Spending time in pink.

I have spent a lovely afternoon and early evening in the arms of Peter.  His long, long limbs entwined with mine.  Soft, beautiful words falling all over my everything like snowflakes on flower petals on a comet tail.
Now I know how pink feels.
Little Spoon reporting for duty.
February Photofest

Happy VD.

I felt a wave of sadness tonight at dinner with my family.

That I wasn’t being adored and lusted after by my man. That my outfit was for me and no one else. That no one gave two shits if I felt that kind of special.

Then I slipped the waitress my card and made my parents feel a regular special instead.

Maybe someday it’ll be my turn to feel any kind of special.

Hi.

February Photofest

Hyperventilating and pushing through.

I’ve told a handful more of real life friends about this blog.  It was during a love-fuzzy day for two friends and I felt wrapped in friendship and so was brave.

“Ladies,” I said in the crowded cafe, “in the interest of being open and deepening friendships I have something to share with you.”  And then I blabbed my own deepest and darkest secret and probably shit my pants a little.

No one was surprised – as no one has been yet – and they were all eager to be sent the URL (Hi, if any of you are reading – eek! – but I’m still gonna write like no one is reading.)  I explained why I’ve felt the need to keep it a secret and each of them admitted to their own versions of hiding their true selves from the world.  It was nice.  But I’m still queasy.

It’s a lot to bare.  And to bear.

Speaking of sticking my neck out, I’ve decided to join in the Smut Marathon again.  There’s a giant pool of starting writers (102!) which will be quickly cut down to a more manageable number by Round 3.  Last year I got knocked out in Round 2, so if I make it to 3 I’ll consider it a win.  If not, that’s ok, too.  I’m not actually that great up against “real writers” who know their grammar and whose creative tools are more sharpened.

I just slap my emotions on a page and disdain commas for effect and hope y’all like what you read.

I can’t tell you which entry is mine – but I can tell you to go vote.  You get to pick your top 3 choices and if you’re feeling really benevolent you can leave a comment with some feedback about them (and your least favorite 3).  I’ll be the one reading the comments between her fingers.

Voting is open until Friday.

My heart is open until I don’t know when.

Here I am.
February Photofest

This is how you lose me and this is how you get me.

How I like to be approached.

Good sex cannot be underestimated.  Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness.  Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us.  It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.

I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday.  We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on.  Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.

A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin.  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower.   Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.

When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him.  There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.

The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over.  I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang?  Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close).  He nodded and the kisses commenced.

His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs.  I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.

He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs.  I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor.  Whoops.

Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day.  Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today.  I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is.  He’s done it.

And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before.  I have no room for that person in my life.

Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes.  Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend.  I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.

As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.

 

 

February Photofest

I’m still kickin’.

But barely.  In blog terms, that is.  I’ve been considering a lot lately that maybe my time as Hy is coming to an end, at least the version of Hy that I have been.  The voracious eater of men and writer of posts.

I’m tired of running Boobday, I’m tired of feeling bad all the time for not being a good blogging friend, I’m tired of not having anything to say that seems sexy or interesting.

This has happened to me before with my old mommy blog, the one I poured myself into as a stay at home mom with a baby and eventually a toddler, but felt all wrong once I left my husband and my “SAHM” status was no more.  I struggled with it for about a year, limping along, barely writing anything except gut wrenching posts about missing my baby every day and my fear for the future.

Before I moved out I started my first sex blog, though I didn’t know that’s what it was called.  I just started writing the way I write about my sex life, my new sex life.  And then I started another one. And then I finally started this one on WordPress and everything changed.  Everything.

My life, my loves, my very being was now free to be whatever and whomever I pleased.  Seven years on I feel like I have nothing to share anymore and even better, no need to share it.  I have my tribe; I’m not alone anymore.

Despite my apathy, I’m looking forward to February Photo Fest and then Eroticon and to the Smut Marathon.  I am and always will be a writer and an exhibitionist, after all, and I’m a consummate extrovert to boot, so all of those things embody me to a tee.

And look, I’m even too lazy (and rushed) to link to all the things in this first round draft.  I’ll circle back around later and link up.

Anyway, just my two cents to say I’m still here.  Mostly.

