with desire, not sure where to catalog this young man.

We’ve made a date for Friday afternoon where we can test out his pool boy skills.

Fifteen years between us… holy shit, what am I getting myself into??

I doubled up.

The words “double date” tickle me because these days it means something entirely different than two couples out on the town together.  For me it’s two dates back-to-back in one evening.  Holla.  How’s that for some great double date ideas??

This past Friday was certainly not my first, but it was certainly my best double date in recent memory.  The last double date I had, I forgot about Date #1 completely and didn’t include him in my own list of who I was datingOops.

Date #1 lucked out and caught me at a time in my week where I was both available and feeling open-minded.  He messaged me on Tinder, but never acknowledged my preference for gold wrappers.  I ignored it and figured he knew what it all meant and followed his lead.  He was smart and quick and even though I’d already made a date with a tall drink of water for around 8 o’clock on Friday night I decided that I could handle a warm-up date with this nerdy surprise.

Date #2 was with a 29 year old lawyer.  An impossibly tall young man with whom I had established my golden wrapper requisite.  “I know what you’re talking about,” he’d messaged.  “I use them.”  I’d explained my preference while blushing furiously.  It never gets easy being a size queen.

I drove to meet Mr. Nerdy with a light heart.  My graphic tee was mostly see-through and my legs looked long in high-heeled wedges.  I had nothing to lose if this went badly; I couldn’t wait to meet The Lawyer at 8.

“I’m in the green shirt,” Mr. Nerdy texted.  I took a deep breath and walked out onto the patio littered with people drinking wine and eating cheese.

Our eyes locked and we both smiled.  He stood to hug me hello and he towered over me.  He was taller than I had imagined.  And more muscular.

We ordered some drinks and settled in.  I laughed and maneuvered through the date with a sense of fun I wore like perfume.  It enveloped us both.  We opened up, we flirted, we shared, we set boundaries.  He was far more attractive than his pictures let on and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders and tapered waist.  When he moved his chair closer to my knees and casually dropped his hand on my warm skin my eyes locked with his and we laughed.  We knew we were a match.

He walked me to my car when I realized I was close to being late to my next engagement.  “Do you have another date?” he’d asked.

“No,” I’d blithely lied.

I hooked my arm through his elbow and thanked him for being tall enough to wear my heels.  He chuckled and squeezed my hand.  When we got to my car I turned to him and put my hands on his hips and pulled him towards me and his soft lips pressed into mine.  I looped my hands up to his shoulders and gently massaged him as he wrapped his arms around me.

We had hammered out every detail: we are both looking for passion, for connection, for something steady, maybe a launching off point for something more serious.  He alluded to being kinky and bold; I’d alluded to compliance and perversion.  His mouth plied mine with warmth and verve.  I moaned a little and arched into him and hoped I wasn’t getting beard burn from his 5 o’clock shadow.  That would be hard to explain to Date #2.  His kiss was nice and we vibrated against each other.  First kiss nerves never go away, it seems.

I broke us apart and thanked him again for the great date and we promised to see each other again.  He brought my attention to the large bulge in his dark jeans.  “I sure hope it pleases you,” he said smiling.

I winked at him and told him I was sure it would.

I drove to Date #2 beaming, skipping across clouds like a naughty angel.

As I walked into the restaurant I felt my heart beating more quickly.  I saw my date out back on the patio and he stood to hug me as I approached.  Jesus Christ, he was tall.  I reached up, he stooped down, we laughed nervously.  “Well, hello,” I said, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

I could barely look at him; his long lashes curled to touch his cheeks and he looked like a kid.  I laughed and said, “Are you sure you’re 29?!  You look 12 years old!”  He blushed and lowered his chin and assured me he was an adult.  A 6’6 1/2″ adult.

“I get that a lot,” he replied in a deep, grown up voice.  “It’s the eyelashes, I think.”

“Yeah,” I laughed.  “Maybe.”

We ordered wine and soft-shell crab and blistered shishito peppers, though the chicken liver mousse was our favorite.  Turns out he, too, is looking for a steady, lovely, sexy, passionate, brunch-going type of relationship.  Too bad he lives an hour away. But then again, maybe it’s a perfectly built-in speed bump.  I don’t know.

On our way to my favorite watering hole I laughed until I cried when I realized his feet were as long as my femur.  “Can you see this?” I guffawed as I pressed a shoe of his to my leg. “You’re a giant!”  He grinned sheepishly while I teased him, but was happy to hold me close as we walked up the hill from our parking spot.  I forgot how amazing it feels to be with a gigantic man.

