This life has a price.

For the last 3 weeks there have been no men in my life, but “no men” for me means something drastically different from what it does for the average woman.  It means I don’t see anyone in person, a distancing from my online pots, and my Instagram and Snapchat accounts – the ever-present, looming, wet-tipped hardon of my life – also take a backseat.

Men are everywhere for me, inescapable, a pleasant white noise at best and nails on a chalkboard at worst.  I’m under no misconceptions that my lifestyle and my choices exact a toll on me.  Nothing in life is free and that includes love, sex, and even the magic found in each.

A few weeks ago I fell beneath several grunting, thrusting bodies.  I collected spooge in my ass and pussy, kissed hot, fat tongues and puckered assholes.  I drank sparkling alcoholic things, highlighted my cheekbones, and tenderly cared for the lips between my thighs with the diligence of a working girl.

I was ravenous, high from one hot tryst to the next hotter tryst.

The Aussie’s gorgeous giant slab of meat split me in two as his furry chest tickled my heaving breasts.  His pale skin and eyes and dark dusting of hair across his muscled body reminded me of The Neighbor.  We spent the afternoon holding hands and making out on a busy tourist-trap street and fucked like animals under the curtain of night.  He tasted of booze and the Ben and Jerry’s he insisted we buy him; his cock tasted like an A+ feels.

He’s a temporary resident, a long-term visitor, busy at the local university doing nerdy things.  I love that a science-y foreigner managed to bury 9″ of fleshy steel in my ass.  Our second date included a quickie in his dingy co-op bedroom.  A bottle of wine split between us and with little formalities.  I was there for a reason.

He set down one of his two wine glasses, climbed on the bed and straddled my hips with his feet.  I unwrapped him like a present and let him disappear into my face.  We tore off our own clothing and I backed up to him like a mare in heat.  He slid in long and hot and came deep and rolling while holding my waist from behind. I wished I’d won the argument to pull his curtains back to view any foot traffic outside.  I do love to give a good show.

We spent another 10 hours together doing uniquely university things, drinking beer and befriending strangers.  I awoke on his bed to him reminding me I had to get home to take care of the dog.  That dog is my savior.

The Universe decided to send me another well-endowed foreigner a week later.  The Doctor was in town for a convention of brilliance and as a European he and his wife had a different kind of sensibility about monogamy.  His hall pass was also a direct pass to my ass.  Twice.

After dinner we tore the bed apart in his upgraded hotel room.  A night of teasing and talking made us sizzle and the origin of his accent eluded and enticed me.  He delighted in mystifying me, but once I’d wrapped my lips around his cock he’d whispered its Baltic origins with a chuckle.

We lay entwined on the couch after our first round and drank the bubbly we’d gotten.  Deep thoughts, deep words with a stranger passing through [me].  He asked if he could fuck me in my ass bareback.  I said Yes and he bent me over, spit in his hand and slowly pushed in.

I froze from the intensity, clung to the couch like a drowning woman as orgasm seized my body.  He moved gingerly, then with longer strokes as he felt my ejaculate splatter on his bare toes.  I came again as he filled me up in my dirty place.  A first for me.

We showered and kissed, his skin slick and as ever such a novelty to me.  I never get to taste these intimate moments with my lovers.  The tender moment of wiping away bubbles or caressing the smooth curve of a wet buttock, the little hanging pouch between his legs.  A place where a man is as vulnerable feeling as a woman: bathing and relaxed.

On the bed atop a blanket of towels he took my ass while I lay on my back.  I thrashed and moaned, cried from the unbearable ecstasy of the impaling of my body.  He cried out, dumped more jizz up my ass, and crumpled on me panting.

I set my alarm and fell asleep in his arms and he walked me to the door at dawn.  I grabbed some coffee and a croissant from the continental breakfast downstairs on my way out and smirked at the two young men staring at me from behind the front desk.  Thanks, Hilton.  I’ll be around.

The next week was a man from Seattle and he wanted a date for Friday night rather than having to hang out with his colleagues.  We met at a hotel with comfortable couches and ate truffle fries and drank wine.  The music pulsed and the floor began to fill.  I took him by the hand and led him to the hall with the single-use restrooms, pulled him into one and locked the door.

I unbuckled him, turned around and lifted my skirt.  He pressed his little dick in me and pulled my hair as I came on my shoes.  He followed suit inside of me.  I splattered water on the water my body had dumped to dilute any scent.  We scurried out, still holding hands, and canoodled on the couch.  We agreed shortly after that it was time to say goodbye.  Goodbye, Seattle.

Those were encounters which energized me.  They were on my terms, the men were fun and open and listened to every word I said.  I was done when we were done; there was none of the mismatched energy after an encounter.  No, “Why the fuck hasn’t he texted???”  The last week before I took a break, though, I had too much.  Not sex, but too many men in my space and on my energy.

I made dinner for my friend who cat-sat for me while I was in London, had a date with an Asian American man with the whitest name ever who made jokes about it and helped me with two bottles of sparkling rosé.  I met with a long-time pen pal about being my sub, and topped it off with the man from Seattle.

Four dates in 5 days, constant fire and bubbles in my belly.  Seduction becomes as second nature as saying Hello for it all starts at Hello.  And all the texts, the emails grooming the men for meeting me and falling in love with me for 12 hours or less to get what I want.  It costs me something, this dazzling nature of mine.

And before that there were all the men from what can only be called a March Madness.  Michele, and Jean Luc, JJ, Garrett.

It’s at once a fun game and an exercise.  I’ve needed the rest and reflection for in it I have recovered from my gorging.  I must have needed the reminder that I could go hard if I wanted.  It’s impossible to maintain.  I want something intense and sexy, I want there to be an actual future with someone.  I guess I should stop saying Yes to all the sexy visitors.

Nah, who are we kidding??  I’ll always say Yes to a passerby.  They’re the very best kind of man who leaves because I already know they will.  That’s a price I can live with.

 

 

Bright English mornings.

Hy stands on a small rug in her boots with Jean Claude's giant shoes and sunlight
A domestic scene.

I am not darkness or anger, nor hate or despair. I am sunshine and sweetness, pleasure incarnate, a playground of words and sensation that slips hot and silky down the gullet of my life and warms the belly of my soul.

I want to rip myself open for him and roll in our blood and semen and juices and fall asleep to baritone giggles and my own soft exhalations of peace. His pile of meat cradled in my hand, his hand on my hip, lashes to lashes as our chests rise and fall together, drunk on each other and happy.

