I am a hopeful, jaded bastard.

Unless he’s married, I think about a future with everyone I ever come into contact with.  Without exception.

It started in the 4th Grade when I began writing my name with a boy’s last name all over my Ked’s and knee-less jeans.  It progressed to doodling dozens of combinations of my first and their last names in math books, on binders, and backpack straps.  My skin often bore the proof of my interest, longing, and hope.

As I messily stumbled into dating as a young woman, I ditched the sketches and instead envisioned our life together, his and mine, intertwined with seamless balance, love, and passion.  It was grandiose — and a joke.  He’d buy me flowers just because, grind my coffee and bring me a steaming hot cup as I sat on our balcony and listened to a morning aviary serenade.  We’d lay on our backs in the grass and laugh at the passing pirate ships and Groucho Marx visages.  He’d make plans for us to visit my sister or his brother and we’d steal away for passionate moments in broom closets at family gatherings giggling into each other’s panting, open mouths as we grappled to get him inside of me as quietly and quickly as possible.

Of course, this has never come close to occurring in my life — not even remotely — but there’s still this hopeful little girl in me that thinks it’s possible.  Somewhere, buried deep inside a jaded, wily, crushingly charming 40 year old woman sits a little upturned face hoping her daddy finally comes through for her.  Except, he never does.

I sit across from all of them and bat my lashes, do my snake-charmer’s dance, and wonder if we’ll have chemistry.

When my interest is piqued, I lean in and give the signals.  Sometimes, I steal the kiss.  Sometimes, he does.

Our lips touch, I smell his skin and taste his lips and hope that when I hear the clatter of his belt buckle it will be a prelude to my orgasms.

I lie in his arms and run my hands over his rising abs, fondle his damp, plump cock and catch my breath.  Is this what it’ll be like in 10 years together?  Will we still set one another on fire like this?

When he stoops to kiss me goodbye — all of them, every one of them — I think, “This could be the story we tell people of how we got together.”  Of course, all he sees is a red-cheeked buxom woman, likely barely draped in clothing saying something unbelievably nonchalant.  Cool.  Oh, so cool.

When he doesn’t text the next day, or his texts become less frequent, it feels like little tiny knives slashing at my skin.  Bearable, but unpleasant.  But we felt so good together, I think.  We have chemistry, a shared outlook on life.  We should try to be together, shouldn’t we??

When he doesn’t respond to me, cancels, otherwise disappears, the tiny little knives cut deeper and like some kind of regenerating alien life form, my skin resurfaces itself that much thicker.  Each. and. every. time.

The number of tiny little cuts I’ve incurred over the years, particularly the last 5 since leaving my husband, are immeasurable.  Slash here, slash there, stab, jab, rip my fucking heart out. Buh-bye, Hy.

My readership and social media reach has grown in tandem with my dichotomous outlook of hope and despondence.  The first 8 hours are a blissful, blinding promise, followed by days or even weeks of realization that I was horribly wrong about him, everything.

I never meet a man with the intent to see him only once.  I certainly never fuck a man with that intent, either.  I meet with him because maybe this time the beginning of my new story will gain traction.  I write with cellular conviction that perhaps it will happen again, that they will become a leading figure in my life, but I am proven wrong repeatedly, doggedly.

My sister says I lead with my sexuality.  I don’t know how on earth she came to this conclusion seeing as she doesn’t know jack shit about what I do or who I am, but the woman isn’t wrong.  I know I do.  I can’t bear to lead with my heart.  It doesn’t interest me.  Let’s connect at the loins, then talk.  Or don’t.  I get it.

I’ve recently met and slept with two men.  Both younger, one immensely so.  One was a bad lay, for lack of a better description.  I fought for the chemistry, focused on his 6’6″ frame and long, curly hair wound through my fingers, and let him try to push his half-hard cock inside of me.  He came on my back, rolled off, and left with a chaste kiss.  I haven’t texted him since, nor he me.

