Friday, July 31st, is Boobday (with July’s featured lady)!


Hi everyone!  This marks the month I bring back the weekly Boobday meme!  See the old banner?  Yay!

Admittedly it’s a little half-assed at the moment, but I’ve had a big and busy week and I’m not entirely sure how to get this spot on.  My gut says I should’ve set this to post on a schedule right at midnight, but alas, I did not.  Also, it took me forever to update the guidelines and figure out a bunch of code-y stuff.

I didn’t get many pics submitted to me and it makes me feel weird.  I’m used to at least a handful of delicious and delightful sets of breasts in the days and hours leading up to Boobday.  Hopefully there’s some good participation today!  If not, there’s always next week!

[Update: I forgot Anonymous Aussie’s amazing photo and write up!  She’s July’s featured lady!]

This month’s featured “artist,” if you will, comes from Down Under.  You know her as Anonymous Aussie, I know her as woman extraordinaire.  She’s supportive, amazing, sexy, and a tough woman whom I admire.

I’m very honored to have been asked by Hy to write about what Boobday means to me. It is however slightly belated as life found me in turmoil the last month or so. I just hope that I can do it justice.

When I first stumbled across A Dissolute Life, my personal life was taking many twists, turns & agonizing lows with very few highs to be found. I was venturing into uncharted territory & it terrified yet excited & thrilled me. Hy’s take on a dissolute life had me enthralled from the outset & late into the night, I diligently trawled through all her posts back to the very beginning.   Wow, what a woman & what a dissolute life! I was enchanted, captivated by Hy’s engaging writing style & felt a feeling of association I’d not felt for what seemed an eternity. It’s true that I’ve never been entirely comfortable in my own skin, always thinking, too much fat here, dimples there, always striving to lose those last few pounds. I have although, always appreciated mother nature’s gift of my boobs. At what ever weight I’ve bounced between over the years, they always seemed to be silky soft, curvy.
When I first decided to contribute to Boobday, it was a weekly occurrence & then it took all my courage to send that first pic, since then I’ve contributed many, many times, enjoying the liberation, the freedom, the creativity & comradeship amongst fellow Boobday participants. I realized the appreciation of others too! My soft silky skin, my voluptuous curves, my breasts were truly beautiful & not to be considered shameful to show them. So it’s not just about boobs, not just about having naked pics of boobs collectively posted anonymously online for appreciation by the anonymous.
For me, it’s liberating, empowering, enchanting & tantalizing. Thank you so much for sharing yourself Hy & enabling us to share your space.

Boobday Guidelines

Pics can be of breasts in any state of dress.  Cocks and props are also welcome, but the woman really should be the centerpiece.

Anyone who identifies as having breasts is welcome to submit a photo.  This isn’t limited to the cisgender  woman.

You can participate in one of two ways:

1. Use the link widget in the Boobday post to link to your blog

  • If you participate, please tweet about Boobday with the #Boobday hashtag and leave a comment on other Boobday participants’ blogs, as well as here for the folks who don’t have blogs.
  • Also, be sure to post the Boobday banner on your post with a link to that week’s Boobday page.
  • hy_tits_banner

2. Send pics me at with “Boobday” and the date in the subject line no later than Thursday at midnight, your time.  I’ll post the first 3 I get.

  • For every Boobday submission via email:
    • Make sure your phone and/or camera does not keep your location information!
    • If I receive submissions Friday, it may not appear on that week’s post.
    • Lastly, pics must be yours.  If you’re a man who would like to see his friend’s tits here, she must email them to me or I must somehow get her permission.
  • Also, please include all of the following info:
    • an email with the Boobday date in the subject line
    • an attached pic
    • a sentence about why you chose this particular photo
    • if you want to be anonymous or not
    • a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)

Thanks guys and I can’t wait for this new chapter of Boobday!!



My tits:

It feels good to be free.
It feels good to be free.

NOT my tits:

Kim’s big, beautiful breasts and a mug to ward off the cold.

Multitasking = “Coffee and a boobday pic” before work this am!!!


Please visit these other sexy ladies!:

He’s shy.

Hy in the am, white shorts
Good morning.

I stared at his cock.  The tip, only a sliver of edge viewable above the bottom of a lavender dress shirt, glistened.  The shadow cast on thin fabric denoted the helmet, his hand gripped the base of the shaft.  It looked mighty and throbbing.