When we are through twirling with comets and tasting each other’s sweat I want him to know exactly how I like my coffee because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me while the moon shone bright in the night’s sky. He is here for all of it. All of me. And especially the morning and long hours that follow.

He’s seen all of me, suspended and cascading. Swallowed me whole and is still thirsty for more. There is no possibility of him ever getting his fill.

Truthfully, I want him to bore into my center and spread like a fever, never to leave, incapable of leaving.

And then we have coffee, mine black. His with a splash of whiskey.

 — Excerpt from my, “I am Whiskey in His Coffee, in the Eroticon Truth anthology, 2018 available here.

When I wake up to the sun I am always alone for either I or the man I was with has typically stolen off into the night like a shadow, the intimacy we shared washed away with each step like tears in the rain.

I don’t know how to be when I see a naked shoulder and peaceful, stubbly face. I wonder how I must look, honestly.  Will he find me as fetching in the singularly innocent sunlight as he did under the cast of the lustful, boozy night before?  The tall Englishman I met sure seemed to.

Six-foot-four with magnificent, wild dark brown hair that glinted with the occasional silver thread and walnut colored eyes we met on a big dick website because when you have one and you crave one it’s a good place to start.

For weeks we chatted and talked on the phone.  He’s close with his family and friends, fit, loves his career, is paid handsomely and attends business meetings regularly not far from where I live.  This could parlay into something beyond our March days together, I didn’t know.

We planned on meeting on a Monday and getting a room.  If things went well he’d take the rest of the week off and tour the country with me.  Then tragedy struck a week before my trip: his uncle passed away.  There would be a funeral to attend during my stay, but he was committed nonetheless.  He wanted to meet me.

And so I woke up in that terrifying morning gaze twice, fingers and bodies entwined, smiles and snatches broken wide and open, all filled up.  I was out of my body and terrified, yet happy and at home.  This is what normal people do, I thought.  They wake up together.

On Michael and Molly’s font doorstep we’d kiss goodbye, sweet and fervent, all too quick after so much time.  Fifty-two consecutive hours spent together ended with, “I’ll see you in June.”

And then I cried in Molly’s arms.

::

We met at noon at a swanky London hotel in Kensington where I poured my heart out about my secret double life – the blog, how I was Hy, my tits on the internet – all before we’d even dropped off our bags in the room.

I paused and charged forward. “Do you still want to hang out??”

“Yes.”

And instantly the two parts of my lives zippered together. 

We strolled under dinosaur and whale bones and wove our way in and out of the crowds like old companions laughing, talking, sharing, and under gigantic tapestries and paintings I found myself hoping he would kiss me in some empty room at the end of a great hall.

When night fell, still and seated at dinner with the wine flowing, he told me how much he liked me and how much he was enjoying our time together and I bloomed and flirted shamelessly.  Confident my advances would be returned, his cool British demeanor replaced with enthusiasm and warmth, we melted into one another along the dark London streets back to our room.

There, under the gentle guidance of some delicious English sparkling wine, we played with each other.  First Hang Man to riotous laughter, then with our bodies lit with exploration – stop and go, learning, pivoting – followed by a cool dark dawn with fingers entangled, face-to-face, and hours of talk peppered with dozing.

I blow dried my hair while he worked on his computer below my elbow, a towel wrapped around his waist.  I applied mascara in the bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth.  The most prosaic of things novel and new.

I had survived my first morning with a man.

On Tuesday we traversed the city to his car and headed south to Brighton on the English Channel.  We ate ice cream in the cold, bright afternoon sun and sat on deck chairs on the pier and watched the people go by.  Too shy and out of my element to make the advance myself, I could only wish he’d kiss me at the end of the windswept pier behind the carousel.

My inexperience with a date lasting longer than 6 hours had begun to take its toll on me and I was fraught with insecurity and fear, worry and disgust that I had done something wrong.  He was done with me, tired of my shit, I told myself.

Emotions tumbled through me as he led me from place to place in search of what he said was the perfect Brighton souvenir for Peyton, some thing called a Brighton Rock.  “He’ll love it!” he assured me.  “It says ‘Brighton’ all they way down as you eat it!”

Words were streaky jumbles and I found speaking difficult.  I fought to appear normal until while crossing a lush, green courtyard I nearly burst into tears as we passed a man playing Stand By Me on his electric guitar.  I felt unmoored and lonely, lost.

I circled back around to buy a second to compose myself and dropped two 50p coins in his guitar case.  The tall Englishman didn’t seem to notice my struggle, though he had stopped to wait for me.  He never let me out of his sight.

That night in a little village inn somewhere north in Sussex I took a slug of wine, sat in one of the two red chairs and cried after he stepped outside.  “I’ve got to call my mum.  I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

Each tear a streak of fear and anxiety.  This kindness, this ease was too much for me, and I just couldn’t read him.  If a man isn’t pawing at me, is he interested?  Am I?

He appeared to be the type of man I’d want to know: educated, globally minded, kind, thoughtful, funny, sexy, and loyal. He understood complex situations and was sensitive to his own limitations. “I’m penny wise and pound foolish,” he told me.

I breathed through my tears and held my beating heart as I heard him approach from down the hall.

His face was drawn.  “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m ok.  I’m wrung out.  How are you?”

“I forgot to pack a suit, so I’ve got to sort that out, and I really think my mum needs me there.  I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you…”  We decided together that we would cut our trip together a half-day short so he could go home to his parents to prepare for the funeral on Thursday.  The decision felt good.

I poured him a glass of wine as he plopped down in the chair opposite me.  Maybe this was hard for him, too.

Later, in the dimly lit brasserie, we spoke sweetly to one another about our connection and expectations.  We would see each other again in June, for sure, he said.  “I have a meeting in America.  I’ll come out a week before or after.”  I agreed.

And a little while after that, after three courses and cheese and port, I sat on his lap on that same chair in our room and he stroked me through my black tights until I came like a cat in heat and left a wet spot on his jeans.  My fingers dug deep through his wild man hair and my mouth devoured his like I was starving for his flesh.

On my knees I set him free and impaled myself on his meat, gagged and drooled and dove down again.  A hot, wet mess from cunt to cock we tangled on the bed, and in the dark against the white sheets I found myself at the end of his cock buried beneath the waves of our lust and his long, probing fingers which dipped delicately into my asshole.  I was finally where I wanted to be.

