I don’t always handle myself so well.

The constant stabbing and subsequent radiating pain in my lower back is relentless.  Everywhere I go, there it is.  I can find no relief.  The past few days have been especially agonizing.  Generally, I can find solace in certain positions, but lately I haven’t been so lucky. The pain affects my sleep; my sleep affects my energy; my energy affects my ability to deal.

What I’m saying is, I was wholly unfair to The Neighbor last night.

First of all, I hide my feelings well.  Yes, I said all those things to him, but I doubt he knew how disappointed I was.  Or hell, maybe he did, which is why he came over anyway.

Secondly, I had taken a pain pill by the time he came over —  half of one — and I felt detached and distant.  I wonder if he felt it, too.

Thirdly, I omitted the fact that we can’t have sex for at least two weeks.  He’s waiting on some test results for a medical condition and I know he’s freaked out. Sex wasn’t even an option last night.

Lastly, he was very kind when he did come over.  His knock startled me awake and when I shuffled to the front door I’m sure I looked as bad as I felt.  He was surprised I’d fallen asleep on my couch and immediately took control.  “You’re going to bed.  Come on.”  He grabbed my laptop and led me to my room.

“Let’s watch Game of Thrones.”

“Ok,” I agreed.  I could barely do more I was so tired and in a lofty cloud of opiates.

And so we lay together, with the laptop between us and he would occasionally reach over and massage my breast.  A few times he closed his eyes with his hand filled with my flesh and dozed.  He was exhausted, too.  And when it was all done he hovered over my mouth and asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

I held my breath hoping it’d be a kiss, but instead I could feel his smile as he said, “Time for me to go home.”

I couldn’t move to let him out.  “Are you ok with the door being unlocked?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s fine.  Thanks.  Have a good night.”

“You, too!”  And he quietly shut the front door.

Admitting I’m an asshole feels great, by the way.  Like eating shit-pie.  But really, this is part of my journey: I need to open myself up to greater communication and not be a shady, resentful woman.  I love being with him and remembering that disappointment will color my reactions will help me to remain a loving, kind person in the face of a let down.  Besides, even feeling “let down” is a slippery slope and it’s one I’d like to avoid altogether.

Today is a new day and I get to come at this all over again.  For that I’m grateful.  However, I’m still embarrassed about last night.  If I start getting shitty over every perceived slight then I am doomed and it’s like I’m 25 all over again.  I’m not going to go there.  I refuse.  I know he cares about me and this is a complicated situation.  This is hard.  I have to just relax.

I imagine what he’d think if he ever discovered this blog and it’s posts like last night’s (and even this one) that make me cringe with shame.  I’m more than this.  I promise.



My ejaculate landed on the walls.

Another from the catacombs of my past.  This was my one-on-one encounter with Ryan.  Before the threesome, after an MMF.  Enjoy.

Ryan and I went on a date last Thursday.  We hung out at a dive bar near his apartment, chatted up all the locals and generally had a great time.  He wasn’t affectionate or touchy-feely and I had a moment of panic that maybe he’d decided he didn’t like the way I looked upon setting eyes on me again.  I shouldn’t have worried.

We fucked like maniacs all night long.  I rode his mocha-colored body while we were both bathed in the blue light from his TV.  He lapped at my pink folds and delved his fingers deep inside of me.  He turned me around and bent me over and pounded me so hard from behind we moved the couch a foot.  We finally decided to move to the bed once the rug was soaked from my streaming cunt.

I’m pretty sure some of my ejaculate is on the walls of his bedroom.  He would take his huge cock and  slap it on my clit with quickfire movements and I’d squirt uncontrollably.  I had to hold my hand over my mound to stop the splatter from dusting my own face.  Then he’d slide deep into me, exclaim at my wetness, and how I’d clench down on him.  An hour or more and he never came; he’d stop, yell out at how good it felt and then laugh at what torture it was for him to fuck me.  He wanted so badly to cum, but also didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, he fucked the shit right out of the both of us, sans orgasm for either, and we passed out in the mighty wet spots on his mattress.