My hand holding the phone shook a little as I continued to stare at it as my orgasm built.  I clenched the muscles deep inside of me, imagining him there.  I pushed and released and willed my x-ray vision to kick in.  It never did, but my orgasm didn’t seem to care.  A scream ripped through the room.  I arched and convulsed harder and longer than usual.

I’d cum to this image 6 times in the last two days.

My new reader, The Russian, said he doesn’t send dick pics.  He’s shy and a little nervous about the oozing black eternity of the internet — I get it — and yet, he sends me photos nonetheless.  It is an honor.

In the ensuing hours since our phone call he’s sent me a handful of pics which I have dutifully deleted per his request.  All but the purple shirt one, which he has let me keep.

His shyness personified in the second one with a white sheet gently draped on his erection; the third his hand wrapped around the base looking down; the fourth and fifth variations on the same theme: a POV of a long, erect morning wood.

We have spoken a little bit more about what I’ve done to two strangers minding their own business, the magnitude of trust that I’ve bestowed upon someone out of the blue.  He’s been kind, thoughtful, and introspective about it.  I’ve been sensitive to what feels like a blunder and how this might affect him, us, me, etc.  It’s a new riddle to solve.  I’m up for the challenge.

His proximity to Marian is a boon; she and I were already planning for me to visit in the upcoming weeks.  Her availability is even sooner than I expected and The Russian and I might be sitting face-to-face much faster than either of us anticipated.  This weekend is a slight possibility, certainly the 14th, definitely mid-September if nothing has soured us on one another.

In the middle of the night I awoke to my upstairs neighbors locked in a heated fight.  I’ve never heard more than the occasional creak from them.  This was new.

Bellowing, he said, “I never told you to fuck off!”

“Yes, you fucking did!” she shrieked.

More shouting, some door-slamming.

I checked my phone.  There was a message from The Russian from 20 minutes earlier.

“You up?”

I texted back that I sort of was, listened to the lovebirds upstairs make a great deal more noise, and drifted off back to sleep.

Dawn broke, my eyes fluttered.  I reached for my phone.

“Up.  Been thinking about a variety of things.  The huge amount of trust you’ve placed in me.  The enormity of what you’ve implicitly asked of me.  Some light musings.  :)  Also what my cock would look like in between your tits.  So a variety of things.   Night, Hy.”

I replied that I’d cum 3 times to his lavender cock the day before and snapped some pics.  I figured it’d be as nice to wake up to as his texts were for me.

Hy in the am, white shorts
The second pic I sent him.

The morning light splashed across my belly, my waist curved.  I felt like the old Hyacinth, the one who woke up with a fire in her belly and a story on her lips so long ago.  The kind of Hy that I want to be.

Total orgasm count to his cock is now 7.

Thank you.


Hy in the am, white shorts
I love tan lines.



Free range Boobday is Friday!

Just a quick reminder to everyone that Boobday is Friday!  

New rules, new requirements!  I’ll only host the first 3 (ok, maybe 5?) pics sent to me; everyone else will have to host their own pic on their blogs.

See this post for more info.



I broke my biggest rule: I told someone about my secret sex blog

I’ve been agonizing over what to say here all day.  I woke up on the couch at 6 am, fully clothed, slightly hungover and surrounded by slumbering animals.  My first thought was, Holy fuck.

I walked into my room, took off all my clothes, and climbed into bed.

– Holy shit.

I checked my phone.  Maybe it was a dream.

Nope.  I’d definitely told him about my blog, address and all.

– Holy fucking shit.

So, I guess before I go any further I should say hi to the newest reader of my blog.

Hey, you.

How did this happen, you ask?  Frankly, I have no fucking idea.

I have been a loud voice in this community of anonymous bloggers that the first rule of Secret Sex Blog Club is, there is no fucking secret sex blog

Never tell anyone.  Never allude to its existence.  Search your soul if you find yourself wanting to tell anyone about it, ask yourself questions: how will this affect my writing?  what do I want to get out of them knowing?  can they hurt me with this knowledge?  are they trustworthy???

For 3-and-a-half years I have kept my lips tightly sealed despite pretty compelling situations to open up, but last night I revealed myself to a man whose voice I’d only just heard, whose scent I don’t know, whose kiss I’ve never tasted, whose life is a patchwork of new stories and characters I’ve never dreamed of.  What I know about him is very little: he’s 6, 7 years younger, tall, very handsome, nerdy, quick witted, a lover of the tortured Russian just like me, and willing to make his match-making aunts happy at least once.  He also lives closer to Marian than he does to me, 200 miles away.