And so I came.

Long, hard, trembling, I shimmered beneath him and kissed his neck and growled into his ear.  Fuck.

I slept a dreamless sleep, then in the indigo belly of dawn, I nestled in his nook, my ear on his heart and my hand on his warm chubby cock.

Lub-dub, throb. Lub-dub, throb.

Heart, then cock. Heart, then cock.  I told him what I felt and heard.

“Really…” he said.  I heard a smile.

“Mmhm.”

I rolled on my side, back to his front, guided him in.  Our last morning together.

We rocked and rolled and moaned together until we climbed to our knees where he buried himself into me like a desperate man reaching for something.  He was in my throat, my middle, my everything and when I felt his fingers pull my cheeks apart I begged him to touch me in my dirty little place again.

He slammed into my one hole and tapped and prodded at the other until my climax shook us both and took everything from me.  We flopped into each other’s arms.

“I’ve never been able to do that with anyone else,” he panted. “That angle doesn’t usually work for me.”

“I’m not like anyone else,” I replied, pleased.

“No, clearly not.”

We fell asleep in each other’s arms then spent the morning eating breakfast in the 400 year old inn’s dining room and exploring the garden outside our window.  Big shiny crows kept busy in the distance and purple hyacinths grew in the flower beds at our feet.

I had survived my second morning with a man.

::

On our last day together as we drove north towards his mother’s house I broached the topic of my writing.  “I rather like the idea of you writing about me and me not knowing what you say.”  I would write as if he’d read it anyway I told him.

“What would you like your pseudonym to be?”

“Jean Claude Van Long Dong.”

I laughed the most this last day, free of worry and doubt, hungry for the moments we had left.  We stopped at Hampton Court Palace and strolled through the halls and bed chambers of Henry VIII, and sat on a bench in the garden lined with gumdrop-shaped yew trees.  We kissed as the fountain’s mist kissed us and walked with our arms around each other to the back canal.  A herd of royal deer gathered not far away.

It was time to go.

A couple of hours later at Michael and Molly’s he helped me in with my things and said hello to everyone.  He could only stay for a minute or two — he was trying to make it home in time for dinner and taking me here was quite a detour.

I stood on the front step, he on the ground.  “Thank you for everything.”

We kissed.

“I’ll see you in June,” he said.

“Yes.  June.”

I turned to open the door then looked back over my shoulder.  He was watching me again. We smiled sadly at each other and I walked inside, saw Molly standing there and burst into tears.

“Oh, Hy,” she said and opened her arms.

I hate goodbyes and I want more mornings.

 

It’s all smoke and mirrors.

Reality pulls no punches.

February Photofest

I’m afraid of jinxing it.

I’m afraid of jinxing it, but I am bursting with words.  I have been hiding from the blog for fear that if I lay letters down here my men will whittle away with each click.  I don’t want them to disappear.  Not yet.  I’m not finished with any of them — there are possibly more lurking that I will continue to keep close to my breast.  I don’t want to lose any of them.

::

My thighs cradled him as he pumped deeply into me, his kisses deep and fervent.  Somehow he managed to hold himself up and reach around my bottom, shift my flesh and slip a strong finger into my asshole.  I cried out and ground down hard on him, clutched at every sinewy, flexing muscle I could.  He growled in my ear.

His room was dark, no nerdy light show this time, and my body fell into a black abyss of sensation which centered on me, like an undulating chocolate fountain, never ending.

His finger remained lodged in me, his cock a hard, fleshy piston, my body a reactive live wire.  I came hard and melted beneath him.

He freed his hand and slammed into me but with a strange cadence.  “No,” I pleaded, “Don’t stop there.  More.  All the way.”  He plunged in deeply now again and again.  Then stopped short again, seemingly oblivious.  “NOOOOO,” I said again.  “All the way.  Please.”

Again he buried himself in me and I rewarded us both with a clawing, mewling climax.   “Thank you,” I breathed into his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

I caught my breath and rolled over onto all fours.  “Fuck me in my ass,” I said.  I arched my back and wagged my behind.  I imagined they looked like two pale moons  in the dim light.

He pet my sopping pussy and dragged its wetness to my other hole and pushed his meat in.  Slowly, naughtily.  Good girls don’t get fucked in the ass.  Or is it God girls?

He moved gingerly at first until it felt too good to hold back.  He gripped my hips like he meant it this time, nothing soft about his touch.  I didn’t cringe now like I did when he first touched me.  I can’t do light touch.  It makes me want to vomit and run and hide.  I didn’t want to hide now.

I came from just the thought of how filthy we were, how dirty.  Two otherwise upstanding citizens doing this disgusting thing.  I loved it.  And I loved hearing him unravel behind me.  He came for a second time.

Earlier in the night we’d met for dinner near his house.  It’s our 4th date this go around, the first go around having happened in 2015 followed by a two year gap.  We have a little script we follow now.  First drinks, then dinner, back to his place for a little more imbibing, then up to his room where our limbs entwine and he drives into my body.

I enjoy his company immensely: he’s smart, liberal, ridiculously complimentary, generous.  He takes me to the nicest restaurants and buys me stupid-fancy hipster cocktails.  He also plays with my asshole.  I dig him.

::

Hands bound above his head, blindfolded, he lay on his side.  The belt cracked on the bright pink X I had drawn on his right cheek.  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he gritted out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am.

I’d opened the door to this tall blond man wearing leather and a blast of cold air.  “Ignore the dog,” I said.  It came out throaty, bossy.

He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.  I raised up on my toes and put my arms around his neck and kissed his cold face.  He tasted faintly of tobacco.

I drew him with me as I fell against the wall behind the door and wrapped his hair in my fingers.  I pulled him off my lips and pushed him down to my breasts.  He dropped to his knees and peeled off my clothes, a cardigan, black velvet boy shorts and a black camisole.  I silently laughed how my thoughtful choice of clothing was not noticed.

He hunkered lower and latched on to my pussy, now eye-level.  I held on to the wall for support, and his chin-length hair.  I let my big lover worship me from his knees for a minute, two, before I pulled him up and undressed him, and led him into my room cast in a cool afternoon light.

I would tie him up, light a candle, draw on him, slip his tiny dark pink nipples between the tines of golden bobby pins, and straddle him as I rode him.  I’d push a pale pink butt plug into his tight little hole, then later my finger, and I’d slurp him up until he’d say, “I’m at a 7, Ma’am,” breathless and with some apprehension.  He was not allowed to cum and did not want to displease me.