 

Seven years of comments.

I’m not going to apologize for not living my life the way others might think I should.  I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my behavior, that’s not why I write here.  I  choose to share my singular experiences with the world because inevitably I feel bolstered by the love and support given to me.

When people show compassion and caring it reveals to me a side of the world I don’t always believe is there.  I am the most cruel, nasty, hateful person to myself in some of my weaker moments.

I know all the things I have done that have brought me to a terrible situation – all of them – and I am not seeking similar voices in the ether; that’d be stupid.  I am hoping to find the voices that sound nothing like mine.  However, inevitably, in my darkest, most vulnerable moments of sharing someone will tell me I should have known better. 

Yes, thank you.  That was likely the plot of the post that you read: that I absolutely should have known better.

I have been blogging for the better part of a decade now and by anyone’s standards I am seasoned at this.  I don’t react to criticism like I did in 2011 or 2013, likewise nor does praise hit me in quite the same way.  I don’t weigh either more or less than the other.  I will admit that I roll my eyes a lot more, but my sense of self-worth remains the same.

What I find most rewarding in commenters’ thoughts and revelations aren’t what they say about me, but the insights they afford me into them. The kinder words might reveal a hard-fought acceptance of our faulty natures and I’ll feel a softness towards the writer, the critical missives belie the more skeptical outlooks on the universe and deeply felt wounds and I feel empathy and understanding for those folks, and everything else in between illustrates even more variables in each of you that I am in awe to witness.

Over the years I’ve been called nothing short of an attention seeking whore and been lauded as a self-actualized being.  I am probably both and neither, to be honest.  I also suspect I am what you see in the mirror each morning, groggy and puffy from your own illicit or peaceful night in bed.

Lately I find myself in an interesting position to be observing myself writing this blog and maintaining it like a many-leafed plant.  I pluck and pinch things here and there, water it a little, sometimes neglect it.  I’m not entirely sure if it has the same effect on me as it once did, though the idea that at least one person on this planet might feel less alone because there’s another lost soul out there who knows how they’re feeling pulls me back again and again.

I have received many thousands of comments over the years and what I have learned is we all have a TN in our life, we all have regrettable nights and body and self-esteem issues, we all yearn and we all want to belong and to experience love.  I don’t mind if you think I’m an asshole, nor do I necessarily care if you think I’m the best, though of course that is quite nice.  I just like knowing I’m not alone and that there are people who are with me on this journey to self-expression and love and honesty.

I have also learned that we want others to do the things we never did or to avoid the things we wished we had. Many years ago in my About Me – before I could imagine being Hy this long – I wrote:

“Every thought and feeling I have is bared here and you will likely become frustrated with me as I go right when you really want me to go left. But I’m not an avatar. I’m just me.”

I have never lied to you here; you know everything you need to know that will still keep me and my life safe.  The post I wrote the other day was devastatingly hard because I felt like I might be letting you all down – I’d sure as fuck let myself down – but then I remembered that if I hide from you I would essentially be hiding from myself.  In an average day when the sun sets I am filled with loneliness.  There’s no need to set the sun sooner on myself.  And so I opened up and showed you my weak and twisted ugly side and instantly felt lighter and straighter.

It’s the magic of this fucking blog.  It’s why I keep tending to it.  Every single week for seven years.  I might miss a Boobday or not write a post every week or not comment nearly as much as I would like, but I have never not been here.  I am always here.  How could I not be?  Hy is me and I am her and I love that about myself.

I love that I have this rich life that I’m passionate and knowledgeable about.  Friends from around the world whom I genuinely like and trust, a better, more solidly formed sense of self, and a new understanding of our human condition in general.  Of course I also love to craft a story, to weave my words in ways my readers can float away from their own lives and join mine, which leads me to the next great thing about this blog: all of you.

You all, each and every one of you, mean a lot more to this internet stranger than you might realize.  Just like I may touch your lives, you also touch mine.  Even when you point out all my interminable flaws and mistakes.

And let’s be honest.  I also like showing you my tits.

‘Sup?

Thank you for the last incredible seven years, Internet Boyfriend.  It’s officially my longest relationship ever and by far my best one yet.

 

I didn’t mean to write this.