I slept fitfully, if at all, and finally decided to go home at 5.  But, I told him, not before he came.

He smiled and rolled over on his back and I nipped his neck, his shoulders with my lips and teeth.  Trailed my hair down his muscled chest and found his turgid shaft ready for me.  I sucked for a few minutes, learning what he liked and what worked best, and when I sensed he was finally ready I sucked harder, though still slow, steady and silky.  He came in a rush, his cum mild and pleasant in my hot little mouth.

“I see why Troy says you’re the best!” he chuckled.

“I want to fuck you again.  Soon. Wanna come over before my date Saturday afternoon?” I boldly ask.

“Fuck, yeah,” he agreed.

I’m a dick blogger.

I’ll admit it: I’ve been ignoring the “awards” I’ve been getting. Not because they don’t make me swell with pride and not because they don’t make me feel like my little words might actually resonate with people, but because I’m lazy. Plain and simple. Yep, I admit it.

So, I’m going to fix all this and get my ass in gear. I’ll tell you about the kudos, their rules, and then I’m – gasp – gonna follow them!

I got my first award from The Food and Wine Hedonist less than two weeks after I started. I think I was in utter disbelief. And I’m suck a dick, that I could have sworn it was a chick who gave me the award, but it turns out that there are both a man and a woman who pen the blog (a blog who fully supports my intense love of food and wine, mind you, and which supported my Top Chef Texas addiction this year – woo, good stuff!!).

They write great shit about food, drink, and generally just enjoying the fuck outta yourself.

From those lovely folks I got The Liebster Blog Award . It’s given to up-and-coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kindly, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome.

The rules for the Liebster Blog Award are:

  1. Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
  2. Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
  3. Copy & paste the blog award on your blog
  4. Reveal your 5 blog picks.
  5. Let them know you chose them by posting on their blog.

YES> THANK YOU, Food and Wine Hedonist! This made my damn month in December and I haven’t forgotten about it, I’ve just been a dick about it, I swear!

The 5 that I nominate are:

[Oh, shit, some of y’all are gonna get double-whammied.]

  1. Creative Noodling
  2. Sexy Masqurade
  3. Love, Sex, and Marriage
  4. Accidental Masturbator
  5. Only Partly Erotic

Mostly this shout out means to me that I always check your feeds for new stuff and I get a little thrill when I see a new post waiting for me.

Next up are a bunch of TMI Awards. I got this one from no less than, um, lemme see, 3 other writers (God, I hope I’m not missing one – but then again, I’m a dick blogger, remember??). Shocking, I know. I mean, I guess it was pretty unavoidable from Post #1 wherein I chat about pooping on some dude. I’m not even remotely sure how that’s top-able. Anyway…

The TMI Blog Award honors those blogs that discuss everything in detail and do it well. These bloggers aren’t afraid to discuss their most awkward, embarrassing and intimate experiences with honesty, humor and little to no filter.

Here are the rules:

  • Thank the person who presented you with the award.
  • Link back to the blogger who presented the award to you.
  • Share an awkward, embarrassing and intimate story in 250 words or less.
  • Copy and paste the blog award on your blog.
  • Present the TMI Blog Award to 5 – 10 deserving blogs.
  • Let them know they have been chosen by leaving a comment at their blog.

SO> THANK YOU to sage and appreciative, Theo Black; my sweet and dirty object of affection and longing, Bimodal Tendancies; and the always enigmatic, yet loving mother hen, Gillian Colbert. I am honored and touched that you guys enjoy my raunchy, no-holds-barred approach to sharing the most intimate details of my life with the whole goddamned world. It means a lot to me. Really.

Let’s see, another most embarrassing moment in 250 words or less. Hmm. Well, ok, when I was 10 I was in love with a 10 year old boy. I wrote his name on my shoes, on my jeans, and all my friends supported my crush. I contrived playdates with his little sister just so I could go to his house.