Writhing on top of him like a wicked little girl on her wicked little pony I flicked his nipples and held on as he bucked his hips.  What a deliciously good boy he was.  As I drew closer to orgasm I flicked faster imagining the tip of his cock somewhere near my sternum; I was riding a bronco, not a pony.  My hands went numb and my scalp tingled.  It was time to burst through the surface of the water.

I pressed the Hitachi against us both and told him to hold still, to only twitch inside of me.  I felt the pressure swirl somewhere down low and begin to build, stars pressed against my eyes with each blink.  “Ok,” I whispered.  “You may cum now.”

He moved like a healed man on godly legs, wild and desperate.  I stared at his blindfolded face and the jagged grimace that told me he was completely in his body, in me, in us.  He told me he was going to cum peppered with random Ma’am’s and I told him I was cumming, too.  And then we cried out together and I gulped big gulps of air, desperate, dying, living.  He keened his pleasure then lay still, vibrating a little.

I kissed his lips and resituated his blindfold, traced the starbursts I’d drawn around his nipples, now plump and dark rose with life.  He hissed.  “Those are very sensitive, Ma’am.”

“Good.”  I flicked them both.

I came again, even bigger than the first, with him soft and spent in a little pile of flesh beneath me, still safely wrapped in the condom.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ejaculated he said.  I climbed off of him and investigated.  The condom was full.

“Wow,” he chuckled.  “It was an all-body orgasm; I couldn’t tell.”  I wondered silently if it could be said he just had a “female orgasm.”  I could hardly spell my name.

I remounted him, carefully, and removed the blindfold.  I felt shy.  This was the transition back to Hy and him.  Not Ma’am and him.  I talked him through my removal of the bobby pins and pressed firmly with my palm, told him to breathe.  Men are such babies, I thought.

I slowly untied the black neck tie from one of my blouses from around his neck, ceremoniously, and lay down in his crook.  We talked about what we’d just experienced like we were excited children after their first roller coaster ride.

I had to leave in 45 minutes to get my baby from school, he had to leave in 45 minutes to go to work.  “Let’s go sit on my couch,” I said.  I gathered my clothes from the pool of fabric by the front door and dressed.  He plopped down next to me and I put my feet in his lap.  “There’s lotion,” I motioned to the bottle I had ready on the table.

He massaged my feet until we had to go; we kissed and hugged at the door, told each other we looked forward to next time.  I dig him.

 

 

I’m here for it.

My year at a glance, 2017:

I awoke in a strange bed with a beautiful creature beside me.  I made my way to his bathroom and noticed the disarray around me.  Two old, dried contact lenses were curled in the sink.

I returned to him and he held up the covers.  He was an Adonis.  He reached for my breast and I for his cock and it was large, hot, and hard.  I remembered seeing a condom on my way to the toilet and fumbled through strewn clothing looking for it.

He rolled it on and I climbed atop, sunk down, and reveled in the feeling.  His hands cupped my breasts and I watched his washboard abs flex and bend beneath my thighs.

I increased my tempo and came, my hair soft and silky on my own skin making me feel like a goddamned goddess.  I bent forward and let him suckle as he pumped furiously into me and holding me close.

“I’ve came,” he said in his British accent.  “I’ve came…”

It’s been a couple of days and I haven’t heard from him since.

::

I held the little Styrofoam container with my leftovers gingerly in my hand that wrapped around his neck, his hand slid up my skirt like a naughty boy reaching for more cookies.

He pushed my panties aside and began banging against me just like I’d showed him in the last parking lot we’d found ourselves in an hour before.  

Pleasure burst behind my eyes and swelled through my hips as he began banging again only to end up with his face buried against the wet fabric between my thighs with cars passing by.

We may have coffee today.

::

I took his hand and led him down off the trail to the river’s edge where night-runners could no longer see us.  Pushed him back a few feet behind the pylon and fumbled with his buckle.  His maple-colored eyes glinted at me.  His girlfriend never did this kind of thing.  I wondered if he’d tell her when he got home.

I spread the denim open like a book and took out his huge hard cock.  My knees grazed the river debris as I struggled to take him in and keep my slurps to a minimum.  He struggled to keep his moans to a minimum.

He pulled me to my feet and roughly spun me around, hiked up my dress, pulled my panties to the side and pushed himself in.  I braced myself on my own knees, bent like a letter P, and he gripped my hips and plunged again and again.

He ghosted the following day.

::

I woke up sprawled sideways on a strange bed naked, a small man lay next to me, also sideways.  I got up to pee and saw our clothes strewn about the floor from the doorway to the bed.  He had straightened to lay on a pillow and I crawled in next to him.  “Did I eat you out last night?”

“I don’t think so.  You can’t remember either?”

“No.”

He climbed on top of me and I fumbled for a condom to happily discover he had Magnums.  No wonder he’d been so mad at dinner that women judged him unfairly for only being barely 5’6″.  

My hangover sucked every ounce of moisture from my body and therefore that big, juicy cock had a hard time getting in there.  He asked me if I didn’t know my body [and therefore couldn’t get wet].  I scoffed and said, “I’m fucking hungover, dude.”

We gyrated on each other for a while, his eyes closed, mine open and watchful.  I grew bored and asked him to cum on me instead.  His short thighs pinned me down as his hand whipped his cock to attention and he spurted on my chest.  He drove me home and gave me a $100 to avoid a no-show fee at the gym.

He left to watch the eclipse a few days later and is currently contemplating an old relationship.

::

He convinced me to move to my apartment from the nearly empty Cuban restaurant against my better judgment.  His eyes glowed when he looked at me and I felt like what Chicken Hawk saw when he looked at Foghorn Leghorn: 🍗🍗.  We sat on my couch and he lunged at me, his stubble like sandpaper.

“Easy, tiger,” I said.  “I have a date later.”  He laughed and grabbed my breasts, tore at my clothes.  I told him again to slow it down.

His hands were everywhere, his mouth gaping and wet and still abrasive.  I was waiting to feel something, but it never came.

“Wanna see my big dick now?”  Sure, ok.

He pulled out an average sized penis and I sighed.  Maybe it’s not fully hard.

I bent to take it in my  mouth, but it never grew just my boredom.  I stopped and he pushed my head back down.  I told him I didn’t like that.  He apologized and pulled me on his lap and raised my shirt and shoved my breasts in his mouth.  I was no longer participating at this point and shoved him off and righted my clothes.  “Isn’t it time for you to go now?” I asked pointing at my watch.

