Free association.

It’s always a semi-out-of-body experience when vanilla friends convert and you’re now their Fairy Kink-/Swingmother.

“Hy, Hy, Hy….!” They vied for my attention.

But they are my framily and I love them and I’m happy I walked them through their transition.

Loooong mother fucking Monday.

Got home from that dinner on a steamy patio wearing frumpy work clothes and went straight to bed. Pulled out my phone to doze off to Friends and remembered I hadn’t written yet. Fuuuuuck.

I’m loving that this is considered posting. I feel so naughty.

Wednesday night Elliot is coming over and cooking me dinner. There will be balsamic vinegar and garlic and honey. What that means exactly is beyond me. Beef? Lobster?

I wonder if I’ll finally get to see his sausage.

God I hope his wife says yes.

I’ve been braless for four days.

Dammit. That sunblock was shit.

Sinful Sunday

A long, sad day.

When I was married and miserable I believed that being away from my partner was the best decision and that it would be absolutely worth it.

Today, I question it every time my baby goes back to my ex, to his new wife and step-child where my own blood is not unlike Cinderella.  Mocked and disdained, misunderstood and ridiculed.

My ex’s new house is rigid with its rules and they don’t appreciate the free spirit that is Peyton.  My baby is just like me and that draws a large target.  I’m at once ashamed for my influence – either inherited or learned – and proud.  Fuck those twats.  Live big, baby.  Live big!!

I cried today when I was alone and the transfer was complete.  You’d think that after 7 and a 1/2 years of this it’d be easier, but I swear it’s as painful today as the very first week I was baby-less.  The longing, the fear that Peyton’s emotional safety is at risk, that my selfishness has put us all here in this position.

My ex would have been happy in a sexless and loveless marriage for the rest of his miserable life.  I was the one who said NO.  I was the one who insisted on more.  I was the one who refused to teach her child that kind of relationship was ok.  It wasn’t my ex.  He was a fucking pussy, dead inside from the tip of his pretty pansy toes to his dark grey eyes with the long doe lashes.

I’ve kept myself busy today with crying atop of my unfolded laundry and a little yoga.  Then I endeavored to finish my Game of Thrones binge with white wine and intermittent texting with a friend or two.  Now I’m missing my blood like air and I am sad for all my failures.

Failure to keep our family together, failure to solve the problems that ate us up, and failure to endure our life together.  I will never stop regretting what has happened to my child, but I do not regret leaving the man I married.  It’s a tangled place to live, these two places.  One of regret and one of none. But it’s true.

My baby is here for a reason and I have to trust that has a purpose whether or not it’s easy to fulfill.  So I’ll just squirm in my uneasy extroverted loneliness and hope that my isolation ends soon.



Friday, June 15th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I don’t feel like posting a new pic today, so I’m not going to.  Since writing every day I’ve stopped really being on Instagram much and therefore have less urge to take new pics. Not only that, but I’m not in any kind of sexual relationship with anyone and therefore am not generating material for that, either.  You know, the long, slow burn of sexting?  Yeah.  Not happening for me right now.

Also… kinda having a “day” with myself and not really feeling like sharing more of my body with anyone right now.  I’m about to start my period and I think my brain is fucking with me and I’m bloated and I just do not like how I’m looking at the moment, so that means no pic.  C’est la vie.

However, our tried and true Sandy has come to the rescue this week, as always!  Thank you, Sandy, dear!  We love you!



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email ( 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:

Old news.  Sue me.

NOT my tits:

Sandy is spectacular.

Whipped them out at work just now, just for you. Happy BoobDay!!

Add your link for Boobday below:

Want to join in on writing Every Damn Day in June?:


I always wanted to be Miss Piggy.

Some days I don’t think about my size at all. On

odd days I struggle to think of anything else.

This body is only a temporary thing and reflects a life full of wine and food, chronic pain and an aging body.

It’s a sum of my ethereal, passionate parts specially made to soften a man’s impact as he loses himself between my soft, white thighs. It’s a holding space for me and my friends, me and my visions.

It’s ok if it grows. It’s ok if it shrinks. What matters most is that I take good care of it.

I’m shook.

It’s been 18 months since I invited anyone into my life via this blog, my thoughts. Without looking I want to say it was Rex, but I could be wrong. There have been so many since The Neighbor left me, so many inconsequential in and of themselves but consequential in their numbers. I have dated. I have searched.

And none have made me feel as special as I have for the past 3 weeks since meeting Elliot. I am confused and excited, nervous and biting my nails about what the outcome will be.

We can’t hang out this weekend like we’d hoped so he’s promised to make me dinner next week. Just like that, an instant solution. No one has treated me like this in recent memory, like something to valuable.

He may fade away soon if it’s a no go for us but I want to carry this feeling forward with me, this sense of being worthy and special to someone. I hope it alters me and my expectations of men going forward and I never settle for less again.

Being treated like a whole and real person has reminded me of what I am: a whole and real person.

A kiss is all it may ever be.

