Extrovert recharge.

What I needed tonight was just what I got: two men’s full and undivided attention over cocktails, red meat and giggles.

All quite innocent except for all the sex talk.

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

Last night he made me dinner.

Last night Elliot darkened my doorway once again.  He ducked his head and stepped inside and I reached up and gave him a sweet kiss hello.  He held a bag of groceries in one hand while the dog’s tail banged on the paper loudly.  Finally he was here.

I had only just gotten off a work call and was frazzled.  The laundry was hidden moments before he arrived and there were still things I needed to clear away.  I busied myself while he put the perishables in the fridge and the dog continued to whack things with his tail.  I peeled off my corduroy blazer and hoped he noticed my new tan lines against the violet of my strapless dress.

I twittered and fluffed around him while he uncorked a bottle of red I’d bought.  “You seem nervous.”

“No,” I assured him, “That was just an intense meeting.”  I made sure to avoid eye contact as I said this.  I was nervous.

I was nervous because with each passing moment I like him more.  With each passing hour I see more of a human I want to know.  With each passing day I feel his spirit and humor.  With each passing everything I am crumbling into dust.

We took our wine and sat on my blue velvet couch.  My feet tucked under his thigh and his long legs folded out into whatever available space he had.  We laughed and talked about human things: our jobs our days our babies our mothers.

We remarked on the impossibility that we were sitting there so close.  He had written me despite my very clear disinterest in married men.  And I had responded because there was something there.

And then suddenly the conversation turned to his wife.  “So, just to be clear, we’re basically still waiting, right?”

“Oh,” he said smiling.  “She said ‘Yes’ about three days ago.”

I jumped and hit his arm.  “Elliot!!  Why didn’t you tell me!!”

“Well, I didn’t think it was something I should text you!” he laughed.

“Of course it is!  That way I wouldn’t be worrying about this amazing married man who I super like possibly leaving my life because I can’t handle not being with him sexually and freaking out that I’ll lose out on a friendship too!”  I stopped only to take a breath.

“Seriously!  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

His grin ate his face and he pulled me down onto it and we breathed each other’s puffs and smiled together and I wished I’d hidden the laundry on my dresser, too.


We finished the white wine he’d brought while at my little dining room table.  The house smelled like brown sugared carrots and balsamic reduction with smokey salts and my heart felt like exploding.  I cleared our plates and returned to the table and got lost in his whiskey colored eyes.  I hung on every word he uttered.

“I better do the dishes,” I said and got up and headed to the sink.  I’d changed into a white t-shirt and stretchy cotton skirt, no bra, somewhere around the time he was deglazing the pork pan.  He sidled up behind me and cupped my breasts on the outside of my shirt.  I leaned into him and looked up, he bent down and caught my mouth.

He lifted me up onto the counter and our hands roamed as our lips locked.  I pecked at his neck and undid his buttons.  He pulled my shirt up and off just as I got his off of him.  I spread my knees and pulled him against my bare breasts.  His bulge above the counter top cradled in the pocket of my thighs.

So much is in a kiss.  It is care and skill, thoughtfulness and play.  A kiss is hope and it is momentum.  A kiss can start and sustain, it can also smash me to smithereens and shoot me to the stars.  I may have appeared to have been in my little kitchen with a large man between my legs, but I was actually in orbit. Did you see me last night twinkling in the night’s sky??

I lit candles in my room and he made a joke about my laundry.  I probably told him to shut up, but who really knows?

His magical mouth was on my breasts and pulling on my nipples.  His long fingers stroked and his hand slammed against me as I moaned and spilled out my weak heart onto his warm skin.

I tugged off his black American Tall underwear and filled a little more than two fists with thick hot man meat.

“Look at you!” I admired what was in my hands.  “You’re no fucking fruit fly!!”  He laughed uproariously – he’d been gleefully torturing me about “being hung like a fruit fly” for days not knowing anything about the anxiety that produced in me.

“I am quite happy with what I’ve got.”

“As well you should be!!”

I stuffed as much as I could down my throat and he moaned.

“Show off.”

We played and kissed and I came and he played with me some more.  Curled and cuddled into each other we dozed and I told him my fantasy to have a man who loved me no matter what or who I did.  Someone who was happy that I had a married boyfriend and a fuck buddy and a sub and who understood I was still his.

He squeezed me tightly and kissed my temple.  “I hope you find that, too.”

He operates under the notion that when I find someone who can give me “more” than he can that I will end our liaison.  What he doesn’t seem to believe is that he has already given me more than I’ve had in years.  Possibly ever.  I won’t be ending this any time soon.

It was getting later by the minute and I was still in orbit inside the ring of his long arms.  I rolled onto my back and his left hand hooked into me and I came crying into his mouth, his swollen, pulsing cock in my hand.  We dozed again.

When I stirred he woke, too.  “I have to go.  I’m so tired and have to be at work at 7.”  I kissed him long and slow, my fingers tracing the whiskers on his jaw.