– I have lost my mother fucking mind.

There are now 3 people on the planet who know who I am in real life that then gained knowledge of this space.  One has been a long-time hidden presence, a dear, sweet, giant of a man who convinced me to write my very first sex blog 5 years ago after we met on OK Cupid.  The Neighbor is the second.  And now this new reader — who deservedly needs a pseudonym, but I am afraid to even whisper a name because then it will be all too real.

Hi, again.

– Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t know how to answer my own questions.  I don’t know why I opened up to this man.  I have no idea where to go from here.  It feels freeing and terrifying all at once to know that he can dig through my archives here and see how my brain works.  It’s scary to think I might be judged for one post or another.  I almost want to say Read it all with a grain of salt, but that’s not entirely accurate.  That’s me minimizing my work here, the me that’s here.

It hurt me that TN never wanted to read this.  He claimed it was out of respect for my privacy, but I never wrote anything I wouldn’t stand behind or hadn’t already said to him myself first.  I would never use this platform to broadcast my feelings.  Except I’m doing that right now because I don’t have a line to my new reader.

I’m sorry, new reader!  Can I call you Alexei?  Or should I call you The Russian?

This space is also my art.  It’s my canvas, my pride and joy.  It will never make me rich or famous, but it always welcomes me with open arms.  Connecting Hy with me for someone is a challenge.   It’s like asking him to view my art: I hold my breath and hope he “gets it” and continues to like me in the meantime.

It extends the other way, as well.  It’s odd when I meet other [secret] sex bloggers as I fight to quickly catch them up on the real [and boring] me with the literary Hyacinth who flashes her tits any chance she gets and writes about her sex life in vivid detail.

I don’t think accidents happen.

Yesterday was a good day.  The sun was hot, the cicadas loud, my baby sweet and loving.  Friends were in town to break bread with me.  I drove through my busy city to sit on my favorite couch and process my feelings, a weekly ritual.  Then something happened to my heart while I sat across from the woman I admire, wiry and weathered from her love of tennis: I decided to let The Neighbor go.  For real.  All the way.

I cried into my hands and she looked at me with a pained face.  “This is going to be hard for you, Hy, but you’re tough.  You can do it.  I think you’re on to something.”

I left her office feeling composed, safe for the first time in months.  I know exactly what I need to do to stop hurting and I will get it done.  I always get it done.

My newly made decision instantly freed something in me and when the mountain climbing guy from a few weeks ago texted to check in on me I impulsively asked him to have a drink with me.  No pressure, just curiosity.

We met at the same dive bar as our first date and he had a cider in hand for me, he’d remembered from last time.  We sat and baked in the heavy heat and talked for 3 hours while the sun went down.

I can blame the drinks — though that would be untrue — but as the minutes ticked by I found myself drawn to him.  I wasn’t dressed up, I had on barely any makeup.  I showed up as just me, not the vixen I know how to be, and it was as if for the first time in forever a man was talking to me.  I wasn’t trying to make him want me, I was trying to see if I wanted him.

At 10 o’clock our carriage turned back into a pumpkin and we got up to leave.  We made plans to see each other again, shared an uneventful kiss, and I climbed into my car and checked my phone.  No new messages.

I’d been texting with the new reader off and on all day and he’d butt dialed me at one point.  I’d flirtatiously told him he could call me anytime — I mean, how novel would that be?  I texted him that I was disappointed I had no message from him.

I drove home with the windows down and the music blaring, my thoughts on the pain I would soon be rid of and the joy I hope to find again in my future.  I climbed the stairs and set my purse down on the kitchen island and pulled my phone out again.  Still nothing from the new reader, until suddenly there was his face from a Tinder pic I’d captured: he was calling me!

I laughed a hello and plugged in my earbuds, poured myself a glass of wine and sat down.  He’s maybe the 5th man I’ve had a conversation with in all my years of online dating.  His voice was smooth and slightly lilting, a product of his hometown.

By the time we hung up 90 minutes later I’d spilled the beans.  There was some magical combination of his unicorn dust, my decision to move on, and perhaps elements of the date that actually talked to me coupled with an old fashioned phone call with a potential beau/lover/whatever that made me do it.  I can’t blame the wine; I’ve been drunk plenty of other times and never told my secret.

We also brainstormed ideas of how to meet.

