He doesn’t want to date me.

The Russian called me last night.  I missed the call initially because I’d fallen asleep watching the cringe-inducing Iron Chef America.  “Who doesn’t fall asleep during that one?” he quipped when I called him back.

His voice was sweet to my ears, but I was tense.  It’d been a strange two weeks of texting between us since we’d met and he’d turned down my offers to talk on the phone.  A hangover hung on me like cheap perfume; I wasn’t prepared.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he began, “and the thing of it is, I don’t think we should take our relationship to the next level.  We can’t be lovers.  I’d like to be friends, though.”

I shook my head as if I hadn’t heard right.  “Ok…” I said.

“It’s too intense to be casual and too casual to be this intense.  I can’t unknow about your blog and it’s just too much.  It’s too much exposure; I don’t want to be a character.  I don’t want to do it.  I’m spending as much thought and energy on all of this as if we were in a committed relationship and that’s not what I want.”

Many more words were said.  I was keenly alert now, no vestiges of my night lingered.  “I need to be selfish,” he said.  “I choose me.”

I stammered that I understood.  He worried if I was ok, how I was feeling.  I felt vaguely punched, but only shared that I felt trapped.  “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”  This was my worst fear about the blog come true: that I would be rejected because of it.

He lamented with me, apologized again.  “I know this is the very thing you were afraid of happening and here I am doing it to you, but I just can’t help it.”

He said he didn’t want another intense and complicated relationship.  He was done with those.

Occasionally I felt tears well up in me, but I kept them at bay.  “I’m happy to be friends if you want,” he offered towards the end.  “When you’re up here for Labor Day you’re welcome to come over for a beer and hang with me and my friend.”  I told him I’d think about it knowing full well we’ll likely never speak again.

His words were well-formed and precise, my responses were bumbling and ill-formed.  I had known something was going on with him.  He’s a thinker, a thoughtful man and I took every pause in texts and new punctuation to mean something was going on over the past couple of weeks and I was right.

My blog, he said, is me and he would never ask me to stop.  I didn’t offer any solutions because it didn’t seem relevant.  He lives so far away, the mechanics of any kind of relationship with him were already complicated.  I was keeping an open mind and feeling my way through this new exposure.  He was safe, he was sexy.  That’s as far as I’d gotten.  Apparently, he’d gotten much further.

“I don’t want the burden of your secret, the double life.”

I sat on my couch as every word hit my eardrum.  I felt overwhelmingly sad, yet relieved.  I’d no longer be hurt by my texts being ignored, at least.

“Meeting you and liking you has been great, but it can’t go any further.”

I’ve always known that my blog could be a deal breaker for someone, I just didn’t expect it to happen.  It’s scary even for me, but I’ve chosen to take the risk.  For any man who gets involved with me he’d have to be comfortable with the level of exposure that could come if my cover were ever blown.  Don’t date me if you have a political career on your mind.  I’d ruin it just by association.

I’ve thought about the impact of this space on my life for years.  On the one hand it has provided me with a rich playground of creativity and connection.  On the other, I risk losing important people if it’s ever revealed — by me or by anyone else.

When I told The Neighbor, I was terrified.  I had been lying to him about what I did with my spare time for two years, I’d shared every intimate detail of our sex life.  He had every right to be angry, to leave me, to walk away.  But, he didn’t.  He was proud of me in a detached way and left me to it.  “Is it anonymous?”


“Am I anonymous?”


“Ok then.  I’m ok with it.”

It had been that simple.

With The Russian, even knowing I’d taken every measure possible to protect my identity, the very idea of that many eyes reading about him was too much.

When we hung up my eyes stung and my gut ached.  I had hoped for a different kind of ending.  He was intelligent, kind, introspective, sexy, and successful.  Being accepted by him would disprove the inner voice in me that says no one will want me if they  know everything about me.  Unfortunately, my worst fear has been proven correct.   I’m sorry, Hy.  I can’t do it.  It’s just too much.

Part of why I opened up to The Russian that night is because I’m tired of the double-life.  I’m proud of what I’ve done here and it’s a huge part of my life, yet I can’t share it.  It’s a difficult position to be in and my patience has petered out.  I need to search my soul about this: why now?

How do I manage this going forward?  I don’t want to find myself in another situation like I did with TN where I have years of lies under my belt, nor do I want to expose myself to a total stranger and hope he’s not a psychotic asshole who’ll rat me out — I got supremely lucky with The Russian.  What’s the middle ground?

