I’m dunzo.

Cried in therapy about my sadness today.

She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.

“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”

Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.

“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.

“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.

“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”

I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone.  Rich Golfer.  His real name is almost a “Chad.”

We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”

Peace out.
February Photofest

I’m sad, too.

Good angles only.

The man from Saturday, Rich Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.

In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging where it never used to sag ass?

It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.

He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I let her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.

He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”

Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.

“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”

I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.

“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”

His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.

“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”

Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel after all drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.

That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.

Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.

I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.

As RG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.

He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.

And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?

He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.

It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.

February Photofest

I have mixed feelings.

Bottles of champagne, Veuve Cliquot!, a hot, drunk young man confused about who to pay attention to, me or my friend with a long term boyfriend who’d been shamelessly flirting with him.

I watched half amused most of the night until at the second bar she began to exclude me where I had made sure to include her. I excused the two of us from the table.

“Tina, I’m not judging what you’re doing here, but why?? I’m single, he’s single, you’re not and you love your boyfriend. Do you really want to do this? I’m not going to compete for his attention with you.”

And then the night ended with him in my bed and his mouth all over me and his fingers lodged in my asshole as he pounded me to fucking oblivion and I came all over us and my poor pink bed like a goddamned vomiting waterfall.

He tried to get me to come home with him in the morning, but I demurred; I needed more rest and time to be alone with my thoughts. The sex was intense and when I closed my eyes and thought of it my pussy would pulse and twinge.

I may have accidentally gained a new pair of RayBans. “Nice,” he said when I told him I’d found his glasses in my purse. “When are you gonna come over and drop them off? We can soak my bed too.”

Another night set loose by bubbles and held by nothing but whimsy, my memory and manners spotty. Who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again. I hope I made his sad day brighter. He certainly brightened mine.

I’ve spent my entire Sunday washing the entirety of my bed linens and wondering when I’ll stop having drunken, loneliness-driven nights like last night.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest

Floating along in 2019.

Holla.

It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project.  I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again.  It kinda feels good.  Too good.  Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.

Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995.  I liked it there a lot.  It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.

February Photofest

I’m fucked up.

My own stupidity and resistance to growth astounds me sometimes.  I see the fork in the road, which side is the right thing to do, and yet I still choose the other.

Very basically it goes something like this: This guy really pisses me off.  I should have nothing to do with him.  But wow, he’s hot and I’m horny and it can’t be that bad, right??  Except it is always that bad.  ALWAYS.

Thursday night was no different and I’m going to share something with you that I find nothing less than utterly humiliating.  It’s embarrassing that as a 43-year-old woman I continue to engage in this behavior.  I know better and yet… here I am.

And then the other side is I can’t flagellate myself too much because that’s giving in to some darker need of mine that may be the ultimate aim of my subconscious to begin with.  I’m stuck in this odd purgatory of regret, remorse, and redemption.

Remember Sassypants?  The so-called sub I was chatting with was a disaster on our first date.  I even told Ann, my therapist, and various other friends leading up to our second date that I knew it was a bad idea, but that I was horny and – say it with me – how bad could it be??

Well, the answer is pretty fucking bad.

I’ll give you the Cliff Notes’s version: he doesn’t believe white privilege exists, argued with me about a tenant of my beliefs, said he was trying to “open my mind,” and that Asian and Indian men here in the States were the most privileged members of our society.  I told him to leave twice, but he remained, and only laughed me off.  I don’t think he knew I was serious and me being me I just drank the pain away and let him stay.

We ended up in a tangled, drunken mess on my couch and I angry-fucked him while roaring orgasms ripped through me.  I cried and moaned my rage in puddles all over my bed.

Much later he thought I wanted to fuck some more so he managed to stuff it inside of me, but began smacking my thighs with his dick to get hard.  I instantly felt small and invisible and remembered every lover who didn’t see me in that move.  My distaste of him afforded me no insight beyond my own.

“Am I even a part of this???  I asked.  “That doesn’t feel good,” I probably slurred.

He snapped.

He swore at me and ran out of the room.  Confused I grabbed a robe and stumbled out into my livingroom where he was angrily snatching up his clothes and his giant box of beer.  He flung open the front door as words were said, angry ones.  It slammed shut with a blast of cold air and then all was quiet.