We ordered drinks and bummed cigarettes off our neighbors and with each drink we sat closer and closer until our lips locked and I inhaled his Old Spice and slipped my hand between his thighs.  He moaned and grabbed me and smiled into our kiss.

“Wanna come back to my place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

He drove me back to my car and followed me home and seconds after he walked through the door we were writhing on the couch.  His sheer size pushed me down into the cushions and his mouth moved across my neck and breasts with a reckless first-date fervor.

I led him into my dark room and we found ourselves tangled in clothes, then just limbs.  His face fell to my pussy and his fingers snaked inside of me.  I coached him on what to do with what, then relied on raw begging.  His hand slammed into me and as his mouth lapped at me I felt myself gush into his mouth.  He moaned and shivered and slammed into me more.

“Please,” I panted, “please fuck me.”

He stood up and grabbed a condom, rolled it on and positioned himself between my knees.  He pressed into me, but the erection had softened some.  I clung to him as he moved me about the bed and I could tell he was becoming frustrated with his pouty cock.

I pushed him off of me and bade him to lie on his back.  I removed the condom and began to suck.  A nice size, not huge like I’d hoped, but I knew I’d be able to feel him once I got him back in business.

I sucked and lapped and stroked and opened the back of my throat and kissed his pubis with a mouth stuffed full of cock.  His hands were in my hair and on my face and when he was hard as rock again we rolled another condom on.  He scooped me up and held on as he gyrated like a jack-hammer into my wet ass pussy.

I found myself squirting again and he moaned into my neck as he felt it between us.

He began to shake his head and I knew he was at odds again.

‘I don’t think I can cum tonight,” he finally said.

‘It’s ok,” I said stroking his head resting on my shoulder.  “There’s always tomorrow morning.”

We separated and he pulled me against him and I fell asleep next to a great big bear of a man.  I woke up a few hours later and noticed his feet were stuck through the bars of the footboard.  I smiled and got up, did my morning ablutions and quietly crept back into bed.

It was the normal thing to do after sleeping with someone: stay the night and wake up together.  I remember a time when that was common practice, though it hasn’t been in recent memory.  I either tear out of his room under the auspice of a dog who needs me or a bad back and when I have company over it’s during the day or morning so he could never accidentally stay over.  This was nice though, almost normal.

I fell back asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up a couple of hours later it was to the dog scratching himself.  I called for him to stop.  The Lawyer was disturbed now, too, and rolled to his side and pulled me against him.  I felt his morning wood for a moment then drifted off back to sleep.  The dog had begun to scratch again.

The next few minutes were spent drifting in and out of a lazy morning haze and commanding the dog to stop being so disgusting.  We laughed and wiggled closer whenever we could until finally I felt his lips on my neck and his hand on my breast.

I rolled to my back and kissed him, spread my knees and handed him another condom.  He was hard as a brick this time and I was dry and tight until I was hot and wet.  He came quickly on my belly just as I had asked him too and when he handed me a towel to clean myself up I asked him to lay with me while I came one last time.

His hand gently caressed my breasts as I held the Hitachi to my clit and I wondered if he’d ever seen a woman do this before.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t say anything.  I just let the buzz do its job and came quickly myself.

“When do you have to leave?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes,” I answered.  Peyton had a birthday party to get to.

We got dressed and I openly teased him about his towering height now that I was flat-footed.  “You know, 2000 years ago you’d have been earmarked for brawny work based on your size.  But you lucked out and got to be all intellectual and shit.”  He laughed and said he supposed I was right.  I’m sure all the village girls would have wanted him in their hut.

He said he wanted to see me again, thanked me for a wonderful time, and said his next two weekends were tied up with family and friend commitments.  I assured him we’d figure something out.  I hope that we do.


Friday, June 26th, is JUICY Boobday!



Boobday is going to change a little starting next month.

1.  I will no longer host everyone’s pictures, but I will provide a system of entering your URL much like Sinful Sunday does. This means you’ll have to write a post and have it on your own blog with a link back to my main Boobday page including the badge (which is on my sidebar including its code).  I will leave the linky thing up for all of Friday, but will shut it down at the end of the day, so be sure to get your post up in a timely fashion.

2. I know that lots of you don’t have blogs, so I won’t leave you out to dry, but I will only post the first 3 images I get.  Also, I’ll need those images by Thursday.

3. Boobday will become a weekly meme again!  As soon as I have the widget installed I’ll let y’all know and we can start doing Boobday weekly as it should be!

4. No more themes!  I’ll still offer a prompt, but it won’t be the guiding force for your images.


The reasons I’m changing this up are that I get emails all the time from you lovely ladies saying how much you miss the weekly opportunity to share and I know that the themes often cause struggles.  I can’t devote the amount of time required to host all the images and sort through, edit, cut and paste and whatnot, though, so the link system will solve that labor issue for me.  I’m  hoping that it will be a finely tuned machine by the end of July.