I switched on the Hitachi and pressed it against me.  His hand full of a breast and his mouth plying mine with comet tails.  I cried into his mouth as stars burst through me and I sparkled away.

I turned into him, nose to nose, and traced his lips with my fingertips.  “I am crushing so hard on you,” I leaked out.

“When will you believe that I’m not going anywhere, Hy?  I don’t let just anyone in.  I take this very seriously.”

“I’m trying, it’s just so hard.  I like you so much.”

“I like you, too.”

He made moves to leave again, but I convinced him to lay with his head on my breasts folded in my arms and we sailed through space together for a few more heartbeats before he had to get dressed.

We passed through the apartment making sure he didn’t forget anything and as he was leaving I stepped up on my kitchen stool, now slightly above his eye-level.  He wrapped his arms around me I melted against him and played with his hair.


“Yes, Saturday.”

I hopped down and walked him to the door where he bent down and kissed me again.  I floated back to bed and haven’t landed since.

An InLinkz Link-up

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’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.



Tacos on a park bench.

We were both on time, 11:30 on the dot.  We didn’t hug or touch, but instead walked down the hill in the sun with the wind in our hair with Topo Chicos and a bag of tacos in hand.

The paved park paths were empty, the grass bright and lush, the squirrels big and bushy.  We found a bench in the shade near the paddling fountain and sat.  Children squealed as they got soaked and their mothers huddled in pairs and absent mindedly watched their babies.

We ate and talked and I teased him about his size 16 feet.

“You could just lift them up and provide us with some shade.”

His long arm snaked along the back of the bench and his hand stroked my shoulder.  The breeze lifted my skirt and it fluttered against my thigh as our laughter bubbled between us.  I stared at his lips and five o’clock shadow and wondered if he noticed my Golden Girls t-shirt.

This was all his idea.  He got the tacos and chose what we had (“Just no chicken, please.”) and he picked the park.  The only thing I had to do was tell him when I could meet.

I leaned in for a kiss and he tasted as good as I remembered from our second date, clean and sun-kissed this time.

A time or two I was overwhelmed with bashfulness.

“You’re cute when you’re bashful.”

“That bodes well for me.”

Our first date had been a minor disaster.  After my third oyster on the half shell I didn’t feel so well.  I went to the ladies room and despaired, but hoped it would pass.  We walked up the hill to another bar, ordered a drink and I promptly returned to the restroom.

I felt green from the tips of my fingernails to the base of my soul.

“I’ve been doing my best to fight it,” I told him grimacing, “but I feel really sick.  I think one of the oysters I had were bad.”

I tried to finish our conversation, but he interrupted me.

“Hy, you’re really not looking good.  Why don’t I take you home?”

I clenched my fists and made vomit jokes the entire ride, praying to the gods that I could hold it together for just 15 more minutes.

When I leaned across the console to hug him goodbye he kissed my cheek and squeezed.  Hard and with care.  I waved as I climbed the stairs, passed through my front door, went straight to the bathroom and threw up for an hour.

Our second date was soon after, an opportunity to prove my interest and that the “bad oyster” wasn’t a ruse just to end the date early.  It was long and lovely and included our first kiss – if by “first kiss” you mean an hour-long make out sesh with all your clothes on.

I was reluctant to reveal skin – his or mine – and so instead told him it was time to go.  I was asleep by the time he texted me he’d gotten home safely.

Maybe it’s because he’s married, but I don’t want to rush things with Elliot.

Doing things in the daylight – unabashedly me and not hidden or distorted by the night – I am putting myself out there in a way I usually don’t.  There is no slight of hand with him, no game of seduction.

I don’t want to conquer him, nor do I want to disrupt his marriage.  I am singularly impressed at how special he’s made me feel despite having a wife, demanding career, and child to manage.  Why haven’t single men been able to achieve this level of humanity while dating me and instead make me feel like an afterthought?

I’ve always remembered a piece that Exposing40 wrote about how she preferred dating men with wives or partners because they prioritized their time together better than a single man did.

Perhaps that’s part of what I’m feeling with Elliot.  His time is extremely valuable and he is not going to waste it and thereby not waste mine, either.  He’s committed to getting to know me and the withered and starved part of me I work overtime to protect senses it, like a Monarch knows her way home.

When my timer went off today reminding me to get my child from camp I leaned in for another kiss, but he ducked his head and nibbled on my neck instead.  I must have made a sound because he murmured how he liked my noises.

I pressed my lips to his and felt the breeze on the expanse of my exposed thigh.  I smiled into his smile.

“It’s time to go, I’m afraid.”

We walked back up the hill and I stood flat-footed under an oak tree as he bent down to kiss me again.

“Saturday can’t come soon enough,” he said.  I agreed.  He texted me later that he couldn’t stop thinking about me and told me how he’d caught the wind playing with my skirt.  His words, not mine.  But I was too busy happily being myself on a sunny park bench with a man with giant feet who’d brought me tacos to notice him watching me.