I’ve written at least half of another post about Peter.  His impishness, his deliciousness, his joyous energy.  I started it yesterday morning and pecked away at it throughout my day even as he and I reconnected after a weekend of typical silence.

For weeks now, like clock work, we have come together.  Once, occasionally twice a week, but always.  Our texts are brief, but flirty.  Reassuring.  Sometimes we talk about life and the world before I wedge myself between his knees and kiss his sweet face.  Sometimes we don’t make it out of my entryway before we head to my bed.

My orgasms skitter through me like leaves in the breeze, his face wears a beautiful mask of pleasure while he buries himself inside of me.  He tells me how amazing my body is, my breasts, how good my pussy feels.  His sweat beads and drips down on me like a leaky faucet and I brush away his apologies.

“Get me dirty, baby,” I say. “Get me fucking dirty.

I wanted to tell you all how the last time we were together he was busted by his boss thanks to GPS.  He drives a company truck and he’d left his phone in it when he came up to see me.  Two hours later he stood up to remove his socks and come at me for a third time when he suddenly something caught his eye out the open window and he dropped low.

“That’s my boss!” he mouthed, panicked.

He got dressed so fast he left his underpants behind along with a load inside of me.  I wore his underwear the rest of the day and throughout the night.  I loved the reminder of him.

The reminder of our closeness, the trust, the thrill, the fun, the kindness and connection.  I’m a filthy slutty whore, but I am also so sweet it makes my teeth ache.  I want to belong to someone.

And that’s why I couldn’t finish that post.

No matter how kind Peter is – no matter how open, sweet, thoughtful, patient, passionate, kinky, soft, and surprising – he does not belong to me.  I am still alone.  I am still choosing the unavailable man.

It makes me so sad to write that.  I’m embarrassed.  I know better, right??  Or maybe I don’t.  It’s so much easier to get fucked than it is to get loved.  I can get fucked any hour I want, but love is so much more elusive and painful to obtain.

If I take stock of my life and am truly honest, I am sad.  And tired.

I can’t rely on my family – they’re hit or miss – and my local friends are best when it’s convenient for them.  I have pulled away from everyone in my life and over the past few months I have pulled away from the blog.  Or maybe it’s been years.

I don’t have anything new to say.  It’s the same shit, different day.  I’m still a lonely fool.  Nothing new here, guys.

At the start of the year I was in London with my people and I felt so loved and special and appreciated. Safe.  I spent a couple of magical days with Jean Claude, but he fell apart and disappeared.  Easy to fuck, hard to love.

Then there was Elliot and I fell hard for him.  I walked around in this blissful pink fog that whispered to me, “He’s safe..”  He said all the right things and it seemed like he was going to love me right up until the moment he couldn’t.  Or wouldn’t.  I don’t know.

Peter swept in at about that time and has been kissing my booboos ever since.

There have been so many other men peppered throughout.  Walker who drove himself right through me, The Doctor, The Aussie.  Smart, interesting men who loved to fuck me, but loving me was never even an option.  They weren’t soul-less.  Loving me was just never an option.

I think a lot about how isolated I am.  After a long day sometimes I cry on my way home because I know my house is empty.  Tonight I tearfully put on my pajamas and daydreamed about having a man who loved me who’d take one look at me wearily climbing the stairs and say, “Come here, Hy.”

He’d take me into his arms, rip my shirt off and stuff his face with my breasts, push me against a wall, dip his fingers into me and let me cry as he fit the rest of himself inside of me.  He wouldn’t be afraid of my tears; he’d understand his gift and my broken appreciation of his offering, my need for release, escape and love.

Peter has talked about a weekend together in January when his girlfriend leaves town to visit a friend.  Another stolen moment, not mine, just borrowed and molded into something that resembles mine.  Hours on hours of us just being together.  I cannot even imagine it.  When was the last time that happened?  Jean Claude, I suppose, but that was an extraordinary situation and wracked with its own issues.

There’s a British man I met on AFF who wants to undress me and explore my body.  We haven’t even met yet.  How can he know he wants to do that?  Of course he’s not looking for anything serious.  I’m not serious.  I’m the epitome of fuck me and leave me.

