I am not an object.

One of the biggest hurdles in my search for a submissive partner is that I am ultimately a non-person to him.  I am a means to an end to fulfill his fantasy of being dominated.  My personhood is irrelevant; I just need to be willing and able and breathing and he’s good to go.

What I need out of the dynamic isn’t of interest to him, he assumes that what he gets off on I am the natural compliment to it.  He’s into CFNM¹?  Then I must love it, too.  He likes to be choked?  Then I must be looking for every opportunity to grab his throat.  He wants to be powerless?  Then I love making every decision.  He is a kamikaze fly looking for any web he can find.

He feels such freedom from the pressures of performance that it is lost on him that now I am pressured to perform for him.  It’s exhausting and bossy and narrow minded and it turns me right the fuck off.  It makes me pissy and resentful and is typically how most first emails go.

cruelty is kindness Greetings for the day goddess the slave kneels with its head bowed down and looking to serve and suffer for u. Wish u don’t mind in making the slave suffer. It knows nothing comes for free and it is not a freebie and won’t waste ur time goddess. wish to be owned and onctolled [sic] like a tpe [sic] slave online

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock/

Hi Miss, are you interested in training an online sub from the Netherlands to follow your instructions and complete tasks to amuse you?/p – slave jack/p

good evening from Germany may this tall slave serve you well? with all my respects paul

Everyone wants something from a Domme.  It’s basically novel to approach her as if she were an actual woman, and my profiles are all very specific and have a small task buried in the text to weed out those who’d otherwise ignore my wishes.  I tell everyone exactly how to treat me.  If he doesn’t do it, I don’t respond.  And yet…

I also am very clear on not calling me an honorific, but since these men aren’t here for me they do what they like because, after all, it’s actually all about them.  They love the idea of being submissive and calling a strange, attractive woman Ma’am or Mistress, or Miss.  What do you think happens to me?  Yep: I get turned the fuck off.

My web is set, it’s beautiful and sparkles, but dandelions and leaves keep blowing onto the threads.

Looking back on our dynamic I realize now that The Neighbor was an alpha type who liked to get me to dominate him on occasion. When I bossed him around and tied up his raging erections and took his sight away with a sash, it was always on his terms.  He was ultimately in control of when we got to play that way, not me.  His game, his rules.  I was just a rube along for the ride with her heart on her sleeve.

Today I am not interested in being used like that.  I want my needs as a Domme to be equal to those of my submissive.  If I want him to undress in front of me it will be because I feel like being fucked, but can’t be bothered to undress all the way.  If I want to throttle my hot and heaving lover as I impale myself on him, then that is my prerogative and he will be thrilled to feel my fingers wrap around his neck.  If I know what I’d like to do, then I will share it.  But none of those things should happen unless they come to me naturally and in my own time.

I am not a puppet for his pleasure any more than he is mine.  We are a team, yin and yang, night and day.  We cannot truly shine without the other.

What I am distressed to find again and again are men whose own desires for sexual domination far over shadow their need to be my kind of submissive.

My experience on Friday left me feeling largely invisible.  I know he enjoyed himself – he was in suckling, choking, little bitch heaven – but I never got to my happy femdomme place.  I was being directed every step of the way on how to make him feel submissive.  I was not encouraged — or allowed — to dominate him in my own way.

It’s the difference between instructing someone on how to make your favorite meal and enjoying a delicious meal of their own choosing cooked for you by a talented chef.

But I’m thinking that it was a first date and I wasn’t planning on being intimate — it just happened — and maybe it’d be better for me in a different setting and maybe he’ll be different and we’ll be different and and and…

Hy:
I have a little fantasy that you come over before you leave and I can really experiment with our chemistry in the comfort of my own bedroom with all the things I love
Him:
When would that happen
I could come to your office for a lunch exam² tomorrow
What would you do to me in your bedroom?
Hy:
In my fantasy? Kinda late on Monday, like 10 or something. I have a brutally long day and in that fantasy is my need for releasing on someone. But it’s a fantasy. This isn’t some backhanded way of me asking you. I’m not actually sure I’d have it in me…
I am so slammed tomorrow. If we met midday, which I would enjoy regardless of what we do, I’d want you to fuck me and make me cum. You’d have a job to do. I wouldn’t overtly top you other than having you come to take care of me lol
Him:
I think I understand you
I might be able to do that
Hy:
I have a break at 3
Him:
Could maybe do 3pm
I have a fantasy of you making me get undressed in front of you while you are clothed
Also having you grab me by the throat, push me against the wall, grabbing me by the balls with your other hand and asking who they belong to wouldn’t suck either ;)
Hy:
lol
Duly noted
Him:
If I can’t tell you who can I tell?
Hy:
This is true
I’ll catalog it 😉