Perhaps I tell everyone that I have a secret blog about my sex life, but won’t share any information about it until and unless we develop feelings for one another and decide to commit.  At least that way he’ll have been able to think about it and not feel blindsided.  I’ll tell him the size of my readership, the topics I cover, etc., but keep the URL and names out of it.  I just don’t know.

I’m missing TN tonight because he was safe and he accepted me.  I have to remind myself that he also never wanted me despite it all.  I found an old post where he said, verbatim, what he told me in January, “You’re not the right person for me.”  It’s been nearly a month since we spoke last.  It’ll be exactly one month on my birthday next week.  I don’t expect to hear from him.  In fact, I don’t expect to hear from anyone.

I’m lonely, I’m sad, I’m worried I’ve wrecked my chances for love because of my need to be Hy.  I’m sad to miss out on a man like The Russian, but relieved that he let me off the hook as he did, with kindness and like a grown man.

Maybe I’ll meet another one like him, but one who is also willing to take the risk to be with me.  I won’t be Hy forever after all.

Friday, August 28th, is Boobday!

hy_tits_bannerOy.  You should never blog drunk.  Tuesday’s blog post is proof of that.  Please forgive me.

In the mean time, enjoy all the fucking titties today.

Boobday Guidelines here.  One of two ways to participate: 1) either be one of the first 3-4 people to submit a pic OR (OR, not AND) 2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.  And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts!  This is all about spreading the love!

Love you!




My tits:

Hy on a couch.
Just me and Orange is the New Black tonight.

NOT my fucking tits:

KIM 082815
Kim’s lacey hotness might be upside down for some of you (again). Just ignore it and keep on staring.

I was taught that a girl’s got to have decent underwear and shoes :-) ;-)


KATE 082815
Kate rocks the repose. HAWT.

 This is my least favourite position for them but I think it’s important to share that too. We all need to flop out to the side some days!


SANDY 082815
Sandy’s giant jugs make me ache. So hot, so luscious.

Why’d I send this? Because it’s recent (last week) and I took it in my office for my boy toy.

LOLA 082815
HH and Lola are old friends and I love her tits like they’re mine.  Click here to know more about them.

Would this be big enough for a self-proclaimed “size queen” like yourself?


Check out the other gorgeous tits by clicking on the links below:

“C” is for…

Hy Cookie Monster 1

Cookie!  Get your mind out of the gutter. 

I have had too much wine on this Tuesday  night.

Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I’ll haul my body out of bed and to my boot camp again.  The preternaturally youthful looking silver-haired personal trainer will flounce around on his toes and correct my form and I will sweat all the sweaty bullets and feel really accomplished by 9am.

Tonight, I will stay my fingers and text no one, though truthfully, I want to text no one, so that’s good news.  I want to do what comes naturally to me, but I’m sick of being rejected and rebuffed.  

The mathematics involved in dating today exhaust me and infuriate me.  I thought if you dug someone you made sure they knew it.  I was wrong.  You actually do your own thing and think about them whenever.  That’s when you let them know you think of them.  If then.  Maybe not.  Probably not.

I’m so over it.

Hy Cookie Monster 2

I don’t like it when men are up in my grill.  I like the chase.  Everyone does.  So do they.  Me throwing myself at them eliminates the challenge.  My openness, my clarity, my transparency.  It’s a turn-off.  That’s what I’m surmising.

And it’s all I can do, surmise.

I’m not privy to the Man’s Brain Handbook.  I’m getting hit on from all sides and I’m bouncing around the room, not sure where I’m supposed to look.  I just know I’m not biting.  I’m not interested. 

Hy Cookie Monster 3

I’m going analog, though.  No more online dating.  It’s going to be old school for me.

I’ve asked a man out on my softball team, but he appears to have ignored my invitation.  I only have his email, so I had to use what I had.  Cheesy and less than ideal, yes, but whatever.  I’m just not going to be anything but me.  Awkward, vulnerable, awful me. 

I want something, I can feel it.  Can you feel it?  It’s real, it’s wonderful, it’s solid.  It’s also embarrassingly humiliating being this exposed.

I hate it.

Hy Cookie Monster 4

“C” is for completely confoundingly crushingly clueless.


I love big dicks and I cannot lie.