He came by my office after work today and we walked to a nearby Italian place. We laughed about the overly attentive waitress and he showed me how he squeezes lemon on his pizza like real Italians do.

And then it happened: we do not yet have the green light from his wife.

I struggled to keep my face smooth when all I wanted to do was crumple on a pitiful sob.

He’s a decent man and he watched me intently, looking for signs of upset. “Are you ok?”

“Not really.”

A soft silence landed between us like a pile of cotton. I looked at his worried brown eyes and respected that he made no promises.

I surreptitiously gulped air and slowed my heart, staved the tears like a good little Dutch boy with his dam. This was what I feared the most, but there was nothing either of us could do.

“I still want to know you. I keep thinking I should invite you over to meet everyone.”


“My wife and kid. But then I think now isn’t a good time.”

“If she says no to this, I’ll need time. Maybe we could pick up later, but I’d need to gather myself.”

He assured me he wasn’t motivated by sex. “I just want to know you.”

We leaned back into that pillow of silence and looked into each other’s eyes. His the color of coffee, mine the color of a stormy sky.

We shook it off and talked some more, about things that weren’t sad. We became Instagram friends and he told me he liked my face as well as everything else about me. Even the dimples I don’t actually have, but that he insists exist.

We walked back up the hill relaxed and friendly. At my car we kissed. Slow and formal at first and then as if the breeze carried lust on it more deeply and hungrily.

He nibbled my lips and stroked my tongue and I held on to him for balance as I raised up on my toes to close the gap. Long pauses with our lips locked, bodies pressed against one another, and our breathes mingling.

I could feel his heartbeat.

We separated and I opened my car door.

“Wait,” I grabbed his hand. “One more.”

His mouth crashed down on mine and he held me as he tipped me back a little off my feet. His mouth was silken, his beard rough and we kissed many times more. We pulled apart again and I was a little breathless.

“I like how you count,” he said.

I looked at him curiously.

“You said ‘one more’.”

I laughed and got in my car and tried not to cry. Phil Collins sang In the Air Tonight. Home safe and successfully tearless he texted me:

Hey, I had a super fun time – I always have a super fine time. I think you’re such a thoroughly terrific person & I feel really energized talking with you and being around you. I think you’re the tits (:

I smiled and responded in kind.


I suppose now all I can do is reserve the tears for after a red light and pray to all the gods for green, because I can’t imagine what getting to know all six feet seven inches of him inside and out would be like. I imagine it’d feel a lot like winning the lottery: lucky as fuck.

The heart hangover is real.

Today I’ve floated in a quasi-state of semi-panic.

I said too much.  I am too much.  I revealed far too much.

I am so bad at this real normal human dating bullshit.  And what the fuck am I doing again???  He’s married.

And this could end so very badly for me.  There is something out there in this relationship with him that’s bigger than me: a family, a kid, a wife.

The priority will always be them, not me, but ohmygod, he’s so fucking lovely.  Stupidly tall and delicious, funny and self-deprecating, sweet and simmering.

He’s promised to “darken my doorway again,” but this week is bad for the both of us.  He’s processing things, but “not one thing I shared is negative,” he assured me.  There’s just no time between children and work and Father’s Day on Sunday.  Poof, the follow-up face-to-face time I need to settle the fuck down isn’t possible and I am vibrating with regret and fear.

I don’t know why he would bother with me.  I’m complicated.  My secret double life has cost me a man or two in the past already; I wouldn’t be surprised if after a few days Elliot decides he doesn’t want anything to do with it, either.  With me.

I don’t know what came over me, but if I could un-ring that bell I would.  I don’t like feeling this shallow of breath, this crawling of skin.  I prefer to have had shown not one of my cards except the Joker between my legs and definitely not the Queen of Hearts.

It was too soon.  Maybe it will always be too soon.  I don’t like that I am such an acquired taste and wish instead that I could be gobbled up by anyone I wanted, but no, instead I am whiskey in his coffee.





He touched it.

Elliot met a table full of my friends last night.  “Don’t worry,” I texted him when he said he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.  “They only just now found out that the friend I’m hanging out with after dinner is a man.  This isn’t a big introduction.”

We were waiting to get our credit cards back from the waiter and were sipping on champagne when he arrived.  The jokes were off-color and the laughing loud.  I didn’t linger long, though.  I said our goodbyes and we quickly left.

We drove around north of town talking like I might have done with a date had I ever gone on one in high school.  It was innocent and heavily reliant on only ourselves, not booze or loud music or some kind of adult activity.  It was pure.

Eventually I suggested we go park at an overlook outside of the downtown lights, a dip in the highway I’d passed 10,000 times in the 23 years I’ve lived here and never stopped to visit.  The city high rises sparkled like gems against the night’s sky.

He cut the engine and we talked for more than an hour and played with each other’s fingers.  I told him unsavory stories and stressful real life turbulence mixed in with boob and clown-feet jokes.  I couldn’t get enough of his soft brown eyes and the way his hair sometimes flopped across his forehead before he’d comb it back with his long fingers.