I’m in completely uncharted waters.  If he and I never meet he will have this blog address.  If we meet and amazing things happen he will have this blog address.   If we meet and things go in the shitter he will have this blog address.  It’s a scary thought.

Who will I be here knowing that someone who doesn’t know me all that well is reading my innermost [and ugly] thoughts I share with no one but the faceless, nameless internet?

I’m feeling a dozen things right now, but one of them is not regret.  It feels good to not have a secret sex blog for once.


Because I might as well let it all hang out now.




I can’t quite figure my way out of this heartbreak.

I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried fucking, I’ve tried not dating and not fucking.  I’ve created a pretty clear illustration of what it is I’d like to have in my life in the form of a male companion and articulately shared it with several of the courser sex only to, when kindly offered it, wrinkled my nose, shut it all down, and walked away.

I downloaded Tinder two days ago after a 2 or 3 week hiatus.

It was after I had slipped up and texted someone I didn’t want to text, two stupid little words sent out into the ether to be blithely ignored yet again.  I thought it would be better to get some sort of exchange from brand new men rather than beg for it from one who’s already proven himself to be a less than stellar communicator.

First, I wiped out all the matches that hadn’t developed into a conversation dating all the way back to February.  It took me 30 minutes of tapping.  Surely the Tinder Gods can develop an easier way of clearing that kind of shit out of there.

Then I checked in on old chats.  If I wasn’t truly interested I unmatched those, too.  I went from close to 300 matches to less than 75 and I still wasn’t done.  I felt immensely lighter.

Last, I started swiping.  Left for NO, right for YES.  Nothing written in the profile? LEFT.  Not local?  LEFT.  Too young, too old, too fat, too skinny, too irritating sounding, too emo, too bro? LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, and LEFT again.

I quickly began stacking up matches again and felt some excitement.  I started talking to a 26-year-old soccer coach from Scotland.  He promised his mum wouldn’t mind him chatting up an almost 40-year-old soccer mom.  We jumped to text and I sent his pic to Amy who exclaimed at his cuteness.  I felt the momentum building, the excitement.  I could do this!

He asked when he could see me and I told him I was free Friday.  He was quite happy with himself and we settled on meeting for drinks somewhere between our two houses.  Lots of smiley faced emojis were sent my way.

And then I immediately regretted it.

I don’t want to sit across from him for even 30 minutes.  He’s 26 years old, for Christ’s sake.  He lives with a host family and can never have a sleepover, his tiny man nipples are pierced, something I find rather unappealing, and he’s teaching soccer for a living.  This isn’t the kind of man I want in my life long-term.  It isn’t even the kind of man I want in my life short-term: he’s not The Neighbor.

Just when I think I can open myself up to even the littlest amount of male entertainment I am overcome with this feeling of repugnance.  TN once told me that he had zero desire to date anyone.  At the time I couldn’t wrap my head around it, I was in the middle of my mad frenzy to find someone to fill his spot, but I get it now.  Truly.  I really am undateable.

I feel badly for the men I’m hurting and leading on.  I don’t mean to do it.  I honestly believe that when I reach out or respond that I can follow through with a normal human interaction, but it’s like I am seized with a cramp mid stroke across the Channel and I just can’t go one foot further.

The Lawyer asked me last night when he could see me next.  I optimistically told him next Friday.  Realistically, it may never happen.  He’s just not TN.

I am often routinely by friends for my feelings towards The Neighbor, but I very strongly reply that I am no more in control of my feelings than they are.  If I could figure out how to control my fucking feelings, I would rule the world.  There would be no homicidal rages or deep depressions, no panic attacks and no stupid decisions made under the influence of love.  I would teach everyone how to feel exactly how they wanted to whenever they wanted and we would float along in a goddamned Utopia heavily weighted on the end of the “happy” spectrum with ne’er a sad tear or blemish of unrequited love in sight.

I’m sick to death of hearing myself go on and on about all of this, but I am circling the drain.  I just am.

I’m eating right, exercising, being creative, focusing on Peyton.  I’m doing delectable things for myself that feel like treats along with a few things I know are naughty which bring me pleasure nonetheless.  I’m getting organized, I’m looking forward, I’m doing everything one is supposed to do in this situation probably with the exception of being patient.  I am impatient.

I’m tired of feeling this way, lost and untouchable.  I want to be past this point in the healing process so badly I keep trying to run despite my broken leg.  It’s like I’m the Black Knight and I refuse to acknowledge I’m not fit to fight.  I’ve utterly lost the battle to heartbreak.