I talk about cock size a lot.  When I was on Tinder it was in my profile under something coy like, “I prefer gold wrappers,” or some such.  On Adult Friend Finder I’m explicit with my fantasy penis.  I want a guy who’s at least 7″ and girthy, like 5″+ around.

I’ve been called childish and rude and told I’m missing out on what a smaller guy can do for me.  The men who meet my preferences give me high fives and thank me for my honesty.  They like a woman who knows what she wants.

So why do I like them bigger? 

I find big cocks hot as fuck

I don’t know if I’m a product of the current state of society which seems to laud hung men or if I come by it naturally, but I am in love with big dicks.

They titillate and challenge me, they make me feel proud that I get to have it and that I can take it; I feel overwhelmed with desire when I see it jut at me, throbbing and bulging with veins so beautiful I want to cry for want of it.

When my hand wraps around it and my fingertips can only just barely touch my pussy pulses and my heart quickens.  I cannot help my physical response to a big cock — I simply cannot — and it feels good, oh so good.  Just the response, I’m not even talking about how it feels in me.

For many years I wasn’t cognizant of my preference.  I knew smaller ones felt different and often would think, “I wish I felt… more,” but couldn’t put my finger on it.  Then one day the stars aligned: I met Troy.

We lay in his bright living room the first Monday we ever knew one another and as I knelt at his feet and deftly unbuckled his pants he sprung out and my eyes widened.  “What?” he said.

“Um… you’re really big,” I said and fell onto him with my eager mouth.  I was old enough to know the difference and sexually awake enough to appreciate it.

He’d never cum from a blowjob until that day.  He didn’t know he was hung until that day.  It was a turning point for the both of us.

Size Queens

Troy had his own preferences and introduced me to the term “size queen.”   He launched a search for men on AFF to play with us who were bigger than him.  He’d watch me get fucked by these fellas and impatiently wait his turn to suck my juices off their long, engorged members.  Troy was a master at deepthroat and I’d watch in awe as the men would disappear down his throat like a sword.   Jack, Ryan, Max.  When he and I were over I knew I had a thing.  I was a size queen, too.

The Neighbor was bigger than Troy and even more talented with it.  I squirmed with glee when I noticed his bulge hardening under his silky basketball shorts, from the feel of his heat in my hand.  I loved that it made his jeans fit funny and that he couldn’t hide his size from the world, as if to say, Fuck you. I’ve got a huge cock.

I know lots of women — a majority, actually — who don’t care about dick size and prefer smaller and thinner penises inside of them than I do.   Big ones intimidate them or hurt once inside.  I don’t have either of those problems.

I’m built for big cock

Five years ago, at the tender age of 35 I was set loose on the world of men with a broken heart and a raging sexual appetite.  Together, Troy and I discovered the wonders of my body and I became a wet and willing partner at the drop of a hat.  His hands, his kiss, his breath on my neck.  It didn’t take much and my pussy would be soaking and he’d slip right in.  I eschewed lube and we never used it.  Instead I savored the stretch until he slipped around inside of me as I came and squirted around him, ruining our beds, rugs, blankets, and couches in the process.

After Troy there was Phillip who was a monster.  He’s the first man whose cock made me a little afraid, but I trusted him and it was spectacular.  He called me his dirty little Girl Scout and I came from the filthy words and being hung up on his staff.  The man barely had to move and I was writhing.  With Kent, it was different.  He was enormous, too, but the curve of his cock also hit my G-spot and I just sobbed into my pillows as he rode me to his climax.   And I could feel The Neighbor in my throat and skull through my pussy as he’d fill me up and take me to faraway places attached to his thrusting hips.

The thing with all of them was I got wickedly wet and lost my goddamned mind and if it weren’t for their size they would have been lost to me completely.  Physiologically, as a woman becomes more aroused, her vagina expands and cervix lifts up and out of the way essentially expanding rather than constricting.  I don’t know if I have some giant hallway-sized pussy or something, all I know is that my intense wetness creates a severe loss of sensation for me, so unless his cock is big, I’m not feeling him.  I’m told my pussy feels amazing.  I’m glad they can feel something while I’m lost in sloppy pussy outer space.

In addition to wetness, there’s also vagina depth.  The average is 3-4 inches in length unaroused, aroused it can nearly double.  I must have a deeper one than most if a man who’s 10″+ can fit in there with little to no pain.  Just the thought of taking in something that huge turns me on and, whether it’s true or not, it makes me feel special.