There’s another potential sub who wants to meet me in his own nervous way.  Things appeared promising until he went dark. As usual, I am a novelty attached to his own uncertainty.  Another dead end.

I am going to deactivate what profiles I can.  My heart hurts and the more I talk to men who want my body the more alone I feel.  I want a man to want all of me.  A man I’m attracted to, not some less than appealing schmuck with a pipe dream.  That hurts, too: to be wanted by those I don’t want.  Reminds me of how stupid it all is.

I meant to write a post about how satisfied I am with my quiet little life.  With Peter’s weekly visits and my career.  With my every-other-week dinners-for-two with my little one and occasional emails or texts with potential lovers.  With my busy and involved life of friends and family and my pursuit of better health.  But that is what I want you to know about me.

The truth is I long.

I long for better relationships and deeper connections.  I long to be seen, understood, appreciated.  If only there were one person on this planet who thought of me beyond their penis or what’s convenient for them.  My sister, my mother, my friends and lovers.  Am I even real to them?  Have I convinced them all I don’t need anything more from them?

Maybe I have.  Maybe in my pursuit to survive on almost nothing from others I have misled everyone into believing it’s all I need when what I really need is my very own Peter all to myself.  Someone to wipe away my tears and tear my body apart with his.  To hold me while I crumple and applaud the loudest when I take big, bold strides.

I also need a best friend who will forgo her own schedule to be there for me.  A mother who is consistent, a sister who doesn’t judge.

And I’m sad because I know I am going to lose my Peter some day.  It’s inevitable.  He and I can only go so far.  We don’t talk about the landing.  We’re just locked together mid-air.  Will I nail it?  Or will my knees buckle?

The only person in my life who makes me feel special, wanted, and sane isn’t even mine.  He’s someone else’s.  How fucking stupid am I??

Time to clean up my mascara now.  I’ve cried a river writing this.  It’s hard admitting you’re a lonely clown.

My sweet Peter with Faisal.

Friday, October 5th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I met with a friend who traveled to the mountains with me in mid September.  We’ve known each other for 20 years and some of our best friends were getting married on a mountain top.  While there with all of them I was near tears all weekend, not just because of the wedding, but because I was with my people.  My people, you understand?  Sort of like my blog people, except clothed.

It was all I could do not to open up to them all all at once, but I stayed my confession.  It really wasn’t the right time.  We were all basking in the love in the air, but last night, sitting across from this old friend getting a sweater I’d left behind in his rental car I was struck that the time was right. And so I did.

And guess what??  The sky didn’t fall.  He didn’t even seem surprised and then began to tell me all the female friends he has who also have double lives on Patreon and how he’s helped with photo shoots and with creative recommendations.

He understood that I was just trying to piece my two sides together and I was vague with the details, but it still felt good to draw them closer.

Then I came home, made a grilled cheese sandwich, watched Frasier and slept in till 10 am.  Woke up, read in bed for two hours then started cooking for the week in my handy dandy Instant Pot.

I’m about to take the dog on a hike along the river before Peter stops by then I’ll be going to a sex-positive event here in town with some peeps I know.  I’ll be home early, curled on my couch with the dog where I will continue to contemplate my navel.

I’m growing tired of the double life, honestly, and I’m running out of things to say here.  I wonder sometimes if it’s time to hang up my Hy hat, but then I think about losing all of you and I think No way, Jose.  Just relax and you’ll get your mojo back, Hy!

Anyway, I’m not going anywhere just yet (I’m totally going to London in March), but I am thinking about giving myself a break.  Setting up Boobday for a month and just going dark to see how I feel sans blog.  Last time I did that A Dissolute Life Means… was born.  Who knows what would come of a break this time around?

Love you guys.

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:

It’s been a while since I deliberately dressed for a photo.

NOT my tits:

Imagine being beneath Sandy.


I’m here, you just don’t know it.

I’ve got 7 minutes until a meeting, but I’ve been dying to write.  Anything, something.  I’m weeks behind on reading, I’m worrying about friends and their heartaches and triumphs, me missing them because I can’t seem to find the time to plug back in.  I don’t want you to think I don’t care.

All my loves both new and old, know that I am aware of you out there in the ether.  I do see you even if my presence is ghost-like.  A like here and there, a comment, a tweet, a DM.