Gimme a couple of weeks to sort out all the new rules, guidelines, etc.

Woot!  I’m excited about Boobday again!  Yay!

I’d asked Anisa of Thirteen Years In to be our featured blogger, but as many of you know she was busy birthing a beautiful new life.  So, in lieu of her own words, I’ll write a few of my own.

Anisa’s raw honesty and hard-hitting sexual prose is what I first noticed about her writing.  She was cracked open for all of us to see; all her faults, her wins, her hopes, her struggles were neatly set before us.  She began participating in Boobday — if my email research is correct — from Day 1, or very close to it.  Her photos have ranged from covered up to fully exposed and her curly hair sometimes makes an appearance resting on her shoulder.  We’ve watched over the past few months as her body has changed and she even gave us a peek at her milky tits last month.

I’m honored that she’s been such a big supporter of Boobday and all its participants.  Congrats again, my friend, on that perfect new baby!



Ok, so, without further ado, here are all the JUICY tits for this month.

My JUICY tits:

Hy in boy briefs.
All tits are juicy.


NOT my JUICY tits:

(Click pic for link.)

I, Hy, chose this image of Anisa’s because there’s nothing juicier than a woman on her back.


Anonymous Aussie knows what she’s doing. Damn.

I sent this pic to a very special friend that replied, ‘wow, don’t they look so ripe & juicy, just waiting to be plucked & sucked!’ That’s why I chose this pic for ‘juicy’.


Krystal’s boobs are, indeed, very juicy. (Click pic for link.)

Doesn’t get much JUICIER than soaking in my hot tub!


La Shonna has a giant, juicy piece of fruit on her.

Oh my …. Juicy. Like low hanging fruit. :o)


Dawn goes the distance for us, yet again. I bet there are lots of us who would like to be drinking some OJ right about now. (Click pic for link.)

Orange juice dripping down my breast. Who will come and lick me clean?


This is Adriana’s first submission and she’s going through a tough time. Please, show her some Boobday love, guys! (Click pic for link.)
It doesn’t fit the theme really…
it’s just boobs…. 
ZOE 062615 JUICY
Zoe’s breasts remind me of those beautiful champagne glasses from the 20’s. They’d fill them perfectly. (Click pic for link.)
As it happens, I think of myself as juicy all over – thighs, biceps, bottom, tum, and yes, breasts.
As it turns out, I think Beck’s image does fit the theme. (Click pic for link.)

Doesn’t really fit the theme, but I wanted to participate anyhow.


Kayla offers a suckle of her juicy juicy breast. (Click pic for link.)

Juicy like a peach.


KIM 062615 JUICY
Kim gets domestic for us.

A naked chef deserves a JUICY tip, don’t you think??


Mz. Hyde gets a little help with her juice.
Juicy Boobday. My first thought was to pour wine on myself. My second thought was to have help! I have so much fun with #Boobday!
xoxo Mz Hyde

My orgasm made me cry.

I saw The Neighbor last night.

It’d been a while since we’d sat across from each other.  He’d taken up a lot of conversation when Ann was here and then emotional space when I saw his fancy black car speed off ahead of us on Sunday afternoon.  My gut had ached with sadness and loss.

Once alone Sunday night there was a thick stillness about me, about my life.  I went from full-throttle socializing to zilch, nada, nothing.  I felt hungover and desperately alone.  I contemplated texting him.  I contemplated texting the Bad Texter.  But a cooler head prevailed.  I sat with my sadness instead.

And then I sat with it Monday, too, sunken in my mattress surrounded by furry, sighing bodies until it was time to get my two-legged baby from summer camp.  Tuesday rolled around and I was bereft, like an empty cage I felt stiff and skeletal.  Then, yesterday, I went to a friend’s house to sit with her.  Something had changed with her live-in boyfriend, she said.  Sunday, out of the blue, he said he was moving into an apartment.  Monday she changed her will and is now waiting for him to get the rest of his things.

I remembered that feeling the morning The Neighbor told me, “And I don’t want to.”  Those 5 words that ended our relationship.  … and I don’t want to be with you, Hy.  … and I don’t want to be in a relationship.  Just like that.  But I’d known that was going to happen when he’d asked for a break.  Who ever recovers from a break??

So on my way to her house knowing I was going to learn something about the end of her relationship I caved and texted him.  A simple Hi, no punctuation.  Immediately he texted back, “Hey!”