Prior to the pitiful coupling we shared I imagined him reaching for things in the kitchen cabinets.  Nothing elaborate, but my mind’s eye had him there in a safe, domestic scene nonetheless.

The 21 yo was nervous, beautifully hard and round with muscles.  He said I was gorgeous and taught me slang and we laughed at the great divide.  Back at my place he removed his head band and leaned in for the kiss.  We peeled off clothes and marveled at each other in the flickering candlelight.  He twisted and bucked inside of me and I sucked him off — twice — after which he lay still, in a daze, and proclaimed it the best night of his entire life, everything he’d ever hoped for.  I’m sure I didn’t have much competition.

The following day, I texted good morning and told him I smelled like him, and in the place where once a chirping young man resided only the insect variety took up residence: crickets.  My fantasy for him included tying him up and reddening his bottom as I stroked his pretty young cock, teaching him the ways of women, how to do things Hy’s way, of stealing moments after work in furtive bursts of sexual abandonment.  But that can’t happen if he’s decided to never speak to me again for whatever 21 yo reason he may have.  It fucking sucks.

Twenty-one, 41, it doesn’t matter.  If you sit across from me I try to fit you somewhere in my life, my hopeful future.  As hardened as I’ve become there’s still this tiny little sliver of hopeful light fighting to burst through the fog.  My expectations, though deeply, irrevocably embedded in reality, still encase a woman who only wants to be seen, then wanted, then cherished by someone, someone who will see past all of this and still love me for who I am beyond my wanton, wild ways.

But maybe that’s a pipe dream.

I very rarely take a disappearance personally, perhaps only one in many years.  He has his own shit going on, I tell myself.  It was a great night, be happy with that.  I wasn’t invested anyway.  We don’t owe each other anything.  But I am a little sad, nonetheless; I’ve been at this for so many years I’m tired.

I am hired muscle blindly swinging at love and life.  Maybe someday I’ll land a punch and won’t have to erase that last name from my binder, maybe someday I’ll actually have someone to reach my grandmother’s special plates for me and remember I like my coffee black and hot as fuck.

Or maybe I will always be an enchanteur trapped inside her own spell of delights, alone and sought after, but never caught.



A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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27 thoughts on “I am a hopeful, jaded bastard.
  1. Yes you do lead with your sexuality. And lots of men love that. Ahem … real men … men that will do right by you … who will appreciate the vast reservoirs of love, goodness, and talents peeking out from behind that beauty and sexuality. But all that sexuality in one little woman can be intimidating, maybe even frightening. Pleasing a creature like Hyacinth Jones is probably not a job for Clark Kent, even though you may think so. So bide your time, and wait for Superman. He’ll come by and by.

    Merry Christmas Babe!
    [and for the record it’s enchanteuse. I like you to be perfect]


      1. Methinks your man was wrong … “eur” is male. “euse” female as my French-speaking grandfather would have reminded me

        1. I’ll just pop in and Second that; he is correct, in that the “-eur” suffix is for masculine form, and “-euse” the feminine.

          Admittedly, though it looks fine, I’ve not seen “enchanteur” (or -euse) before..

          “Enchanté(e)”, as a reply when you’ve just met someone; and “chanteur/chanteuse” being a (male/female) *singer*…

          But I’m Portuguese, not French, so what do I really know? ??

  2. Wow. Of all the posts I have ever read, I don’t think I read one that hits divert close to home. Although I sort of knew I did this in my mind, I would never have been able to articulate it so beautifully.
    Great post, Hy.

    1. Ditto.
      This is such a vividly painted picture of what I believe the little girl in most of us still wants. I could not have articulated this with any more precision. Very well done.

  3. Dearest, Dearest Hy,

    I read this and empathically “felt” some of your despondence..

    I “get it”; I’m sure I do.

    One of my first “response thoughts” was along the lines of
    “If it ain’t working after several tries,
    perhaps try again a different way..?”