I wanted to not be there anymore.

“Wanna just go back to my place and have some wine?”  Of course he agreed and it was there he saw the Truth anthology on my kitchen island.  He picked it up as I puttered around with our wine glasses.

“So what’s this about?” he chuckled.  “Doing a little personal research or something?”

I paused and thought for a second as I poured the wine hoping I looked nonchalant.  “Nope.  I have a piece in it.”  He looked at me curiously.  “But I’ll have to kill you if I tell you which one.”

He flipped through it and luckily I had dog-eared several stories – mine included – so I was still safely hidden.  When he opened the page to mine I was careful to keep my face blank, but I wondered why I had done that.

We took our drinks and sat on the couch and kept talking.  Hours and hours of it with my feet on his lap and the dog intermittently annoying us.  We listened to U2’s Joshua Tree as I painted layer after layer of my story.  Loss, love, hilarity, exploration.  And then I suddenly found myself pressed against the glass of my own secrets and I couldn’t breathe.  I decided to tell him about the blog and just exactly how Truth had landed in my kitchen.

I didn’t tell him the URL or the name, I didn’t tell him I’m Hy, but I told him I was a writer and I was proud of the content I create.  I told him about Sonofabitch and how The Neighbor had been my muse.  I told him about the IG account and hustling for money by offering access to a my ridiculous Snapchat account which had actually financed my last two trips to London.

I let it all out: the things I was proud about related to this blog and how important all my friendships were to me that I had cultivated as a result.  He listened raptly and not in a little wonderment.  He was impressed and honored.  Honored that I had divulged something so precious to me and impressed at this new revelation that there was even more to me than met his eye.

The ever-present weight of my secrets lifted and I almost magically floated into his arms.  We kissed and tasted and I breathed him in as both me and Hy and I felt my heart melt just a little.  My hand strayed to his lap and felt his cock pulse beneath the denim.  I let it rest there and squeezed just a little.  It continued to surge of its own bloody volition.

I straddled his lap and nibbled his ear.  He buried his face in my cleavage and his giant paw grabbed a handful of meat on my buttock.  But all our clothes stayed in place.  He moves slow, he said, and I am right on pace with this glacier.  I had just bared my soul to him.  No need to expose anything else.

He stayed until almost 4 in the morning and only physical limitations made us end the date.  That and he didn’t want his baby waking up to him being gone when that hadn’t been the plan the night before.

We kissed goodbye in the entryway and he had to duck his head just a little as he left.

This morning I woke up and felt hungover.  Not from the wine, but from the sheer intensity of exposure.  I felt like I had been well-fucked, though not even my areola had become peeked out in our passionate embraces.  My heart had been touched, though.  A lot.  I had let it out of its iron box and it was seen and held and gently handled.  I was spent.

We texted a little throughout today, both sleep deprived and me searingly bashful; we can’t wait to see each other again.  He told me between bouts of kissing that he thought all the people in his life whom he cares about would love me, including his wife.  And he wants and hopes that we are friends at the very least for a long time to come.  I hope so too.

I am the first to admit that I am a complicated woman.  I’m excited that I have this unique opportunity to know a lovely man with silly big feet and soft, pillowy lips with whom I can open up and share all my secrets, but also am still aware that I’ll never be his number one.  It seems contradictory to all that I yearn for and yet I think being his number two would feel far better than being no one’s number anything  – and an opportunity to finally let someone touch my heart because god knows no one has touched that in far too long.

And I like it being touched.



Friday, June 8th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I am loving this Every Damn Day in June challenge.  I’m more productive, perkier, happier, more focused.  And I realize it’s because I’m creating again.  I don’t give a fuck if what I’m writing is moving or beautiful or even if it’s linear.  I’m getting back to my roots as to why I write in the first place: to exist.

I hope some of you are also enjoying the freedom this little meme is giving me, as well, and I want to remind you that you can join any time and you do not actually have to write every day.  The whole point is to play and return to why we all started in the first place.

I’m even happy to stay up late to do my Boobday post whereas in the past I would have said Fuck it and just waited until midday tomorrow.  I’m telling y’all, this is working wonders on me!

With that said, Anonymous Aussie has returned to the fold!  And HH and Lo have submitted a fantastic artist’s rendition of Lo’s tits.  And Sandy… well, just wait until you scroll down.  As for me, I went with the disembodied look.  You’ll see!

Love you all!




Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email ( 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:

It’s like I’m in a white light deprivation tank.

NOT my tits:

I love it when fans draw Lo.

I was so sorry to see that a couple of weeks ago no one sent a photo for boobday. Here’s one that a lovely Tumblr artist did of Lo recently.


Told you.

View from below


I need to grow out my hair to match my Aussie sister again.

 Okayyyyyyyy, so it’s been far too long,  here’s my meagre offering, I know, pls forgive this slack Aussie chick. Lol


You may need to fill out two linky things.

Use the below link if you have a Boobday post:

Use this link if you’re also writing Every Damn Day in June:

Grab this banner and add it to your post