We chatted for a bit and agreed we should see each other that night.  As I sat with my brokenhearted friend I thought about my own broken heart and the man responsible for it.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the 4 and a half months since we broke up, namely I’m capable of keeping my shit together.  After I left my husband I was sloppy, a wet dishrag of a woman.  This time, I was collected and focused.  I waited to date, albeit not long, but I am built for contact.  I wither away out of reach from rays of men.  Collectively, my experiences have been mostly good, but sadness courses through my veins nonetheless.

I’ve also learned that I desperately want to connect dots that might be better left alone.

The knock on my door made my heart skip a beat.  As always.

I opened the door and he smiled and we hugged.

“You smell really good,” I remarked.  “Is that the cologne I bought you?”

“It is.”

“Damn, I have good taste,” I quipped.  It made me happy to know he still wore it.

He declined the wine I opened and we went outside to talk.  We caught each other up and then I said, “So, I thought of you today.”  He looked at my quizzically.

“I used that giant dildo you got me and my vagina burned.”  His eyebrows shot up and we burst out laughing.  “That’s right, I don’t think you’re allergic.  I Googled it and apparently those jelly toys are basically poison.”

“Wow,” he laughed some more.  “Well, that’s nice to know!”

What I didn’t tell him was that I had cried while that giant, poisonous dildo was buried deep inside of me because it reminded me of him, of the way he would twitch inside of me as the Hitachi buzzed on top of me.  It reminded me of his scent and his warm skin, his lips on mine and the way he’d grip my breasts as I came.  I felt the tear slip into the shell of my ear the same moment the orgasm tore through my body and I sobbed with longing and loneliness.  My orgasm made me cry because I still love him; it’s a ghost limb.  A reminder of something that used to be.  It doesn’t exist today.

Watching him across the patio table last night I was reminded of all the other nights we’d spent like that as lovers.  How after a night like last night we would end up tangled in bed, sweaty and filled with lust.  Last night ended with a long, warm hug of promises to keep working on our friendship.

We struggle, but we keep plugging along.  It hurts him to know I’m dating, but he understands I no longer want to pretend that I’m not.  I will let him know if anyone becomes important.  He promised the same, though he hasn’t been out with anyone since our split.  Oh, how I wish I were more like him; to be able to be alone and safe for such long periods of time.

So we keep picking ourselves up and plugging along.  Laughing and learning and hurting and being angry at one another on occasion.  I think it’s worth it 5 out of every 7 days.  I guess those are pretty good numbers.

He’d scoffed a little when I told him how Amy and Tina were both still seeing their exes. “What?” I asked, “We still hang out,” I pointed out.

“True,” he said, “true.”  The big difference between The Neighbor and I and my two best-friends and their ex-boyfriends though is that he and I don’t have sex.  We have maintained that line and I am both proud and saddened by this.

He asked if we could hang out this weekend and I said we could.  I’m hopeful that last night relieved some lingering doubts I had clinging to me about our relationship, both past, present, and future.  I hope he’s hopeful.  And I hope that my ghost love for him won’t present any barriers too high to scale as I look for new love to fill my life.

Because I really do want love.




Send me your tits!  Tomorrow is Boobday!

Just a quick reminder for everyone that it’s that time again!

Theme is JUICY.  



Don’t do this.

Wanna get laid?  Don’t have a monologue with a woman and reveal your “emotions.”

Little backstory, this guy and I have not met.  He’s my age, has a Beemer (cuz he’s posed with it on Adult Friend Finder), and really, really wants to meet me.

I’ve explained to him multiple times that I am not free (Ann is loving on my dog as we speak after she helped me fold all my laundry – who’s the hostess with the mostest??), but he insists on nailing a day down.

And then he sends this:

This does not feel good, you guys.


These are the thoughts going through my mind.

I rarely do this kind of post, but seriously, people. I feel like this is a public service announcement: be reasonable, don’t cross the line, learn to recognize the line.

If I could teach a class on THE LINE I would.  You’d know how to flirt and tempt, challenge and attract.  You wouldn’t offend or turn off and you’d certainly never shut down the openness of a potential amour.

There’s a degree of natural talent to this, yes, but I think it’s mostly a skill that’s honed over time via trial and error.

Sadly, probably lots of error.  Lots and lots of error.

I exhausted Tinder.


Sorry, girl, Ryan Gosling is taken.

Apparently, when you’re a picky motherfucker like me, Tinder runs dry after so many “Pass” swipes.

Look.  I haven’t heard from the Bad Texter in over a day so I texted hello about 30 minutes ago (I also texted 6 other men).  Of the 7, 4 responded immediately.

Naturally, I only want one to reply, though I’m not sure why.  I’ll just be hustling in the inevitable.