“Yeah, it is.”

He continues to beg to see me.

::

I don’t usually smoke weed, but this guy lived and died by it.  I took a little puff and waited.  I felt light and giggly.  Down right silly.  We talked on his big pleather couch while his long-haired dog tried to come to between us and cuddle.  I looked at his face covered in an unkempt beard and his head draped in fuzzy hair and wondered what he had beneath his clothes.  His profile had the word “curve” in it for a reason, I’m sure.

We kissed and his beard was too soft, too fine just like his kisses.  He took my hand and led me upstairs, pushed me down on the bed and pulled off my skirt and panties and dragged me to the edge where he knelt and dove down on me.  I told him what to do and he did it diligently, added a finger so I’d cum.

I pulled off my shirt and told him to fuck me.  He stood and undressed, put on a condom and fell on top of me.  I spread my knees and waited for the curve to curl inside of me.  He pushed in, thrust once, twice, three times and I came again.

I was a fish on his hook and his giant beard and curtain of hair couldn’t stop me from climaxing again and again from every which way until he came twice.  I’d never gotten the chance to touch him with my mouth or hands.

::

He lost his erection and slapped his errant penis.  “Fuck you!  Work!” he yelled.  I told him sex was so much more than an orgasm or penis in vagina.  “No, it’s everything,” he said.

He left 5 minutes later and I knew I’d never hear from him again.

::

We hadn’t planned on drinking two bottles of wine on a Wednesday night while his daughter slept in her room, but we did.  And when we kissed I hadn’t planned on it being so perfect.

We moved to his bedroom and peeled each other’s clothes off, reveled in the feel of each other’s skin in the dim light.  His hands molded to me as my mouth tasted him and I blew him as if judges were watching.

I asked if he had any condoms.  He said he was out.  Fuck.

And then he took his hand and gathered all the juice from my pussy he could and slathered it all over his hardon.  Well, fuck it.  No point now.

I climbed on top of him and rocked the cradle of my hips down on to him, imagining drawing a crescent from my ass to his balls and he moaned and writhed beneath me, mouth full of my breasts.  I came and came and then he began to shake and grew stiff.  He gasped for air and it never ended.  He said between gritted teeth, “I’m cumming for a minute, oh my godddddd.”

I pulled off of him and lay beside him and watched him return to his body, a gentle glow seeping back into him.  I massaged his hand until I noticed his dick was hard again.  He fucked me like a dog in heat and when he flipped me over onto my back he lasted mere seconds as I came again.

We crawled back up to the pillows and I lay in his arms.  “What are you doing Saturday night?” I asked.

We never went out again.

::

“I don’t drink, but it’s ok if you do.”

Hours and many drinks later he drove us home.  I drunkenly led him to my bedroom while he soberly participated in what I can only assume was heavy petting.

In the morning, hungover and slightly appalled at myself for trying to prove my comfort with drinking in front of an alcoholic by drinking more than usual, he began to talk.  And talk and talk and talk.  I looked for the sexy in his words but found none.  I thought maybe sex would shut him up, but it only lasted a few seconds and therefore backfired.

The next time we hung out he brought me a female condom.  We never went out again despite his assertion we’d be forever friends.

::

High with attraction and a little buzzed from the beer we kissed and fucked and rolled around.  “Do me from behind,” I said and stood up and bent over, my forearms on the bed.

He adjusted himself to my height and pushed in, fat and hard, his thumb pressed into my asshole.  I came and became wild for more, there was something about this man, this cock that I wanted to feel behind my eyes.

“Fuck me in my ass,” I said.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Just go slow.”

He pressed and squeezed his huge girth into my backside and slowly began to fuck me as my pussy rained her pleasure down on our feet.  I couldn’t believe I was taking all of him and he was making noises I’d never heard a man make.

When he came he said it was the most intense experience of his life.

The second time we hung out we fucked awkwardly doggy style on my blue couch then moved into my room where he lost his erection.

“I’m going to run to my car to get my phone.”

He never came back.

::

“My condoms are in my car,” he said.  “Go get them.”

“No.  You go get them.”

He pressed me up against the hotel wall and said, “Call my your king.”

I laughed drunkenly.  He had no idea who he was dealing with.

::

“How long have you lived here?” I asked looking at all the boxes and children’s toys strewn everywhere.

“Three years, why?”

And when sex was done in less than 3 minutes I took my leave.

::

He reached for me in the predawn light of my room.  His hulk caused me to roll a little towards him.  I rolled onto my belly and raised my bottom for him.  He climbed atop of me, spread my cheeks and pushed in, almost perfunctorily.

The position was murder on my back, but I didn’t want to complain.  I was hoping to cum.  I didn’t, but he did.

A week later he texted to say he didn’t want to see me again.

::

I jumped up on my kitchen island and let him pull me closer to him.  We kissed and I ran my fingers through his long, Millennial hair, grabbed a handful and pulled his head back to expose his white neck.

“Are you sorry for being an idiot?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Very sorry.”

We kissed deeply and he was very good for being almost 20 years my junior.

I led him to my bedroom and once naked I admired his chiseled body, the long lines, the swells and shadows.  Wrapped up and safe, he plunged into me and I clung to his hardness like a little girl on a monkey gym.

His stamina was breathtaking and I came like a banshee until he came in a bright cry.

And then his mother called and he had to go.  He did not return as promised.

::

I let the hot tub bubbles skitter all over my body as he lifted my rear end out of the water and finger fucked the living shit out of me.  I suppose I squirted as much as the fancy fountains off the side, but it’s hard to say for sure.

Pruny and spent we moved inside where he bent me over lifted my hips to his and jammed his bare cock in me.  My feet dangled and my hands pressed against the seat of the couch.  I came a little.  He came not at all.  And then he told me he was interested in someone else.

He FedExed me my boots two days later.

 

 

All the Chrises.

And the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.

Man after man, dick after dick, miss after miss.

Last summer it was a project of mine to cull my contacts and I found I had multiple pages of the same man’s name, a list in black and white of my apathy, hunger, and disdain.

  • Chris
  • Chris Car
  • Chris Chuck
  • Chris Cool
  • Chris Doo
  • Chris Eastside
  • Chris Magnum
  • Chris Mindsome
  • Chris Pander

With the exception of 3, I have no memory of those men.