Size has nothing to do with character

How a man reacts to my size preferences, however, does speak to his character and self-esteem.  Calling me names and telling me I’m short-sighted is more about the man than it is about me.  I know what I want and I want it to be amazing for the both of us.  I want him to be excited by my excitement and for him to see the lust in my eyes, not veiled disappointment because I was told to expect something different. I want to feel him in me — I’m naturally desperate for it during the act of sex — and a man with a baby arm between his legs rockets me off the planet like no other.

When a man states very clearly that he likes a petite woman who’s fit I don’t call him names.  I just know I’m not the woman for him.  At best, I’m softly athletic, of average height with big, mushy tits — I’m an athlete in bed, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me — but he doesn’t need to know that.  I’m not going to argue with a guy who has a whole truckload of reasons behind his stated preference.  He’s entitled to it.  I also don’t want a man to settle for me.  Physically speaking, I want the man who wants me, just the way I am.  The man who wants a softer partner, with pendulous breasts that swing and bounce, and an ass that jiggles as he slams into it.

I want men to be ok with me not wanting them if their cocks are average or smaller.  Let me go find a guy who’s bigger and wish me well on my search.  I’ll wish him well on his search for a woman who thinks he’s perfect, too.  I’m not doing it to be exclusive, I’m doing it because it’s just what I want.  No one should shame someone because they have a preference be it for fake tits or BBW, hairy men or older blokes.  We all want what we want.  There’s no need to make it personal.

Love vs Cock vs Good Times

I’ve essentially shot myself in the foot having this ridiculous thing about me, this preference, because I also want a man who’s intelligent, funny, and kind, successful in his career, and above all else, interested in me.  Add to it the general ambiguity of dating, the trials and misfires and it’s an exhausting endeavor, which is why I’ve essentially taken myself off the fucking market (pun intended).  I’m tired of it all.

I’m tired of the emotional math necessary for sending texts or making calls, tired of the hoping and the waiting, tired of trying to untangle mixed messages and shot-down hopes, tired of looking for a man who wants me who also has a nice, giant meaty cock.  It seems vaguely impossible; I might as well buy a lottery ticket.

Luckily, I’m perfectly capable of just chillin’ and fully enjoying myself with a man who isn’t related to a donkey.  I’ve had some really pleasurable evenings with these guys and walked away sated, smiling like a fool.  I’m an equal-opportunity dater, I just have a preference.  It doesn’t mean you have to be my dream cock.  If you’re a great guy, I’ll still think you’re great and you might even win my heart.

I’ll never rule out love with someone based on the size of his penis, but it would certainly be a boon for me if I loved a man who had one that was made for me.

I don’t know what other size queens think about their needs and wants, I only know about mine.  It’s born out of lust, pride, and physiological necessity.  It’s not meant to make anyone feel badly.  It’s only meant to make me feel good, both inside and out.  I sincerely hope that we all find our perfect match in whatever sizes we want.

Friday, August 21st, is Boobday!


Boobday marks the end to another busy week.  I’ve been Feeling all the feelings: happy, horny, confused, excited, stressed, angry, frustrated, focused, optimistic, ambitious, brave, fearful, horny.  Oh wait…

Basically, I’ve been feeling alive and I’ve been thinking a lot.  It’s a good thing and I feel good.

Please enjoy this week’s offerings and be sure to leave a comment here for the ladies I host and go to the links at the bottom for everyone else!

Love you all!!



Boobday Guidelines here.


My tits:

KATE 082115
The Russian thought this photo was one I’d already sent him. He had to scroll through his phone to realize my panties were different.
NOT my tits:

Sexy Dawn shares the most beautiful nude bra I’ve ever seen.
Not long ago, I read a post stating that nude bras should be banned.

This may not be the nicest bra I own, I too prefer a touch of colour generally, but it is not that bad either I think ;-)


Kim’s photos are upside down — I’m convinced — because she’s in South Africa and her hotness fries the internet.

Good Morning………..I love how the early morning light makes my nipple shine like a precious gem.


KATE 082115
Ooooooooh, Kate’s luscious tits are, like, wow!

I took this photo last night just for me and you. I love how defined the left one is in particular in this shot. I’m appreciating them more and more every day.


Check out the other gorgeous tits by clicking on the links below:

The problem is me.