    But then I had this next thought, and I felt it applied better.
    So here goes:

    When I was young, I used to play with LEGO.
    (My folks have kept my two big tubs in HK, so my “old collection” still exists!)
    ..and your story actually – somehow – reminded me of one specific occasion.

    One summer day, instead of playing out (eg taking the bike out), I had in mind to build a larger-than-normal “project”. I made a good start, and made small modifications as I went, not followin any instructions, but just building as I saw fit, using whatever I had to-hand.

    By lunch time, I had a decent structure up and, looking at it, already had ideas of where and how I might augment it when I got back.

    After lunch, I put thought to brick, undoing some small sections and retro-fitting, adding bits on, expandin the overall “vision”.

    By dinner time I had an impressive masterpiece.
    Yet something wasn’t quite right.
    I couldn’t put my finger on it.

    After dinner I went back to it, dabbled only slightly, spending more of the time turning it around, and digging through my tubs thinking I might “stumble across” a piece or two that might inspire me…

    Ultimately, I went to bed without a solution.

    The next day, though, came my big realisation:
    I’d been a bit too proud of the monstrosity I’d built, to allow myself to admit & accept that the BEST way to improve on it was to TEAR IT ALL DOWN and start fresh, re-developing the ideas I had come to in the previous afternoon.

    So i spent the second day tearing down, laying a “better” foundation, and built a much better masterpiece by dinner.

    Was quite a learning experience for me.

    And – sadly or no – I’ve only JUST been teminded of it, THANKS TO YOU.

    There’s stuff in my life I can change, for the better, but I MUST “start again”.

    I wonder if, maybe, there’s anything similar for you, there?


    Chris d7

    1. Chris, I never know exactly how to respond to your comments, so I’ll just say two things. 1) if only my life and patterns were as easily rebuilt as Legos! And 2) I’m glad this brought you some clarity in your life. xx Hy

      1. Apologies, dear Hy;
        Of course one’s life is far more complex than any brick/building toy..

        If you feel you are always Authentically You, at your *core*, with people, then they – not you – are responsible for their choices to be or not be with you, such choice being founded on what they come to know of You..

        If they can’t take the Real You, mores the pity & their loss.

        Rather than see it also as “your” loss, consider your Luck that you can cross off one more of those who “just don’t get you” or who can’t/won’t accept all that you are.

        Cuz then that means you are one step closer to finding / meeting / coming across That One Man who can, will, and does accept and love you for You.

        I’m ever hopeful.
        For all of us.
        Merry Christmas, Ms Jones.

    2. Chris has eloquently and gently made some important truths known in his reply.

      I am not nearly as well mannered. Men love to fuck sluts. But no man will marry a slut nor tie himself to her emotionally.

      Therein lies your rub. You could easily entrap a cuck or beta boy. But you’ll never be content with that “boy” so you seek validation from men. Men who are strong and virile and smart enough to know there is no future in committing themselves to a slut.

      I’m sex positive. But I’m also realistic.

      1. You’ve made a couple of assertions that while factually true are not actually true. A rub exists, yes, but the one you describe is based in a sexist, double standard outlook. It also assumes – wrongly – that I want a relationship with everyone I ever sleep with. That’s not what I was describing here.

        The fact that men can fuck like me and still be considered “marriage material” is immaterial to my dilemma in general (that I struggle with intimacy), and backhandedly (or maybe outrightly) calling me a slut in a derogatory way doesn’t make any sense. Why fucking bother?

        I don’t claim to be anything but what an adult who has a lot of sex, whose heart isn’t open, and whose wishes for life in general don’t necessarily match her current situation and behaviors. It sometimes creates a conflict for me, sometimes it doesn’t.

        Also, being sex positive – at its core – means there is no pathologizing of sexual behavior or needs so long as everything is consenting, informed adults. By strongly implying that I’m a slut with no future with any desirable man, you’ve stamped me with a very negative label, which is *not* sex positive.