There have been 6 “Chrises” in my life recently, each terribly memorable and forgettable simultaneously.  The Chris who ghosted on me after we fucked under a bridge and all night in my bed.  The Chris who apologized at 8:30 at night on a day we’d planned to go out that he wasn’t up to it.  The other Chris who admitted he was not attracted to me despite behavior that sent mixed signals.  The Chris who… I can’t remember who he is or was.  Another Chris I can’t remember.  And then a Chris from that list, one I actually do remember, just texted me last night.

I’m doing this wrong if I can’t remember men.

Not only that, but I can’t remember the dicks I have in my phone.  Fleshy and hard, in bathroom mirrors and surrounded by crumpled pants or sheets.  I find myself scrutinizing one on occasion trying to place it.  Whose is this??  What time of year was it sent?  What was going on in my life then?  WHO IS THIS???

Inevitably, the questions go unanswered and I click my phone off.

I recently went out with an old lover who texted me 2 years after our last date.  The last time we were together I struggled with my lack of interest in our sex despite our easy rapport while clothed.  I called myself a shitty lay and wracked it up to my own poor performance.  Our second date shattered that theory: he’s not that good in bed.

And he’s delusional about his penis size.

“I love being the skinny white guy with a huge dick,” he said while we sipped whiskey cocktails earlier in the night.  I thought maybe I’d remembered him wrong, but no, he has about an average length penis that is quite slender.  It felt like a sneeze that never swept through me.

Of course I came — lots  — but that’s just lucky body composition on my part, not his skill or passion.

At one point I was on all fours, ass high in his dimly lit room, with his mouth on my little starfish and nothing else.  Not his hand or arm.  It felt odd, like I was floating in space with a warm, wet alien attached to me between my ass cheeks.

“Where are your hands??” I asked almost irritated that I was even having to ask.

“One is on my dick,” he answered.

“Where’s your other??  Put it on me, please!”

I felt a soft palm press against my hip.  I grit my teeth until he’d had his fill.

There are so many Chrises in my past I stopped chronicling them here.  I’ve stopped a lot of things here since The Neighbor left me.  I lost my muse, my joy in sex and discovery, nearly my interest in writing.  I have been beaten to a pulp in the dating arena in round after round and have felt overly responsible about protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.

From now on I’m going to write about all the Chrises and their delusions of grandeur.

And all the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.  Not out of spite or revenge or to make them look bad, but because their stories are mine, too, and I’m tired of protecting them when there is a story for me to tell.

There’s much more going on here than I’ve let on.  So much more.

 

Being the sane one in an asylum does not make you crazy.

It’s hard to talk about my wonderful night last Wednesday with Mr. Young, the sexy dad from the birthday party, without wincing.

It’s gone completely sideways since then and I spent most of yesterday in tears.

At the pool surrounded by chubby, drunk sun-worshipers, in my car running errands, watching Golden Girls, talking to amazing, patient, incredible friends.  I couldn’t stop the flow of emotions.

I felt worthless, unlovable, all the while being eternally fuckable and disposable.   Something shifted.  Our banter was gone, he bailed — as I’d suspected he would — on tentative plans we’d made for no good reason I could discern, ignored sexy pics I sent and generally stopped engaging.

At the time of writing this he has seemingly ignored my last text for more than 24 hours.  A text wherein I expressed disappointment and understanding about him cancelling our plans and some hope that we could reschedule.  He chose not to reassure me or reschedule.

I didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole, but the last 24 hours found me here anyway.  Did I say something wrong?  Was I wrong?  Did he not want to fuck and have two orgasms?  Did he not want to devour each other on his couch?  Did we click too much?  Did he not want me to show enthusiasm about a next date??

His kisses were searing and perfect and his sense of humor and openness disarmed me and hooked me hard.  I wriggled on the line.

We talked on the phone every day he got back from his high school reunion last weekend and couldn’t wait to see one another.  When our Monday night plans to meet got foiled we were immediately back at the drawing board to make it happen.  Nothing was going to stop us.

I met him in real life, opened up, we have mutual friends beyond the mom-friend we share, and everything beyond were spot on (politics, life, sex, relationships, outlook, art, and on and on and on).  This was not supposed to happen with him.

What I expected was a continuation of what was happening before I undressed under his hungry eyes, prior to sinking slowly, deliciously down onto him and him cumming and cumming and cumming.  I didn’t think his second orgasm would throw a wrench in things, but it was after it that the record scratched.

I forgot my bra in my discombobulated departure — it was late, we’d been drinking, I was high on the experience — and awkwardly texted him about it the next morning.  He didn’t say, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it when I see you Saturday.”  He hasn’t said a lot of things thereby saying everything.  I’m writing off the bra.

This is not an example of yet another woman making a mountain out of a mole hill.  I am a master at interpreting human behavior and there has been a change.  My default is to assume it was me, but after attacking myself for being too easy, unlovable, and a raging moron I am now at a more peaceful place.  Things are not actually in my control at all times.  Sometimes, shit happens.

Everything I wrote the other day remains true, which makes this tough fall down feel ultimately beatable instead of impossible.  I am dusting off my skinned knees and beginning to rise.  I got knocked down, yes, but I get up again.

For instance, I feel patient, not desperate; I’m going to sit this one out for a bit until I feel like I’ve recovered enough to step back on the field and ask him what’s happened.  And that’s new: me sharing that something wasn’t right for me.

His actions have been painful to endure, but I don’t ascribe any nefarious motivation to them.  Something happened, I’m just not privy to what and I don’t need to waste a second more of my time trying to read his mind.  I need to process it and move on.

We weren’t [securely] attached enough for this to feel anything but very wrong.  We’d barely gotten to know one another.  You can judge me and say I fucked him too soon, but what’s the point?  Next guy I might wait a month or two and it still might not be right.  I can’t take it back.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  I wanted it.  He wanted it.  But clearly, it wasn’t a good idea.  I see that now.

So here I sit with a big mixed bag of emotions: three weeks of excitement and hope about a man I could see easily incorporating into my life; a night of fantastic fun, fucking and frolic; followed by days of confusion and icy distance.

Maybe our story continues.  Maybe he’ll come out from under his rock and tell me something that draws me back in, that makes this all go away.  Or perhaps our paths no longer cross.