Idiot men are not men I care to know.

Elliot is not an idiot.

He’s empathetic, progressive and stable. He has a degree in English, but works in a field where he only has to write reports, not prose. He’s tall, 6’7″, and married with a baby about the same age as mine and he and his wife have been married for 15 years and he’s only now close to 40.

Their openness evolved over many years of curious crushes on close friends and different sexual cravings. He can’t imagine ever being monogamous again, is thoughtful and particular. And he likes me. Like, likes me likes me.

His lips are pillowy soft and his embrace strong, his sense of humor wry and dirty, he’s sweet and has already made lists of things for us to do together. Can I be this excited about a married man??

I think I can. How could I not?

Some men took issue in my last post where I said I was “tired of idiot men and their bullshit.” They said that my assessment somehow preceded me and soured the milk before I ever brought it to my lips. That it was a reflection on my own narrow views of men and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The judgment comes after they’re idiot men with loads of bullshit.

I’m hard to impress, yes, but that’s because I’m a highly sensitive, intelligent woman – not because I’m an asshole who hates men and if only I were more lenient or transparent with my needs they’d pass muster.

Idiot men say inappropriate things, have no cultural sensitivities and are rigid. They’re bigots and bad in bed, judgmental and irritating.

I have no time for men who reveal these things to me within a first date or two. That leaves me nothing to work with and why should I bother when there are men like Elliot just waiting their turn in the sun?

I walk around with an open heart and mind and see nothing wrong until I do. I don’t fabricate someone’s idiocy, but I’m entitled to recognize it and certainly allowed to reject it.

I don’t owe an idiot anything, but someone like Elliot deserves a lot.

An InLinkz Link-up

Filthy rooms, giant cocks, and deep conversations.

I was in constant flux today.  I didn’t know what to do.  Should I keep my date with The Aussie or just stay home and continue with my Game of Thrones binge?

I went on a date with the two men who are a couple yesterday.  We met for brunch and mimosas and I worked hard to sort out all the dynamics.  The Puppy was overly eager while the Tom Cat was purring and charming.  I was at once drawn in and repelled.

I lied and said I had late afternoon plans.  All I wanted to do was to be alone so I left them with my excuses, got a pedicure and strolled around Target like a retiree.

This morning I had a riding lesson – horses and barn smells and a nice hot morning – then plans to see a movie with The Aussie, but I wasn’t sure I’d have the energy to leave the house.  Ambivalence coursed through me like my blood.  What’s the difference if I just stay home alone?

He texted right as I parked in front of the barn.

“Hey gorgeous!  When and where shall we meet?”

I ignored the text until I was done.  The horse in cross ties, the cool water from my hand splashed on his back, I felt at peace and energized.  Yes, I’d see him.

He was pleased.

After the movie – intense and lingering – I tried to get him to come back to my apartment, but he made excuses about Uber budgets.  I didn’t hide my reluctance, I know, but back to his shitty, dingy co-op we went.

I set my timer for one hour.  If we weren’t done fucking by then I wasn’t going to stay a minute longer.

Walking up to the co-op I cringed.  The eaves were broken off and splintered, trash lay about the front door.  He let us in and I walked past more garbage in the hallway and dirt on the floor.  His room was clean, but the bed was stripped and only a pile of sheets lay atop it.  Was I supposed to fuck on that? He’d told me his bed was inherited, covered in cat piss.

He poured us some wine and I sat gingerly in his office chair and eyed the bed he sat on like it was going to spit on me.

We discussed politics and socio-economic influences.  He was eager to fill the room with words.  I continued to watch the bed and count the minutes.  My alarm chimed.

“I have to leave soon,” I said.

He smiled.  “Ok, so let’s fuck.  I just really enjoy our chats.”

“Is there something we can use to cover the bed?”  I grabbed a neatly folded blanket from behind me.  “Like this?”  He nodded as he pulled his shirt off over his head.

“I know this is all very romantic,” he laughed.

I spread the blanket on the mattress and sat down and watched him undress.  I’ve always loved men’s utter lack of shame.  They all seem so comfortable in their own skin.

He undressed me and soon we were coupled.  I screamed and cried, he told me how much he loved my smile.  His feet kept slipping on the wooden floors so he had to put on his sneakers.  I would have laughed, but I was too busy cumming.

And then he finally filled me up moments before my next alarm went off.

“Will you see me when I’m back in February?” he asked.

“Of course.”

I quickly redressed and I scanned the room again.  The mattress on the floor, the random office chairs doing double duty as laundry baskets, his shoes neatly lined up in front of the bricked-over fireplace, the drawn curtains.  I won’t miss this disgusting place and I don’t think I’ll miss him.  He’s a good fuck, but that’s all it is.  Best to leave it there.

Next time – in February or my dreams – it will be in my beautiful, clean home with the pressed sheets and nice clean surfaces.  I’m certain I won’t waffle then.