I need to stay away from people still, clearly, and I need to redirect my angst whenever the mood hits me to reach outside of myself.  My current plan is no contact with TN for 3 weeks — a whole week longer than I typically last — and then I’ll reevaluate, possibly add on time.  Or maybe I’ll indulge my urge to touch base and see how he is.  I don’t know.

We spent time together on Saturday and it was no different from before.  It was easy, it was sad.  I felt no better or worse.  Naturally, I’ve kept it a secret from my friends, but I just don’t feel like defending myself to them.  It’s my heart and I can care for it in any way I see fit and if that means occasional contact while I figure things out, then so be it.  The heart wants what the heart wants and until I become Ruler of the Universe that’s just the way it’s going to be.


I’m gonna sweat my balls off at a cocktail party.

Wish me luck.

Also, The Lawyer cancelled on me and I am so relieved.  Now I don’t have to feel like I’m cheating on my ex-boyfriend.

It’s the little things, people.  It’s the little things.


Kiss me here, someone. Please??


I’m a hot mess and that’s fucking ok.

Hy laying down

WARNING: Post-break-up, bullshit post ahead.

Look up “hot mess” and you’ll find a picture of me next to it.

First the good news:  I canceled my date last night with the nice man who liked to climb rocks from a couple of Fridays ago.  He was totally cool with it like a normal person would be.  We may or may not hang out again in the future.  That’s entirely up to me.  Instead I folded laundry and made different bad decisions on my Wednesday night.

Now, the bad news: I solidified my plans with The Lawyer for Friday, so he’s definitely coming down, I texted The Neighbor, and I texted the Bad Texter.


Hot mess.

Yesterday felt like I’d been holding my breath and I needed to break the surface for air.  Not contacting men felt foreign and weird.  I’m the contacter in all my relationships, romantic or otherwise.  I’m the planner, the follow-upper.  I don’t know if I attract people who don’t give a shit, or if my threshold for not knowing what the fuck is going on is much lower than everyone else’s.  I’m not sure what that’s all about.

It’d been a week since I’d heard from The Lawyer, since the 4th with TN, and the 9th since the Bad Texter who had promised to text me when he got back to town after a 9 day trip.  Yesterday was the 15th.

The Lawyer had left me alone, which I appreciated, and the last things we’d said to each other was to set up our second date.  I pinged him with my first sip of vino verde last night and we firmed up our plans.  He said he’s excited to see me.  It’s foreign to hear and know it’s genuine.  I feel like I’m cheating on TN.

Next, I texted TN.  I was two glasses into my favorite summer tongue-tickling drink.  “Hey” was all I sent.  We texted for a hot minute before my phone was lighting up with his caller id.


“Hello, Hyacinth!” he chirped on the other end.  It felt amazing to hear his voice.

We talked for an hour and as each minute passed I sunk deeper into a strange mix of sadness, light and tension.  We laughed, we questioned, we answered, we joked.  Each time he told me about some new amazing thing he’s doing now, some thing that I wished so badly he’d have done with me, I heard my voice change.  “Oh.  You do that now?” I’d squeak.

“Uh, yeah,” was his flat answer.

Before we ended the call I went for self-flagellating-broke:

“I was wondering how long it’d be since you called me.  It’s been two weeks.  You know, you can call me.  It’d be nice.  I don’t have Peyton right now; I can hang out.”  Gasoline, Fire.  Fire, Gasoline. 

I don’t know how he responded because I was silently berating myself for the desperation that dripped from every word.

We hung up and I lit my last cigarette and sat on the balcony in the warm night awash with regret and shame.  Bits of our chat came back to me.

Hy laying down with one breast out

“Why didn’t you invite me?” he’d asked when I’d told him my friends (formerly categorized as “our friends”) had come over to the pool on Sunday.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” I’d said.

“Of course I would!  I haven’t seen Amy in two months!”

“It’s been six months since you’ve seen Amy,” I replied matter-of-factly.  “Since we broke up.”

“Oh, right.”

“And don’t you tell me ‘of course’.  I had no idea you’d be interested in anything like that.”

“Well, I am.”

I wish I’d told him I had thought of inviting him and then decided against it.  He doesn’t get to hang out with me and my friends anymore, right?  Right.