I was on a year round swim team then and he was, too. One night during a kicking set (we were on kickboards, so could talk to one another), he says, “Hey, Hyacinth! Can I talk to you after practice outside the girls’ locker room??”

My heart raced as I said yes.

Getting dressed with my friend, who seemed to be closer to my love interest and his friends than I was, was all agiggle with me, wondering what he wanted to say to me and what would I do? Maybe he’d ask me out! Oh my gawd. He’d be my first boyfriend ever.

I dressed in a yellow and white polka dot outfit with matching, contrasting leggings, grabbed my swim bag and went outside the building.

Waiting for me were more than just this boy. There were 10 other kids of varying ages and sexes there, too. I stood in one corner created by the privacy walls and he in the other. Two piles of kids behind each of us.

He begins to rock back and forth on his heels. My heart is about to break my ribcage.

“Hy…” he says, “Will you??”

Oh holy fucking shit, I think. This is it!! I’m about to have a boyfriend! “Yeah? Will I what?”

“Will you go out with me?”

YES! It’s happened! I’m normal! I’m gonna have a boyfriend!!

“Yes,” I say with as much coolness as I could muster.

And then. And then, he smoothly says, “Syke.”

All the kids start laughing, my little girlfriend most of all. I dropped my bag and ran and hid in the parking lot until my parents came to find me. It was a seminal moment in my life. And certainly not the good kind.

How’s that for embarrassing? Not what you were expecting, was it?

Later in 10th grade he had a crush on me. When I rebuked his advances he called me a muffdiver and a dyke. Senior year he confronted me about my outright and vocal hatred of him. I simply said, “Because I fucking hate you for what you did to me.” He said, “But we were 10!” To which I said very plainly, “I DON’T FUCKING CARE. YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

Next is an award from sweet, newly discovered Noodle (she said I could call her that, by the way). I have to add the award to my post, share 7 things none of you know about me and nominate another 7 (ok, this shit’s getting harder now…).

Ok, 7 Things Y’all Don’t Already Know About Hyacinth Jones:

  1. I have four names. My parents were hippies and my mother never changed her last name. They thought that by giving me her maiden name as my second middle would give me the freedom of choosing a last name later on. Of course it didn’t, but I’ve always loved having more names than most. Unfortunately, Hyacinth Jones is not my birth name. Such a shame.
  2. I have two other, now retired, sex blogs. That’s right. I was another person out there baring my soul for a while on a different blogging platform. I’d made the enormous mistake of telling some lovers about it and it hobbled my writing freedom. It was during the Troy months and I couldn’t speak freely about how he was affecting me. Whenever I post an “old” memory, I’m pirating from the one that’s still live and then I delete it all together so it only exists here and no one can make the connection.
  3. I am 5’5″ on the nose, 43″ 32″ 44″.
  4. When I eat eggplant the roof of my mouth feels like I’ve eaten toasted sourdough bread.
  5. I’m allergic to all the -cillins and any derivative. It makes for an interesting conversation with every doctor I’ve ever had. “Let me prescribe Z-Pack.” “I can’t have that…” “…”
  6. My first sexual experience at the age of 7 was with a girl.
  7. I have only ever been told by one man in my life that he dreamed of locking me in a hotel room for a week to fuck me senseless, taking breaks only to eat (to refuel) and occasionally shower (to see me wet and lathered). All these years, and only one man. And it was today. And, no, it was not The Neighbor. Please, people. We all know he’s a bit behind the 8 ball on shit like that.

Ok, now for my 7 nominees. I’ll pick writers whom haven’t had to list things like this before, so I choose:

  1. Bi
  2. Noodle
  3. Dawn
  4. Accidental Masturbator
  5. Fun-sized
  6. Mr. M
  7. Cruel

I’m extremely interested in the 7 things we don’t already know about you.