Whatever the outcome I feel immensely reassured at my resolve and clarity.  I know without a doubt which way is the right way for me and it isn’t on my knees begging for attention.  Nor is it to pretend that this didn’t hurt.  It’s standing tall and expecting a certain level of care.  No exceptions.

It stings like a motherfucker, but I’ll be ok.

 

 

*Blog post title care of a kind Internet Boyfriend.

 

A new normal.

I started a post Wednesday afternoon and wrote:

I’ve had sex a grand total of 10 times with 8 men in 2017.

I went back to pick up the thread today and realized I need to strike through those numbers.  It’s now 12 times with 10 men.

The post was going to be all about how I’ve slowed down, how my insatiable thirst for men and their dicks, licks, and tricks had all but subsided.  But then Wednesday and Thursday happened to me.

In the span of 24 hours I had sex with a sexy dad I met at a birthday party for a mutual child-friend a few weeks ago, lived out one of the hottest fantasies of my life with my massage therapist while on his table and clock, and spent an evening filled with laughter and a little lust with a 6’6″ ex-con whose open candor disarmed me completely.

A post about slowing down doesn’t exactly fit.

But I’m not up to my old tricks, either.

Six weeks ago I wrote to The Neighbor, started a(nother) Whole30, and began working out 4-5x a week at Orange Theory.  Not drinking freed up a lot of my energy and dedicating myself to my fitness recalibrated my priorities.  I also did some heavy lifting with TN.

I wrote another letter, revised it, sent it, and he responded.  All while 100% sober and focused on myself, while sticking to my guns (and standards) with the men I’ve been attempting to date.  I feel like a completely different person.

One of the most important things I’ve just learned is that when I make choices that ultimately harm me — be they drinking too frequently, not caring for my body, or not facing the demon of a bad breakup — it fucks me up.  I suspect it would fuck up any human being.

Confronting bad men and kicking them out of my house when they yell at me, not dating someone whose beliefs are at odds with mine, cutting off contact with someone who assaulted me and telling him why, eating better, exercising.  All of these things have helped me to feel like I’m valuable and once I feel I’m valuable it doesn’t matter what other people think of me anymore, does it?  And their attention is no longer such a crucial aspect of my life.

Take me or leave me, but I know I’m worth effort, compassion and love no matter what you do to me.  And the very newest trick I’ve learned is that you have no place in my life if you don’t fit that criteria.

No more excuses or second-guessing.  I don’t care if this is your first ever Tinder date or that you remember things differently from me.

And so I rolled around with Mr. Young while his baby slept in the other bedroom and his kisses made me melt into a shimmering puddle of desire.

And then after 90 minutes of what can only be called a sustained post-coital response to his deep and connective touch I asked if I could touch my massage therapist and he said yes.

And then the felon arrived exactly on time and opened up about his time in prison in a way that touched my heart and I felt nothing but admiration for him, even as we lay wrapped in each other’s arms after he eventually lost his erection in a puff of his frustration, regret and embarrassment.

There’s also The Hippie, a tall, gentle, pot smoker with a daughter on the opposite custody schedule as me.  His magically curved cock is a delightful ride; his fuzzy face and deep eyes are safe.

So I’m not slowing down; there is just a new normal.  A wonderful new normal.

 

A lot has happened: Bullshit no longer accepted here

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks, this desire to sit down and write.  Like hunger, the posts still form in my mind, but my body remains far from this place of catharsis and raw sharing, this rich meal of creativity.  The reason why finally occurred to me the other day: I’ve been processing.

The other morning after dropping Peyton off at school, dressed in leggings and a hoodie and sporting two long braids and virtually no makeup, I met a man for a non-date at a nearby greasy spoon.

We met on AFF and though our politics, desires, and physical characteristics match up there was one glaringly obvious mismatch: after a 20-year marriage he is looking to play the field and I am not.

We confirmed the bad timing in an email or two, but he seemed to like me enough to ask me out for coffee anyway.  I agreed because the idea of meeting someone new without the threat of decisions about sex or having to figure out anything beyond enjoying his company seemed like a welcome breath of fresh air.

We chatted over an omelette, brisket hash and black coffee until he had to leave to catch a plane; two straight hours of life stories flew by like 5 minutes with an old friend.  It was the first time I’d been able to be unapologetically open with anyone new.  Nothing was at stake.  I didn’t regret one word, one move, because I wasn’t playing a game.  I wasn’t trying to win him over.

I spoke openly and brazenly, held nothing back as I might with any friend.  It was listening to myself sum up the last 2+ years of my life that I it all came into clear view like Neo finally seeing the Matrix for the first time.

The first year after The Neighbor left me and we attempted friendship felt like I had a bag on my head in a hallway filled with razor blades.  I was blind and in unbelievable pain.  I wanted only to be filled up with cock and my mind blown, but the closest I ever came was with two men — each of whom were just flashes in the pan.  Little did I know what a boon that year would actually be.

I ended the friendship the end of the first year and started year #2 completely TN-free and although it was definitely the best thing I could have done for myself, the rest of the second year could be defined as pure shit from every angle.  My finances were in the toilet along with my emotional and physical health, dicks lasted all of 2-3 minutes as did my interest in them.  My approach to life was simply to survive, not conquer.  It was a shit show with only one little bright spot.

So here I am in the third year, the year I have reclaimed as my own.  I announced to myself and the world in January that I was switching gears, that I was ready to let someone in.  I changed my dating profiles and started to screen for similar relationship goals.  It hasn’t gone well.

I knew it’d take work and time, but I will bashfully admit that for some unknown reason I believed in my heart of hearts that I was the only obstacle to finding love and that once I removed it I would drown in all the feels from all the men.  Go ahead.  Laugh.  I sure as fuck am.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of obstacles out there to finding a good mate.

For one, being vulnerable is tough.  I find myself trying to find that fine line of self disclosure and TMI.  When they ask me about my last relationship what the ever-loving fuck do I tell them??  Do I mention how I was *this close* to dumping him, but then he followed me to my current apartment complex and he still lives there?  Do I mention all the deceit and denial and distance?  That he continues to stalk my nudie profile?  Or do I just say, “It’s been a little over 2 years,” and leave the impression that I’m not still really fucking fucked up about it?  The difficult part of it is that I need someone to be gentle with me because I’m still so very. fucked. up. about it.