I’d text him later to say how awful that whole experience was for me. Brief and to the point.  No name calling, just sharing my feelings.  Even later I’d block him on both Fet and the phone, but he’d find a work around and text me from another number to insult me, my age, my communication skills, and basically laugh the whole night off as a colossal joke.

What it boils down to is that I was enraged at myself for allowing this idiot on my couch and feeling ultimately powerless to remove him.  “What is the point of you saying these things to me?!” I asked.  “Are you trying to prove to yourself that you can trick a feminist into fucking some right-wing nut job?  Because none of what you’re saying is making me feel safe or close to you.”

He laughed and assured me I was just misunderstanding him, he was actually a great guy!  Ask his friends!

Blame the booze, blame my deep, dark hard wiring to not believe my own intuition, blame whatever, but I let him stay and it all completely imploded.  I lost myself utterly to my own upset and void of self.  It’s taken me the entire weekend to piece myself back together, tenderly and with much forgiveness.  I’m not wure all the parts are put back properly, to be honest.

The older I get the more tender to the world I become and the learning curve to remember this is steep.  So steep.  I’m never sure when to cut bait, though I am completely aware of the right time.

I’m still insisting on Dating Like It’s 1995 to ok results.  I’m talking to 3 men, all “subs” and I get lots of long emails which I’m loving.  One is one I might need to cut, the other is My Irishman and he is brilliant still and I have these incredible purple-hued pictures of his big, thick cock bound in a new boot lace just for me, and the third is a local 31 yo who’s way out of my league, but who is easy-going and eager and so, who knows?

There are no vanilla prospects and I am finding myself less and less interested in starting there.

Anyway, in case you thought you were ever supposed to have it all figured out by a certain age I’m here to prove to you that there’s no guarantee that will happen.  You may be just as giant an asshole as you were at 23.

I have no stability in my life and it shows.  I don’t do this kind of reckless, stupid shit when I have a steady force in my life.  Even when I had Peter this didn’t happen.  I need an anchor and I’ve yet to discover how to be my own.

I exhaust myself sometimes with my wild, silly decisions and wonder if I’ll ever outgrow them.  God, I sure hope I do, though…

Friday, December 7th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

This week has been pretty great.  I’ve got Peyton back with me, I’m only talking to 2 men, both submissive (Mr. Sassypants from my earlier post this week and a delectable grown up Irishman who lives across the Pond), and my pain has diminished significantly thanks to lots of walking.  Yay!

I’m also super pumped about my Dating Like it’s 1995 project.  Y’all are pretty funny in the comments, by the way lol.  This is gonna be fun and impossible and hilarious and a true challenge.  I can’t wait!

This week it’s like Christmas came early because I’ve got Lola (and HH’s) Boobday submission from last week, as well as Sandy’s (so we’ve got a double dose!), so we’ve got a little extra lusciousness going on.  Thanks, ladies!

I hope everyone has a spectacular weekend!

xx

Hy

 

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

This was one of the first images I ever published in December 2011.

NOT my tits:

Lola, oh, Lola.

::

Sandy’s offering for this week.

::

Anonymous Aussie and her Anonymous Lover.

Sleepy Friday morning with my lover

::

Stunning black and white of Sandy from last week.

A lazy Sunday morning

::


This ain’t gonna be easy.

I’m at Ground Zero for my new life project, Dating Like It’s 1995, and already I am feeling the burn.

I recently met a hot, sassy fella on Fetlife.  He’s 15 years my junior and just moved from another state.  Like, on Friday.  He’s never subbed before, but I am attracted to his energy and his cheeky sense of humor and confidence, so we agreed to meet up Friday for drinks.

I hadn’t heard from him since I wrote my post this morning until about 15 minutes ago, so that’s about 4 hours of life in 1995.  If I thought staying on track was going to be hard on my end, articulating my desires to others may prove even more difficult.

Exhibit A:

Hy:
And I gotta be honest. It’s kind of a bummer that I have no emails to look forward to on FL now that we’re texting lol

Him:
[…]
Lol whys that?

Hy:
I hate texting… but I’m using it like IM right now, so it’s bearable

Him:
You enjoyed looking at my dick everytime I txt u?

Hy:
Because emails mean you have given or are getting 100% of someone’s attention. With true texting (not IMing) you get only a fraction. People are at stop lights, between meetings, on the toilet, etc lol

Ha No

I hardly noticed it once we started talking

Him:
Lol needy much👅

I must just be all.over you huh

Hahaha

Hy:
OMG

Hardly

Him:
Oh youll.love my loving don’t you worry

I gtg tho my phone is dying and I need it fpr my car registration

Hy:
And no, please don’t be all over me. I just prefer communicating with someone with all of my attention and getting all of someone else’s. No distractions. Like in 1995 (were you born yet? lol). Full convos, etc.