I toyed with several responses before I landed on “This is true; I’ll catalog it /winkyface.”  The first thing that came to mind was irritation, then distaste, and finally resentment.  I had just told him what I wanted to happen.  I’m glad I went with vague acceptance with a smiley face instead.  I prefer to remain apart and not vulnerable.

I had high hopes for the two of us and feeling invisible wasn’t one of them.  I am forever waiting for the right one to fly into my pretty little web.  I guess I’ll just admire the garden a while longer.

 

I am not an object.

 

¹: Clothed Female Naked Male

²: By “exam” he means a fantasy of his to be examined by his Domme to see if he passes muster.  This is not an interest of mine.

 

February Photofest

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I sort of mentioned it, but I had my SEVENTH blogging anniversary on December 17th.  It was 8 days later that I decided to post about an incredible Christmas night from the year before, the first time Troy and I met Jack.  It was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  Troy eventually got married and embarked on starting a family; his iPhone iMessages are now green texts whenever I reach out to say Hi.  He’s moved on.  Jack is still in my life in a sweet orbit and occasionally we collide.  We rarely see each other but when we do it’s beyond lovely.  He has a new wife. This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it today I barely recognize that woman.  My writing has improved exponentially as has my life changed.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  I love you all!!  xx Hy

::

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other.

So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less).

I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know.

Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear.

Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…”

And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making.

I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th).

Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time.

After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

I’m fucked up.

My own stupidity and resistance to growth astounds me sometimes.  I see the fork in the road, which side is the right thing to do, and yet I still choose the other.

Very basically it goes something like this: This guy really pisses me off.  I should have nothing to do with him.  But wow, he’s hot and I’m horny and it can’t be that bad, right??  Except it is always that bad.  ALWAYS.

Thursday night was no different and I’m going to share something with you that I find nothing less than utterly humiliating.  It’s embarrassing that as a 43-year-old woman I continue to engage in this behavior.  I know better and yet… here I am.

And then the other side is I can’t flagellate myself too much because that’s giving in to some darker need of mine that may be the ultimate aim of my subconscious to begin with.  I’m stuck in this odd purgatory of regret, remorse, and redemption.

Remember Sassypants?  The so-called sub I was chatting with was a disaster on our first date.  I even told Ann, my therapist, and various other friends leading up to our second date that I knew it was a bad idea, but that I was horny and – say it with me – how bad could it be??

Well, the answer is pretty fucking bad.

I’ll give you the Cliff Notes’s version: he doesn’t believe white privilege exists, argued with me about a tenant of my beliefs, said he was trying to “open my mind,” and that Asian and Indian men here in the States were the most privileged members of our society.  I told him to leave twice, but he remained, and only laughed me off.  I don’t think he knew I was serious and me being me I just drank the pain away and let him stay.

We ended up in a tangled, drunken mess on my couch and I angry-fucked him while roaring orgasms ripped through me.  I cried and moaned my rage in puddles all over my bed.

Much later he thought I wanted to fuck some more so he managed to stuff it inside of me, but began smacking my thighs with his dick to get hard.  I instantly felt small and invisible and remembered every lover who didn’t see me in that move.  My distaste of him afforded me no insight beyond my own.

“Am I even a part of this???  I asked.  “That doesn’t feel good,” I probably slurred.

He snapped.

He swore at me and ran out of the room.  Confused I grabbed a robe and stumbled out into my livingroom where he was angrily snatching up his clothes and his giant box of beer.  He flung open the front door as words were said, angry ones.  It slammed shut with a blast of cold air and then all was quiet.