I finished the bottle of vino verde and watched more of season 5 of Seinfeld.  At 10:30 I decided to bring it back around to the last remaining man on my radar: the Bad Texter, the fat guy ginger who intrigued me so.

I never told him anything about my feelings and I never saw him after our bacon date.  He shined me on, gave me excuse after excuse, never took the conversation further, and now was clearly not texting me when he had promised he would.  I wanted to have the last word, as stupid as that sounds, so I simply told him, “I still don’t hate you,” and then, “Take care, tiger.”

He’d worried multiple times that his bad texting and busy schedule was making me hate him.  It would’ve been easier if I had.

Naturally, I haven’t heard from him.

So now I’m filled with anxiety each time my phone chimes with a text.  I worry it’s the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing isn’t actually dead like I hope.   Also, I worry it’s not the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing is actually dead like I hope.  You read that right.

Then I’m fearful that TN will discover The Lawyer at my house tomorrow, in my bed, and that I will then have lost him forever.  That idiotic, hopeful part of me just won’t die though I beat her and torture her in nearly every way I can imagine again and again and again.  I am the definition of a sad, delusional, heartbroken woman. 

I’m worried that I won’t be able to get The Lawyer out of my bed fast enough Saturday morning.  Hy laying down with two breasts out

I’m embarrassed that I’m a hot mess, but I’m also not all that surprised.  I’m also pretty comfortable with it.  I’m a firm believer in that wonderful cognitive zen-y thing that we do that whatever it is that I do is exactly what I should be doing.  I’ll figure out the whys later.

I’m not looking for advice on how to not feel this way; I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’m just sharing because it’s one of the things that I do best: I share myself, I bare myself.  It keeps me fucking honest and seeing it on the page helps me understand it.  Like, for instance, I know I need to chill the fuck out.

I understand that this isn’t fun to read about — it’s not all that fun to live — but I want to explore solutions.  I don’t know how to fix all of this.  All I know is what feels right to me and sometimes it looks like Hot and sometimes it looks like Mess.

Hello, my name is Hy and I’m a hot mess.

Images were taken by me while thinking, “I used to send these to TN, but now I have no one to send these to.”

It’s hard to move on when you can’t move.

July 9th was the anniversary of Sara, my friend who decided to leave this world by her own hand.

I wrote two posts about it specifically and re-reading them now I am sobbing.  I miss her and I am reminded of how great her pain must have been in order to remover herself from her daughter’s life.  And then I am reminded of The Neighbor and his role in my life during that time.

The anniversary of my father’s death was the 8th, 2006.  TN broke my heart before, during, and after the 4th of 2012.  I had to put my beloved kitty down the 6th, 2012.   My most-loved grandmother’s birthday is also the 9th and she’s been gone for 6 years now.

Grief is a tricky thing.  There are stages, yes, but they are not linear, nor are they finite.  You might come to a calm place of resolution, but that doesn’t mean you won’t come back around to denial and anger and all the sadness.  I learned this with my father.

He was a cruel, awful man and wasn’t in my life when I got a call from a friend of his one dark February night.  He was riddled with cancer and in the hospital, she said.  “This is part of his plan,” she said tearfully.  “It’s bad.  That’s why I’m calling you now.”

He’d moved in with my grandmother, the one whose birthday is in July, to take care of her in her decline, but instead was struck down with his own illness.  His older brother was dying of cancer, too.  A man who never drank or smoked a day in his life.  My father, on the other hand had dabbled liberally throughout his life.  Funny how that works.

His passing was excruciating.  For him, for all of us.  My grandmother was out of her mind; her older son had passed finally in March and my father, her baby, was in hospice by April.  My sister, mother, exhusband, and I flew out to see him the minute he was there and we spent a week in a boozy, sobbing haze.  I made my peace with him, for him, but left knowing that had he somehow miraculously survived the gallbladder, liver, lymph node, lung, and brain cancer that he wouldn’t be invited back into my life.  But I’d told him he would, because that’s what he needed to hear.

It was devastating on a cellular level to watch him truly disappear from my life; the little girl in me truly losing all hope of ever  having a real father, a safe, loving man.   But go he did, because that’s what happens in life: people go.

Two years later I had to put my four-legged best friend down.  He, too, was riddled with cancer and it was during the mourning of his innocent soul that I realized that grief is stored in the same place inside of us and when you open the drawer to access one file, the others all open, too.

I was confused at the intertwined grief I experienced: on the one hand so pure and loving for my dog and the other so conflicted with rage and loss for my father.