Two, turns out I can fuck a Trump supporter, but I can’t date him, and there appear to be a bunch of them in my age bracket.  It’s not because I’m a sore loser.  It’s because I vehemently disagree with his policies, his choices for heads of state and agencies, and on a purely party-line argument, I want the choice to do with my body what I will.  I don’t think these anti-abortion men realize that if I’m forced to have their baby, they’re forced to fork over a shit ton of money for it, as well.  I also don’t know how I’d introduce a Trump voter to my extremely liberal family.  My sister would vomit on her shoes as she clutched her brown babies and black husband closer.

And three, men are just simply shits.  Like Rex who strung me along with days worth of texting and phone calls and long conversations about what it was I was looking for during our 4 dates only to eventually ghost on me like a 23 year old; or Mr. Panties who when I said I didn’t want to have sex that night saw it as a challenge and was relentless until I caved, bragged about his 9″ dick (it wasn’t), and who, while I was dressing by the light of my phone the next morning, had a pair of women’s underwear inside workout pants on the floor by the bed and didn’t know to whom they belonged; or Devon, he who didn’t ask me any questions, who fucked me for our second go-around on our second date in the dark pre-dawn, but the morning before our third date texted to say he “Just wasn’t feeling it,”; or Trey, the big, muscled gym trainer who tried his best to get me to call him “my king,” as he pressed me against the wall of his Amerisuites room roughly 3 hours after we met; or Joe, the single father who worked weeks at a time on oil-rigs in a nearby state who came after 10 minutes (with an 8 minute blowjob) and never got hard again and so we just left it there forever; or the 21-yo (who’s now 23) who was supposed to just be fun, but after fucking for 20 minutes his mom called and ripped him a new one for forgetting to pick up his little brother.  He left to get him and was supposed to come back, but his worry his mother wouldn’t pay for his Spring Break if he left the house again overrode any desire to spend the rest of the night with me; or lastly, Logan, the sweet 28-year-old who I brought home after our first date and let him stick his giant dick in my ass, but who after he fucked me on our second date went to his car to grab his phone at 2 am and just never. came. back.

This isn’t an invitation to pick apart my choices or try to figure out why these men have done what they did.  Some of those men were supposed to be strictly for fun and others I was legitimately gathering data to see if he was a possible mate.  I have found that my needs for cock do not diminish just because I’m attempting to feed my heart  — it’s confusing — but what happened with Logan, being treated like so much trash after many hours of talking and building what I thought was a little friendship only to be literally cast aside…

My cage is rattled.

I have had some pretty horrible things happen to me at the hands of men over the years ranging from benign neglect to all out sexual assault.  I’ve been lied to, cajoled, begged, ignored, and relentlessly pursued, and all of it felt par for the course to one degree or another — even the assaults — but to be left by a lover whom moments before had been buried inside of me as if I were an empty plate he had no more need for… that fucking hurt.  That got to me.

It was the final experience of the past 2 years and 3 months that finally drove it all home: I am worth so much more.

I am worth the effort of someone to get to know, to take time away from other things to spend on me.  My pussy is worth as much, as well.  It isn’t up for grabs anymore just because it’s weeping with need.  Together, my fucking pussy and I, we are an incredibly valuable being deserving of far more currency than I’ve been charging.

I don’t want to fuck anyone just because I can or just because I need to feel something between my legs.  I don’t want to fuck a cluster of cells.  I want to fuck a man, a person, someone who is real to me.  Someone whose heart I can feel beat beneath my ear and whose cock pulses in time because we’ve decided to share it together.  Because he’s earned it.

This shift in me saved my pussy and me from fucking a Trump supporter the other weekend.  BJ was a dashing, funny, charismatic man whom I met on Coffee Meets Bagel.  We’d met for drinks on Friday and it had been a B+ date (he lost credit for talking about his crushingly beautiful ex-girlfriend and not walking me to my car).  The next day while wine tasting with friends, he became effusively day-drunk and wanted to see me again.  Immediately.

After royally pissing off my girlfriend by naively telling him where we were because he was on the other side of town he and his friend joined us.  It didn’t turn out badly.  He was affable and fun and I invited up to my apartment after drinks.  I also told him I wasn’t interested in sex.

We made out like lustful teenagers, but he respected my wishes and we slept curled up together fully clothed.  He in his t-shirt and shorts and I in my pajamas.  The next morning we cuddled and laughed in the soft morning light and I coquettishly rubbed on his bulge and imagined what it’d feel like to be inside of me.  But our hands remained atop all fabric.  By 1 pm, after more napping and canoodling we agreed it was time for me to take him home.  It was right about then I discovered he voted for Trump.

I groaned and felt a visceral clench around my gut.  “Does this mean I have to walk home?” he joked.  Apparently he had decided to ignore my “I’m allergic to Trump voters” line in my profile.  He said he didn’t know why.

I searched my soul for days after and came to the conclusion that he and I could never be more than friends.  Much like having a hard-line religious difference, I have realized my political beliefs in this election climate are as close to a faith as I have ever had and he and I appear to believe in very different things.  And it was with this realization that I felt the full benefit of waiting to know someone before I let them put their blood-stuffed body part into me: I got to walk away from the night unscathed and with all my emotional money; I had spent nothing on being with him.

There are still two sides of me — the professional, mommy, daughter, sister me and the dissolute, sexed-up, hungry, wild me — but each of them are a little bit wiser now.  The public-facing and the private Me’s have finally realized that all men will have to do some work to get either of them and that bullshit is no longer accepted at this establishment as a means of payment.

 

Accepting change.

I have gained a little weight over the last year.  I can feel it in the every-so-slight tightness in some of my panties and the deepening crease in my sides.  I have nothing but aging to blame for this seeing as everything else in my life has remained the same.

I can melt down and hate myself for the change.  I can attack the issue with tighter eating and increased exercise and whittle it all away.  Or I can relax into it think about how I feel in my skin.

The truth is, I feel surprisingly at peace with myself despite my new plumpness.   The only reason I might want to move forward with an eye on slimming down is because I don’t want to have buy a new wardrobe.  It’s a practical thing, not a self-loathing, must-be-thinner thing.

Twenty-five year-old Hyacinth would be hysterical.  I remember when I hit 158 pounds after college and during my first desk job.  I wanted to slice the fat off my body with razors.  I don’t know how much I weigh now, but it’s not 158, I can tell you that.  And that’s ok.

I have learned to look beyond the number and into my heart, my character, for self-worth.  It’s a 20 year-old tragedy that it was ever tied to a number in the first place.

What a gift that the cord has been cut.

Creases, curves, and veins.
Febraury Photofest