Lastly, Love gave me a wonderful shout out on Love, Sex, and Marriage a while back and I’d like to return the favor. Her energy, verve, straight forward and honest writing inspires me every time I pass by her 1s and 0s. She’s also a magician when it comes to fiction, though she rarely goes there instead preferring to educate the lot of us on how to have better sex.

I imagine that if I knew her IRL we’d be a force to be reckoned with. And, who can forget that tantalizing picture of her lovely, creamy white bottom? Delish, I say. So, thanks, sweetie. The feelings are all mutual.

And, with that, I conclude my “I’m a dick blogger” post. I promise to here on out always promptly respond to others’ kindnesses.

Fuck, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy now. Time to go rub one out, I suppose.



I accidentally pooped on a dude.

That’s right. You read that correctly. I. pooped. on. a. dude.

A tragic sentence that played on a constant loop in my head for about 48 hours after the fact.

Here’s the thing. It was an accident – a total fucking accident. I didn’t mean to shit on a dude. A warm, muscle-y, big-cocked fellow whose bodily treats really brought the shat upon himself. I swear. The poop, it came out of my butt, and went on another living human being quite completely by accident. OHMYFUCKINGGOD. I can’t believe this happened to me!

But if he hadn’t bucked so hard inside of me; if he hadn’t had such a deliciously big cock that knocked my g-spot right off the map; if I hadn’t stayed on top so long; and if I hadn’t moved to the goddamned chair this never would have happened.

So here’s the deal — the God’s honest truth — SHIT REALLY DOES HAPPEN. And here’s how it all went down:

Jake had me from his first email: “You seem really cool and I love what you wrote. What do you think about a drink and some conversation? No expectations.”

There’s something about a man who says he expects nothing that makes me want to give him everything. It’s a balance of power and it’s just fucking cool.

We’d exchanged texts for a week or so, nothing too exciting, but I determined that he a) could punctuate correctly in a text (always sexy) and b) he was as cool as his initial email.

Turned out, though, our schedules weren’t matching up. All we could manage was a brief afternoon meeting at 2:30 on a Thursday at a bar near my house. And he had to leave at 5 to go out of town.

He was handsome and tan, sporting a Marine-short haircut. We hugged hello, sized each other up. I liked what I saw. The feeling was mutual.

He kept my hand full of Lone Stars and we braved the heat to share a couple of smokes; laughed and talked almost non-stop. At 5 he says, “Well, I can either hit the road or we can go to your place for a little while.” I opted for the latter, naturally.

I was excited. I’d never really done this before. I had a very strong feeling that to meet him was to fuck him, and I don’t usually. It’s too brazen, even for me. But his easy charm and warm smile put me at ease and I felt comfortable letting my Sex Freak flag fly high.

Once in my apartment I got us some water and we sat on my couch. I don’t even know how it happened, but we were all over each other. I was inordinately excited to take his socks offs. We laughed.

I wasn’t laughing when his jeans came off, though.

I think I may have growled when I saw his big cock standing straight up for me. Or maybe not. I don’t know. But I fell on it with my face like it would turn back time or something.

Immediately he says, “Jesus Christ, that’s awesome.” I murmured acknowledgment around his thick shaft. His balls warm and heavy in my hand, his silky head pliant under my tongue. I sucked harder.

He pushed me back and told me to take off my dress. I fumbled with the ties and trappings.

“You wanna fuck me, Hyacinth?”

“Yes. Very much so,” I answered with a smile. I recaptured his cock in my mouth and then released it, trailed kisses up his torso, nibbled his muscular shoulder and kissed him deeply.

He asked for his pants and pulled out a Magnum, swiftly rolled it down onto himself. I climbed up and slid down. The second my thighs reach his, when his shaft is buried deep inside me to the hilt, I drenched us.