K – have fun

What have I gotten myself into???  Maybe it’ll just be easier to live on a mountain top with my Hitachi and an occasional foray to a Navy port city.

Some new tidings: Dating like it’s 1995

I let Boobday go last week.  Just simply didn’t do it.  Thursday I had a date with a man who pouted at the end of the night when I wouldn’t touch his hardon and as I rubbed that whole experience out of my eyes all day on Friday Molly’s incredible Top 100 Sex Blogs of 2018 was about to come out I was eagerly awaiting it rather than doing my little meme.  Then the results were published and by then I was overtaken by a calm don’t-give-a-fuck-about-Boobday mentality.  Of course that meant that anyone who did a Boobday post was let down by me (I see you, Zoë).  Sorry for that, y’all.

December 17th will be my 7th anniversary of this blog and I’ve been in the throes of ambivalence about it.  When I won the top spot on the list back in 2015 it really was at the height of my creative impulses.  The Neighbor was newly gone and I was deeply invested in my writings and the community.  I also had a lot more free time.  Hours and hours and hours.  I lived a 36 hour day, it seemed.  I dated 3-5x a week, wrote like mad, fucked like mad, connected to the community like mad.  These days I’m excited if I get to bed on time and can muster one date a month.

I woke up the other morning inspired to change the course of my life and the way in which I interact – in a 21st Century sort of way, of course.  The year 1995 seems to be this nostalgic go-to in my language over the last couple of years.  “I want to go back to 1995 to…”  “Like in 1995 when….”  I use it to refer to texting and our mobile phones, mostly, but also about the app culture related to dating.  Everything is cut down to these little parcels of information and no one is actually investing in one another like we did in – you guessed it – 1995.

What I’m trying to say is I have decided to try to date like I did in 1995, but with the technology and support of my 21st Century life.  That means I might use a dating app to find someone, but as soon as humanly possible I will remove myself from the trap of texting and insist on phone calls for everything.  To set up dates, to verify times, to ask a question, to let him know I’m thinking of him and so on. I also want to rely heavily on correspondence such as email.  My apologies to the US Postal Services, but I’m not going that far back.

Even typing that it feels like I’ll be the one fish swimming the wrong way, but I can’t keep pretending that being seen as just an avatar or some unsaved phone number on a phone isn’t harmful to my spirit.  I am more than just an option, one can of soup on an end cap stacked in a pyramid to catch your eye but wholly unmemorable.

I’ll let every potential date know my new philosophy and see how it goes.  This will be challenging as hell for me – I hide behind technology on so many levels – but it seems like the right time to try.  And more importantly for me I feel excited about writing about my experiments with this.  It’s a new lens through which to view my life and adventures.  We all know I can get laid, but can I connect?  Sometimes I just don’t know, but I’m hoping I still know how.

To counter act this feeling of anonymity and invisibility with others I’m reaching out to real life friends more and am even looking for friends through Bumble so I don’t find myself trapped at home or on a date as my only means of getting out of the house.  I have promised myself to reconnect to the community, as well, picking one meme a week to be a part of (Masturbation Monday, Wicked Wednesday, Share Our Shit Saturday or Sinful Sunday) and I’ll definitely do the Smut Marathon again – congrats to EA, by the way!)

According to British researcher, Robin Dunbar, 150 people is roughly the max a human brain can connect to and know, therefore I surely shouldn’t have even 10% of that going on in texts with strangers, so back to 1995 I go.  Simple, connective, not perfect, but focused and deliberate.  That’s what 1995 is to me: deliberate.  Not this 2019 hyperactive frantic flailing about crying for attention, pick me pick me pick me crap.  I’m too old for that shit.  Let me instead be forever 20 years old in my heart with the wisdom of an aging spirit.

 

[Ed. Note: I’m still gonna keep doing Boobday and have organized my week to be very very organized!  This new “project” of mine has really energized me on lots of bloggy levels.  Quick shout out to everyone who landed on the Top 100 list and a special kiss and hug to my wifey at the #1 spot, Rebel.  She’s incredible and most certainly deserved the accolade.]