When the stars align.

There’s an eerie balance to the universe.  One thing expires, another blossoms; a door closes, another one opens.  People who are closely bonded find themselves on similar cycles of mood, energy, menses, luck.

For me, the stars have been aligning, one by one, to bring me to my knees on the alter of Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass.

I’m finally admitting to myself that, yes, I want a relationship.  

A real thing to nurture and take care of.  I want to be fucking special to someone, not just a fun time — my fun bags be damned.

Admitting that is much harder than you might imagine.

To say I want to be loved shows you that I am soft where I wish to be hard, that I have a chink in my armor.  It means I will have to be honest for a change with both myself and the men I date because right now, I’m a giant liar.

“No, I just want something casual!” I might say laughing, which roughly translates to “I don’t need you to call me, to make plans.  I don’t need you to say nice things or let me know you care.  I don’t need to share myself with you in anyway because you are a blip on my radar, just one vessel of many in my dating sea.”  In other words, I pretend I’m self-sustaining And don’t give a fuck what you do.

But the truth is, I’m not and I do care.  I care very much.

My little relationship with the Bad Texter has taught me that I am capable of developing a connection outside a bedroom and though I wonder that he might not be a good candidate for me in the long run, I’ve decided to practice my truth-telling with him.

I will tell him I am looking for something real and that I’d like to explore that with him.  Because that’s actually the truth, crystal ball malfunctioning or not.

What that means is, I will say that I care about him and that my feelings are ripe to develop and that I want to explore them with just him.  

Well, to be more specific, I want him to date only me.  Baby steps, ok?  I don’t think I could put all my eggs in his basket.  Admitting I have feelings is big enough, thank you very much.

Then I will wait to see how he responds because there are only two things that happen when you tell the truth.  You either hear what you want to hear or you hear what you fear.

I suspect he will tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend at which point I will kiss him goodbye and thank him for our time together.  He won’t have any idea how his easy-going nature and focus on me helped put me back together, but I will never forget our brief time together.  

I’m tired of lying to myself and everyone else.  It’s time for the truth: I want to be special.

Next step will be to look for a man who thinks I’m amazing.

The sex bloggers are coming! The sex bloggers are coming!

Well, one sex blogger is coming, anyway.

She’s tall, she uses a butt plug for a doorstop, and she reveals all her dating travails to us without skipping one detail.  Do you know of whom I speak??

Yep, Ann St. Vincent is coming to my fair city this Friday.

I’ll pick her up from the airport, take her to my favorite “first time in _____” restaurant for a really stiff drink then drag her out into the muggy night with me to fill ourselves with more liquid madness and tall tales we can’t share on our blogs.  Ann, you better nap on the plane.

As you might recall from Noodle’s visits, my town is not a very friendly one in terms of male attention, so my focus will be on showing Ann the sites and the vibe of my home, not hooking her up.  And alas, I no longer have two willing and able neighbors with whom to frolic, so there’s that.

Speaking of which, don’t get your hopes up that Ann will meet The Neighbor.  I wish things were different between me and him, but they’re not.  The battery has died and the clock is stuck.  And Downstairs Neighbor is off the motherfucking grid ever since his exgirlfriend told him she never loved him (don’t ever do that to someone, ok? it’s just unnecessary).  That exhausts my list of available men to drink with in my living room.

But you know us.  Maybe we’ll find new ones.  I never know what will happen when I open myself up to possibility.  And martinis.

I take sexy selfies.

I have a good eye.  I can find beauty in anything and any one.  The gnarled bark on a tree, the broken wing on the stiff little corpse of a cardinal, the age spots on my grandmother’s hands, the jut of an erection, the beautiful asymmetry of a face, the eery ascent of fungi on a log on my favorite trail.

Mostly, I have mastered the art of my own body, how to coax it to produce images beyond my wildest imagination.  I know how to take sexy selfies, not just selfies.  I embrace those things I once eschewed when I thought I had to look a certain way: the swell of my belly, the crease in my waist, my rounded arms and large, pendulous breasts.

With my good eye I see things differently.

Hy with her pants hanging off

The pliancy of flesh.

The curve of a muscle beneath flesh.

Hy with her pants hanging off.

The curious anticipation of hidden treasures.

Hy with her pants hanging off.

The idiosyncratic angles of joints which mark me as me.

Hy with her pants hanging off.

I know how to use light to my advantage, to let it spill in behind me like a wave.


Hy with her pants hanging off.

A good eye tells me when I arch *just so* that my friend, the light, will wrap around me like silk.

And a good eye tells me what you might see if you were on your knees before me.

Hy with her pants hanging off.

I hope you see it, too.