We fucked like animals every which way: me on top, on the bottom, on hands and knees, on my belly. He grabbed my throat and pulled my hair repeatedly. My pussy was a goddamned river and my makeup looked like I was headed to an ICP concert.

“Can I fuck you in that chair?” and he motioned to my bowl-shaped lounge chair.

“Yes, of course “ I said between heaving breaths. “Have at it.” (And here is where I lost my goddamned mind. I had already felt that weird tingling sensation in my hips from the g-spot pounding and I KNOW that means bad things. I’d felt that numb feeling in the past, called off the sex and gone to the bathroom because I could smell something icky only to find a tiny mess on toilet paper. I’d been smart with the other two men this had ever happened with. Not so with Jake. I was clearly stupid-horny and so I pressed on. I think I figured that since only one of the two clues (just the numbness, not the smell) was present that I was in the clear.)

We moved to the new (dry) piece of furniture and he seated himself like on a king on a thrown: knees splayed, arms resting comfortably away from his body.

This chair is THE fucking chair. Something about its width and recline make it a great support for a man and its plush finish gentle for a woman’s knees and thighs. It’s wide enough to spread my legs just a little too far taking most of my control away. I am at the mercy of the man in this chair, and until yesterday, only Troy had ever fucked me in it that I can recall. And I was fucking excited to be in it again.

I rode him for several minutes, my ejaculate sprayed us as we slipped and slid all over each other, my D tits swung in his face and slapped his cheeks. His hands were all over me, grabbing me, pinching me, wrapped in my hair and around my neck. His kisses were searing.

“I want you to cum on me,” I whispered into his ear as his cock pounded into me. And then: QUIET PANIC. I smelled something. OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK.

“I want to cum in your mouth,” he countered. WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK!!

At this point, I know something has happened, but I’m certain he hasn’t smelled anything. I’m thinking that it’s just something I can smell, something on my bottom, nothing major. When he got up to switch positions with me I saw some poop on my chair. I threw myself down on it in time for him to sidle up to my mouth. THERE WAS SHIT ON HIS THIGH AND BALLS.


I deftly grabbed his cock with one hand and my mouth and with my other swiped the crap away. Voila! [Nearly] clean slate!

I sucked and licked and stroked with everything I had. Horrified on the one hand, determined to get him to cum so this nightmare could finally end on the other.

When he came he told me he was about to and he groaned or grunted or moaned or whatever it was he did as he left a hot, sticky little gift in my mouth. (And some of my own shit in my left hand which I’d kept down by my side out of the mix the entire time.)

I lay on my back, on top of the little shit streak on the chair panting. Glad I’d managed to pull it off. He grabbed a tea towel I had on my coffee table and handed it to me, but not before saying, “Uh oh, something a little messy…” and wiped (what I assumed to be) a fleck of poo off my belly. GODDAMNIT. I was so close!

I asked him to get me a glass of water and when he left for the kitchen I frantically wiped my hand clean and looked for any other mess left behind. When he came back he asked if he could take a shower before he took off. Of course I said yes.

While he was in the shower I ran around like a crazy person scrubbing my hand and throwing the towel away, scrubbing the shit out of the chair. OHJESUSFUCKINGCHRIST.

He apologized profusely for having to leave right away once he was out, but frankly I couldn’t have cared less. He gave me a big hug and a kiss goodbye and that was the last I ever saw or heard of him.

Oh God. Even now this story is mortifying and hilarious all at once. I’ve told 4 of my best girlfriends and they’ve all been in fits, tears streaming down their faces. “It only happens to you, Hyacinth!” they snort between guffaws.

And it’s true.

I immediately ran to the internets to research. Turns out I’m not the only one to whom this has happened and, depending on the partner and person, it ranges from something completely my fault and I’m a (literally) dirty whore or I was just a well-pleasured and unlucky woman. Either way, I found solace in the shared experience.

Which is why I’ve decided to start keeping track of these ridiculous stories here.

I pooped on a dude. And lived to tell about it.