        What’s your solution here, Daddy Dom? I just want to do what I want when I want like everyone else. No games, no doing something that doesn’t feel natural. Sometimes, I want to fuck. Sometimes I don’t. But I’d always like to be treated like a human.

  4. Oh Hy, this is a beautiful and ultimately heart-breaking post, especially likening yourself to a little girl waiting in hope for daddy to come through. Haven’t we all played it cool while our hearts sang with shy hope and then died quietly?

    On another, more global note, I often wonder whether the internet character of today’s dating culture has something to do with the people’s behaviour: The anonymity of our dates and lack of accountability somehow making it more permissible to disappear, fade away or exhibit other questionable actions? Perhaps a futile question, as how else do people our age meet other people?

    1. Dear Ms Smilla,

      I wondered at your Q, re how others our age meet..?

      I’ve yet to check it out, but am aware of MeetUp(.com)’s groups, eg 40’s Singles etc.. Granted it’s still “internet first”, but MeetUp appears to facilitate arranging to congregate w others of like mind in a Real Life setting… :)

      (I’d guess there are numerous other ways, too…)

      1. Thanks for your comment Chris. Fortunately I am not single at the moment, but I do not take it for granted nor do I think that this won’t ever change. Should I be on the dating front ever again, I would be terrified. Things have changed so much since the times I used to meet my lovers at parties and through friends.

  5. This resonated with me so much. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I always thought things were more than they were. But I think the hopeful part of me is just that hopeful, and it’s not wrong to want to believe.

    I recently had a situation where I kept telling myself it was just friendship and sex, it was just sex but then I started to hope that maybe it could be more in the future, maybe when he was over his broken relationship we could renegotiate it……then he introduced me to his new girlfriend, and it completely knocked me sideways.

    Now I don’t know where I stand but the hopeful part of me is crushed.

    Here’s hoping our hopeful sides get a win in 2016. :) Love and hugs. HGG. xx

  6. Don’t ever stop being Hy, don’t ever stop being open to the possibility there is someone. I got very close to giving up and shutting down and if I had done that maybe I might have missed out on the best thing ever.

    Molly recently posted…Balance of LightMy Profile

  7. I definitely did this when I was dating – imagining and hoping that this one is The One. I remember one guy in particular who, after I’d been with him for a week or two, I had imagined marrying (he dumped me after 3 weeks).

    Since my partner and I have been together (over 20 years now), I’ve had a long break from this mental habit. Looking back at past relationships, I can see that I felt I needed to be in a committed relationship. If I had a boyfriend, I had value. If I was in a relationship, I was all in. I didn’t learn how to tell when a guy was worth it or when a relationship was good, and I was prepared to commit much too easily. (You know that idea of “staying together for the children”? Well, this is the life lesson I took from that – not knowing what a healthy relationship looked like.)

    I don’t know if any of this is helpful. Suffice it to say – I hear you.
    Sex Is My New Hobby (Zoë) recently posted…my first anniversaryMy Profile

    1. I don’t go crazy with it, obviously, but I really can’t help but envision a future. Even if it lasts less that 48 hours I have already tried to see how the pieces would fit together. I don’t feel I need to be in a committed relationship (obviously lol), it’s something else for me. I also recognize that my charm is a hindrance. I spend too much time trying to win them over than I do seeing if they’re worthy, which I’ve written about in the past. It was just an observation… Not quite sure what I’m gonna do with it now haha. xx Hy

  8. I feel the same way, even though I am married, for me it’s just envisioning them always and comfortably there and knowing each other so well.
    Sometimes I think I seek the love and acceptance of another as a stand-in for my own restlessness, and when they depart I have to look inwards again – a thing I dislike for the most part.
    Loved this post of yours, I will have to share it.

  9. After reading this, a small piece of my hard heart broke off and melted, in hope that you do get the chance to enjoy those days, when your sweet upturned face is smothered with appreciative kisses.

    You lay your thoughts bare, so very well.

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