As the beginning of July began to become more and more complicated for me that grief drawer got bigger and bigger.  This year I’ve added The Neighbor’s birthday, the 4th.

I want to slam it shut, but I can barely move, barely think.  I waited all day yesterday for the impulse to write to come to me and I couldn’t lift my hands to press the keys.  I stayed busy with errands and a meeting and a long run in the hot sun under the serenading cicadas.  I ended the day with some white wine, two hot pink Benadryls and a chick flick.

I’ve been crying about Sara and my father, TN and my grandmother.  Even the dog I lost in November of 2008 because he’s in there with all of them.  I feel like I’m living off of sadness like a vampire.

I have dreams about men with giant cocks where I am desperate for it, for them, but the men don’t want me.  Or I have dreams of mistaken identity and I end up with the wrong man again and again, but I scramble to cover and make it all ok.

I made plans with a nice man for a drink tonight, but I don’t want to go.  I also made plans for The Lawyer to come down Friday, but I don’t want to do that, either.  I feel trapped in a place of trying to move forward, but my legs are gone.

I told one fellow who checked in with me the other day, the rapey guy, that I had recently discovered I was much more heartbroken than I knew and that I wasn’t ready to date others.  He sent a shitty reply saying he smelled bullshit.  I didn’t respond.

A friend of mind said something to me the other day that’s been rattling around in my head ever since.

“I’m not surprised that you’re still in love with TN.  He gave you a lot of things that you really value and he withheld some things that, whether you like it or not, you seem to be drawn to the withholding of.  It sounds tortuous and awful — and I’m sorry.  I wish you didn’t have to endure it, but hey, we all endure our shit.”

This is about the most accurate description of my draw to TN that I’ve ever heard.  It’s the combination of the push/pull that has me on the hook.  I can’t get away from trying to solve this riddle.  Why doesn’t he want me?  I must figure it out!  I am like a dog with a bone.  But then he is filled with things I do want.  I wish so badly that he will wake up, stop being a shit, and come back to me.  A dangerous wish, I know.  Like wishing to know what people are thinking.

I’ve been catching up on life, attacking the pile of papers I’ve been moving around the house for the last six months, and in this stack I found the season passes I bought for TN, Peyton and I last summer to an amusement park nearby.  We never went for some reason. Too busy, TN just couldn’t be bothered, I don’t remember.  Seeing his name on the ticket made my stomach clench.  I also came across foreign handwriting on a piece of paper with my budget.  He was staunchly supportive of me when I struggled and he’d grabbed the sheet of paper and jotted down everything I was worrying about the night he’d come over to discover me in a tizzy about money.

I burned them both in the dog’s water bowl and set off the fire alarm for a few piercing shrieks.  I felt empty when I was done, but like it was the right thing to do.

I wish I could burn my desire for huge cock.  It haunts me and reminds me that no one is him again and again.  It’s an exhausting and sad loop.

I haven’t heard from him since our trip down memory lane.  It hurts, this silence, but of course he wouldn’t contact me.  It makes it all the more obvious to me that we were actually never really together.  We never decided to be boyfriend/girlfriend.  I drove us forward after we said I love you and he was the same as always: dragging his feet, not wanting to commit, forever married to the belief that I wasn’t the right one for him.  I can see it more plainly now than ever before.

He never wanted to date me.  He loved me, yes, but he didn’t want to be my boyfriend.  My hope that loving each other would change the direction of our relationship out-weighed logic, clearly.  I was going to muscle us into something regardless of what he wanted.  He was overpowered and maybe even a little hopeful himself.  I don’t know.

So here I am, nearly 6 months from the day he said he wanted a break from me and I am as heartbroken as ever.  I long for a man exactly like him, minus all the bad stuff, thus keeping the loss of him front and center.

I’ll know I’ll have moved on when I can tell myself the man I want isn’t defined by his similarities to The Neighbor, either great or small.  However, that time isn’t now.  Right now it’s July and July hates me.

Fuck you, July.  You can go to hell.

I get some fucked up texts.

Oh, Online Dating, how I love you.

You bring me the most amazing little digital gifts in the form of texts, chats, and emails.  Here I’ll share some of my favorites from the last month.

Like this fella who introduced me to some new shorthand.

Bad texts - IIIW::

Or this guy with whom I made a date for a couple of days after this thread who helped me understand that you’ve got to jump on an opportunity the moment it presents itself no matter what the fuck else you’ve got on the hopper.