I hoard all the emails notifying me of your writings so that I don’t fall behind.  I want to be present so badly. You all were my lifeline for so long, but now I am stronger and need this world less and less.  It scares me.  Who am I without all of you?  Without Hy?

But the message I want to share today is that I do see you and hear you.  All of you.  And I love you.

Anyway, it’s time for my meeting now.

 

 

Dodging bullets and finding solace.

Last Friday I was sad about Elliot.  Sad for what could have been, sad that we’d never be special, sad that it had to end.

I texted him my heaviness.

“Today I’m feeling a little sad that the timing of things was bad for us. I really liked what we were doing: all the talking, the hanging out, etc. It was a sweet and fun 4 weeks in the beginning, a real treat. How you doin?”

His response?

“Sorry you’re bummed. I’m OK, doing the back to school thing, getting ready to go out of town for work next week. Making a concerted effort to be in touch with my parents.”

The ol’ “I’m sorry you feel that way” line.  It plunged me a little deeper into my sadness, but then something odd happened: I popped back up like a buoy.  I had dodged a bullet.

During our ill-fated and brief affair he told me repeatedly that he was an “asshole” and that sex wasn’t that important to him.  I couldn’t believe him, outright refused to really, but in the end I had to believe and take action.  I can’t be with someone who is so mired in depression and introversion and finds himself incapable of giving even the littlest glimmer of something.  And I definitely can’t be with someone who considers himself disinterested in sex.  I ignored my exhusband’s claims and that bought me a one-way ticket to sexual misery.

In that same text exchange I clarified our relationship and we agreed we wanted to continue with a friendship and professional association (we have complimentary careers).  Relief washed over me, I saw the lighthouse.

I didn’t think about him again until he texted me Monday morning asking for some advice.  We chatted, got him sorted out, made jokes.  I put my phone down and forgot about him all over again.

Until that night when he texted me again from a remote work destination.

“I’m at a place called Busty Bob’s that has 25¢ oysters. Probably not gonna try those.”  It was a reference to our first date where the oysters gave me food poisoning and I had to cut our date short and it was then he decided he wanted me in his life.

We chatted some, he made more jokes, I replied and then it stopped.

Today he’s crossed my mind and I’ve gone to text him several times, but have stayed my itchy fingers.  Our friendship will unfold however it should, but in the mean time I’m going to turn towards sunshine, not rain.  Like Peter.

Sweet Peter whose aversion to condoms never stopped him from wanting to have a good makeout sesh and make me cum a few times.  We met 3 years ago shortly after things ended with The Neighbor.  He never apologized or felt bad for not being able to fuck me with his dick, he just switched gears and ate at the apex of my thighs like the whistle had blown and finger fucked me to oblivion while making love to my face with his soft, supple mouth.

We liked to hang out in my hot tub or go for a swim.  He bought a pair of swim trunks that have permanent residence on my bathroom hook for whenever he comes over.  “Other friends can wear them, too,” he told me knowing I was a busy woman.  He was always a pleasure to be around.

He’s tall, 6’6″, 10 years younger than me, has dark hair and green almond-shaped eyes.  His body is lithe and pale, his mind quick, and he’s got a hall pass from a begrudging girlfriend who’s my age.

It wasn’t until things with Elliot began to unravel that I threw caution to the wind and on one of our afternoon trysts let him fuck me bareback.   I don’t know why I did that – it just felt right – and the results were miraculous.  He was rock hard and delicious.  He strained to control himself and slowly stroked us both with long pauses and pull outs.

“I don’t want this to end too quickly,” he kept saying.

We rolled around entwined, laughing and kissing during his pauses.  He’d say the kindest things and I would squeeze him and nibble his neck careful not to leave any marks.

He filled me up twice that afternoon and we lay in each other’s arms and I told him all my woes with Elliot.  My heart was breaking over one man and yet I found solace in the arms of another, so tender and kind.

We’ve met nearly every week since that fateful condom-free week.  As the tears fell in my alone time, he filled me up when we were together.  The loss of Elliot made all the more bearable for the tender kisses I got from Peter.

Heartbreak is better spent together.