Indifferent to moral restraints; given to immoral or improper conduct; licentious; dissipated :: Synonyms: corrupt, loose, debauched, wanton, abandoned.
I’m so proud of myself for getting this one posted BEFORE Friday! I feel like a grown up meme owner/runner/whatever! Woohoo!
Thanks as always for bearing with me to all of you who rise hours and hours ahead of me and sometimes have to wait 20 hours before a link is available to you. You are all the very very best and I appreciate your kindness and your continued support and participation!
I’m watching Season 4 of the Great British Baking Show (not sure how I managed to skip that one!). It’s by far the best thing ever made for TV, I’ll tell you that much. I’m watching them sculpt “plaited bread showstoppers” at the moment. Fucking brilliant.
Also, in less than a month I will be in London for Eroticon! OMG, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see everyone! All the hugs and kisses and loveliness.
He texted me every day for two weeks. Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.
I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together. He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out. Saturday it was.
No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town. He’d be happy to figure something out. Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me. Of course he’s certain I look cute every day. Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty! Morning darlin, he said practically every morning. What are you wearing today? And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.
And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:
Early afternoon lunch
No punctuation. No context. No more anything.
I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope. By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:
I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…
*More silence*
All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope. And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.
Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable. May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life. Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.
Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?
It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project. I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again. It kinda feels good. Too good. Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.
Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995. I liked it there a lot. It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.
“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.
“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever. I don’t want to stop.” His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.
I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his. This didn’t even feel real.
Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real. Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real. Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real. Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.
“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.
“I wish you could, too.”
He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby. His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder. I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.
He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails. I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.
I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him. Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day. No one is ever interested in my day. But Peter is.
And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle. When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height. We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs. Oh, Peter.
Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night. No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all. Eat your heart out, perfumers.
We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms. Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.
No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.
And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.
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.
This long gaze and wide view of me makes me tremble. There are no slights of hand here, no cut of a shadow or kiss of a sunbeam to contour my shape. I feel more exposed in this open frame than in all of my thousands of arm’s length, close-up photos. You can actually see me.
I believe that confidence is a mix of a magic feather and willing audience. They want to see me fly and so I fly. High and light and beautiful above them, gripping my feather tight because it can’t possibly be real, this unconditional appreciation and love.
When I was 10 my little heart was ground to a pulp by a silly boy and a group of heckling friends. They didn’t believe in me except my gullibility. I was detestable, an easy target. That wasn’t the thing that broke me, but it was by far the most memorable – and earliest – instance when I felt unacceptable.
Growing up in this world that presents a very narrow path to society’s acceptance – skinny, young, pouty lips, clear skin, big tits, shiny hair, fun, funny, pretty, easy, cool, sweet, and and and – I suffered like most of us do. I wasn’t special in that narrative. I hated everything about my body. My hair color, my ass, my little breasts. I never wanted to be what I was.
Then I began to find my audience as I grew older. No one was kicking me out of bed. I may not have been stopping traffic, but I seemed to be holding my own. Boys in bars and men online and folks online, people whose acceptance of me was never narrow treated me like I was a desirable, beautiful woman.
It took a while – 36 years to be exact – but I finally discovered the equation to feel 7 feet tall: a little cleavage and a controlled image plus an approving audience equals a performance that even I could believe in. It was as if I believed in them believing in me which helped me believe in myself. I truly am not an island: I need you all.
I worry sometimes about the passage of time and my inevitable move away from the narrow definition of attractiveness and this self-esteem equation but perhaps by then I will have shifted things around. Less audience, more just me. I’ve seen enough little old ladies with white chin hairs like dorsal fins above the water’s surface to know that it could happen.
For now it looks like something like this: Some Hy x my mood + some audience approval = a confident, relaxed Hy. My mood is the variable that affects the need for audience approval. For example, had I not gotten laid February 1st after taking a months worth of long-view photos for this project I may have taken a hit right in the gut and stayed in bed for the weekend periodically wondering how anyone can stand being around me.
But I didn’t have to worry about that because my smoke and mirrors worked in person, too, and I got to rub my hands all over his chiseled abs even as my soft thighs spread down around on either side of hips. My act so seamless and sublime that he didn’t now he was really with a dumpy middle-aged woman. He truly thought he was with a voluptuous goddess that night. And so did I. Because I am.
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.
What a hell of a couple of days. I’m currently hosted on DomSigns thingamajig and trying to get it all sorted. Running around like a crazy person – so much to do! But wanted to get this up now…
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:
I like the blur.
NOT my tits:
Miss B joins us once again with this brilliant lacy top.
My long-time boyfriend and I had fun several days ago taking multiple pictures for my choice to be considered for your site. He is a long-time photographer as a hobby.
This particular chemise is great to wear under a jacket and still have a “wow” factor, I believe.