Bad texts - got a gf
Compliments are nice.


Bad texts -got a gf
Clearly, he’s into me.


Bad texts - got a gf
Until he’s not.


Then you brought me the dude who — in case I wasn’t already clear – helped me clarify my stance on making jokes about rape.

Bad texts - rapey
I wondered if he’d had a small stroke.


Bad texts - Rapey
Or maybe he was drunk?


bad texts - rapey
Or maybe he thought treating me like a misogynistic bro was the way to my heart?


You also put this guy in my path.  He sent me a goat .gif.  Then offered to send me an awkward email from his mother by way of explaining his sense of humor.   I never got back to him on that.   I mean, who doesn’t love goats?

This goat had mad skillz.


And lastly, Online Dating, I have to thank you for this dude who once again reminded me that, just like my mother used to tell me, bragging gets you no where.

Bad texts - eat for hours::

Is it even necessary for me to add what happened next?

I have to be honest that I sorta miss the ongoing IV of humor I have whilst out in front of all the men trying to impress me.  It’s sorta like watching internet cats.

Poor kitty.



Surprise! I’m not over him.

This weekend was hard.  Today has been hard.  Yesterday was hard.  Nice people keep checking in on me and asking how I’m doing and the answer is the same:  Eh.

I’m doing eh because my dumb ass finally — and just — realized that I’m still in love with The Neighbor.  I thought I wasn’t.  Truly.  I haven’t won the war.

I thought I’d taken enough time to catch my breath and pull my big girl pants back up from my ankles and march on.  I thought I had an open heart for new love.  But, I don’t.  Not even close.

Spending Saturday with him was so familiar, like old times, that it hit me on two fronts: one from the present and one from the past.  The one from the present reminded me of what I’m missing: the sex, a future with him, his company.  The one from the past reminds me that even when we were in a relationship I got no more than what I did 4 1/2 months after he dumped me, which made me sad for that old Hy.  I felt trapped in a loop.

I’ve spent a lot more time with him in the last week and a half than I have in months.   He came bowling with me and Peyton recently, stopped over another night to hang out for some reason, and then we were in more than usual texting contact leading up to his birthday.  It’s like I have a TN Hangover: I binged on him and now I’m paying for it.

I’ve deleted all my texting threads with men and Tinder off my phone.  I haven’t checked into AFF in a week because I can’t wrap my head around the idea of one more stupid fucking date.  Friday burned me and I’m avoiding the kitchen.

Realizing that I’m still in love with a man who secretly-not-so-secretly withdrew from me for months and then disengaged altogether without a fight because he’d decided I wasn’t the one for him is humbling.  I feel about as bright as an ant intent on her duty to get to the nest despite the river between her and it.

Ann sent me a link to a great article about being addicted to people and the highs they create in us.  A friend on Instagram emailed me a link about being addicted to seduction.  I keep getting little messages like pollen blown in from far away telling me to love myself and to “be content with you.”

I’m a conflation and paradox of all those things: I love the hunt, I’m seduced by the chase, yet I do love myself and am content.  I don’t need to be alone, I need to get my head on straight.  Being alone makes me go crazy, not because I hate myself or can’t stand me, but because the stillness of energy drains me as swiftly as removing the cork from the bottle.

So I am stuck in this breakup purgatory of being unfit for dating, but in need of contact.

Someone suggested I rely on my friends.

If only I could.

My friends are far flung and busy.  Gone are the days when we move in packs and come and go with revolving doors.  My friends are mothers and wives and workaholic singles.  I don’t have enough people in my life to fill the many gaps in my time; it’s why I got a dog.  He’s always up for an adventure or a cuddle.  Also, my friends can be real shits.  It happens.  They have priorities and many times it’s not me reaching out to say I need them.

The men left somewhere in the orbit of my life aren’t taking up any space at the moment.  I’ve switched the command to something akin to an alert system.  If they put out a signal, I see them, respond, and go back to dark.

I need to figure out how to get filled up with what little contact I get in a quiet week because I can’t spare one more ounce of effort to get more.  That’s how I’m going to heal: staying quiet and being open to the connections offered me and doing with less.

The other day I learned that my birthday in 1783 marked the end of the Revolutionary War.  The Neighbor’s birthday happens to be on the day it began.  We are bookends in history and like all stories, ours has an ending of its own.  It’s time for me to figure out life after the treaty.