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

When I have mediocre sex it’s because I’m not making it hot.

I’m not pouring champagne on my tits as I ride him or trying to blow his mind with my hot, wet, hungry little mouth or letting him bend me over the parking garage railing and slip inside while no one’s around.

It’s because I’m not taking my time to get to know every curve of his muscles, the heat of his cock in my hand, or the taste on his lips.

I’m rushing or I’m bored or I’m waiting for sexual lightening to strike like it did with The Neighbor and Troy.

It’s because I am sad.

I’ve had a lot of mediocre sex this year and I have only myself to blame, for letting my broken heart dial it in.  When it was strong and full I loved not only the hunt, but the mad frenzy of the feed.  The blood on my lips and the cum deposited deep inside my needy body.

It’s possible he may have been a mediocre lay or a less-experienced lover, but maybe he was tired, too.  Maybe his heart was also broken and limping.  Maybe he was hoping I’d ignite in him what she once had.  Either way, I’ve been the partner to many a man who was much too like me to make it any good.

The little great sex I’ve had this year has been because I’ve been swept away, not because of anything I did; I simply got lucky the times David wanted to pile drive into me and use my body any which way he could think of with that giant cock of his.

He was subversive and cruel in the sexiest way and it was so new to me I couldn’t crawl into my skull and ruin it.  He pushed me out of my own way simply by picking me up in the hallway as the door shut behind him, his mouth locked on mine and a growl in his throat.  I mean, who does that shit??

I’ve been relatively sexless for quite some time now.  I say “relatively” because I’m not dead — I think about it almost constantly — but I’m not out there.  I’m tucked away safely on my couch night after night and my phone remains dark and my computer off.  It’s like a vacation, really.

The next time I have sex, though, I will buck and ride and moan and claw and never let go until we’re both slick with sweat and panting like we’ve run a race.  I’m going to cum like a banshee and wail at the ceiling.  I will sob my release and ejaculate like a fountain and kiss his swollen lips and feel his breath puffing against my face and the smile connected to mine.

I am in no rush to change my sexless status — shit heart and all that — but when it’s time to flip the switch I vow to fuck like it’s my last day on earth.


I met The Russian.

Hy after the Russian
As I gather my thoughts to write.

“I have to kiss you,” he said as he pulled me to him and crushed his mouth down onto mine.

I kissed him back and pressed my body against the length of his.  His arms wrapped around my waist like a straight jacket and our mouths locked and unlocked, nibbled and bit at soft, silky lips.

He released my body, for just a second, and I grabbed his face and held it to mine.  He kneaded my arms and shoulders and pulled me back into him and a little noise escaped me.  This kiss..

Finally we broke apart and looked at each other under the street lamp.  I blinked.  “So, that answers the chemistry question,” he said.

I felt mute, but agreed.  My head spun like a top.

“Don’t worry.  We’ll figure this out,” he said.  “I like this,” his big hand dragged lightly down the front of my dress and motioned to my body.  “And I really like this.”  Both hands traced my face and head.

We were no more than 30 feet down a residential street on our way to his car.  “So, will you walk me to my car?” he’d asked while Marian was in the restroom.  Of course I said yes.  The bar was closing in 20 minutes, we didn’t have long, but the couple of times Marian had gracefully given us a moment to ourselves there were unspoken messages flying between us, a foot casually hooked on the other’s calf, a sneaky sniff of a perfumed neck or broad chest.  We needed to be alone.

Marian winked at me as we’d left and when we crossed the street he took my hand.  I told him how good it felt to have my hand in his, how I typically don’t let a man touch me there.  I felt like making a reference to Vivian, the hooker with a heart of gold who doesn’t let her tricks kiss her on the mouth, but I felt too shy.  Holding his hand and admitting it was new to me felt like enough.

Moments later he was kissing me roughly on the sidewalk and saying those words and filling my every sense.

He took my hand again and we crossed the street to the darker side under a canopy of sleeping trees.  He pressed me against a trunk and slid his hand up my thigh, our kiss deep and passionate.  I kept my eye on the warmly lit windows over his shoulder and wondered if anyone could see us.

We kept walking, his fingers threaded through mine, our arms and bodies intermittently drawn back together to embrace.

Finally, we reached his car parked directly under a streetlight.  He came up behind me and held me close and kissed my neck.  I stumbled forward and leaned against the hood of his car and he pressed himself against me.  I saw headlights approaching.

Hy in striped cardi
He likes this.

“We can’t do this out here,” I said.

“You’re right, we can’t.”  We laughed at our homeless situation and got in the car.  I unbuttoned his jeans but couldn’t slip my hand in before he stopped me.

“Wait…” He looked confused.

“Are you turning down a blowjob?” I asked.

“No.  Yes.  Wait, I think I am.”  He explained that he’d told himself to wait until September.  “And besides, I want space to be with you.  I don’t want it like this in a car.”  I hadn’t thought anything through, but he was right.   We needed space.

“I’ll be back up for my birthday with Peyton the first weekend in September.  You can come over after bedtime and we can just hang out some more then and the weekend after that I’ll be back for Tina’s 30th birthday and I’ll peel off then and we can have some real alone time.”

He thought that sounded like a fine idea.

“I’m not used to this waiting,” I said and squirmed a little.  The light from above cast shadows on my bare legs and cleavage.

“I’m not either.”

He reached across and pulled my top down and my bare breast sprung free.  “Your nipples are amazing,” he breathed as his mouth locked on.  He sucked and nibbled and bright, exquisite pain shot through me.   I held his dark head to me and closed my eyes.

He drove me back to the bar and we kissed goodbye and I floated to Marian who was talking to a man in a plaid shirt and leather necklace.  Barbacks were flipping chairs upside down and people were noisily closing tabs, but I barely noticed.  I stood there as if in a daze while we got our car from the valets, the drive home was a dreamy recap of how the night had gone, and by the time I climbed the stairs to my guestroom all I could do was smell him all over me.

I texted him that I’d arrived safely like I’d promised and a picture of me smiling and disheveled.

This morning, in my pajamas and Marian’s cardigan, I’m still smiling and still covered in his scent.  Our first meeting went well.


Hy after The Russian in striped cardi
I imagined him watching me take these pics.
Sinful Sunday

Hy is back in Noodle-country.

Half a day in a car whose AC decided to crap out half way there has landed me on the doorstep of my sweet Noodle, drenched in sweat and hot as hell.

I’ll not give away what’s happened so far, but we both agree it’s Penthouse Letter worthy thus far and I’ve only been here for 4 hours.

Here’s us saying howdy. 


Tomorrow, I meet The Russian.  Quite excited about that, I must confess.  Also, strangely ambivelant?  Hard to put my finger on it.

Here’s to a wonderful weekend in Noodle-country!  A-men!!

PS: This reminds me I need to write about Ann’s visit in June where matching panties and giant slabs of beef were involved in a killer girls’ weekend.

Friday, August 14th, is Boobday!

Well, that little celebration lasted a little longer than I expected.

Not feeling all that hot today – ugh – but check out these pretty titties.

Sorry for being so late today!  I should have done this Tuesday, the way my week’s been!



PS: I don’t know why these pics keep turning out upside down.  I’ve corrected the originals on all of them and they come out right-side up on my phone, but not on my laptop.  I can’t make heads or tails of it!  If anyone knows the solution, please email me so I can fix it!

Boobday Guidelines here.

My tits:

Hy hungover with the kitty
Stayed out way too late last night. At least I get some cuddles this morning.

NOT my tits:

KIM 081415
Kim’s jug looks like the perfect pillow.

Another nippy day in Africa.


TIGGS 081415
Another creative, gorgeous first-timer! Please welcome Twiglet, everyone! Tweet her at @100acresub.

I like how direct my boobs are in this pic. Pointing directly at you. Probably the opposite of curves but I like the upward line of my breasts in the glow of the electric fire.


KATE 181415
We’ve got a new fan of Boobday! And look at how lucky we are! Kate’s giving me serious bra envy.
Loved seeing my boobs for Boobday so much that I’m back with another submission.
Just sent this off to my hubby to make sure I’m in his thoughts! I think I will be. :)
ANN 081415
The ever glorious, Ann St. Vincent is playing along this week! I should tell you she also sent me pics with a lobster claw on her nipple, but I liked this bralet pic the best. Poor lobster!

These are my vacation jugs… Tan line from my new bikini (although my stomach isn’t that tanned yet) and a little help from a local delicacy ;)


Check out these other hot tits:

Boobday will be slightly delayed, y’all.

I’m still out celebrating the end of my softball season.  

Gimme a couple of hours and I’ll have it up and running.