I’d text him later to say how awful that whole experience was for me. Brief and to the point.  No name calling, just sharing my feelings.  Even later I’d block him on both Fet and the phone, but he’d find a work around and text me from another number to insult me, my age, my communication skills, and basically laugh the whole night off as a colossal joke.

What it boils down to is that I was enraged at myself for allowing this idiot on my couch and feeling ultimately powerless to remove him.  “What is the point of you saying these things to me?!” I asked.  “Are you trying to prove to yourself that you can trick a feminist into fucking some right-wing nut job?  Because none of what you’re saying is making me feel safe or close to you.”

He laughed and assured me I was just misunderstanding him, he was actually a great guy!  Ask his friends!

Blame the booze, blame my deep, dark hard wiring to not believe my own intuition, blame whatever, but I let him stay and it all completely imploded.  I lost myself utterly to my own upset and void of self.  It’s taken me the entire weekend to piece myself back together, tenderly and with much forgiveness.  I’m not wure all the parts are put back properly, to be honest.

The older I get the more tender to the world I become and the learning curve to remember this is steep.  So steep.  I’m never sure when to cut bait, though I am completely aware of the right time.

I’m still insisting on Dating Like It’s 1995 to ok results.  I’m talking to 3 men, all “subs” and I get lots of long emails which I’m loving.  One is one I might need to cut, the other is My Irishman and he is brilliant still and I have these incredible purple-hued pictures of his big, thick cock bound in a new boot lace just for me, and the third is a local 31 yo who’s way out of my league, but who is easy-going and eager and so, who knows?

There are no vanilla prospects and I am finding myself less and less interested in starting there.

Anyway, in case you thought you were ever supposed to have it all figured out by a certain age I’m here to prove to you that there’s no guarantee that will happen.  You may be just as giant an asshole as you were at 23.

I have no stability in my life and it shows.  I don’t do this kind of reckless, stupid shit when I have a steady force in my life.  Even when I had Peter this didn’t happen.  I need an anchor and I’ve yet to discover how to be my own.

I exhaust myself sometimes with my wild, silly decisions and wonder if I’ll ever outgrow them.  God, I sure hope I do, though…

I didn’t mean to write this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth is I long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My sweet Peter with Faisal.

Sex is NOT a performance (though everyone seems to think it is).

Every time I see Peter I am surprised.

“You and your underwear never cease to amaze me,” I laughed one day as he stood in my office with his neatly pressed khakis around his thighs.  “Are you wearing any??  I can’t tell!”

We fell into each others arms in a fit of laughter, his camouflaged briefs pressed against my belly.

Moments later we were on the floor careful not to make any noise.  His sock-clad naked body pushing into my clothed one, his mouth on mine until we both came in muffled cries.

We’ve been able to get together roughly once a week for weeks now.  A serendipitous run-in at the grocery store one afternoon reminded us both of our mutual admiration for one another and we’ve been going steady ever since.

He tirelessly listens to my rambling stories.  “I like them,” he says simply when I apologize for going on too long yet again.

He’s devastatingly good-looking and I can’t seem to stop myself from telling him how damn pretty he is.  He works a blue-collar job that requires him to roam about the city and it’s not lost on the women whose homes he has to visit.  He has at least a handful of Penthouse Letter quality stories of his own.

“This one time a college-aged girl answers the door completely topless,” one story began.

“So yeah, I banged her on her couch before I left,” it ended.

Age has no effect on diminishing his appeal to the fairer sex, either.  “Aren’t you a tall drink of water!” a wrinkled little old lady once said.

He listens to my escapades, my feminist rants, all the lessons I’ve learned about sex and dating, my philosophies and outlooks on life.  He takes care of his father and is friends with his mother.  His guilty (and secret) pleasure is cooking shows of all kinds.  We share a culinary vocabulary and interest not commonly found.  He’s home every night by 6 or 7 like his girlfriend expects, but he is open to any and all adventures before the clock strikes.

When Peter and I first began fooling around 3 years ago his erections were rarely a part of our experience.  Simply put, like so many other men, condoms made him wilt.

What made him different, though, was that without missing a beat he put his hands and mouth on me from stem to stern until I could take no more.  Then we’d cuddle and talk as if time stood still, sweaty and his face reeking of me.  I basked in his attention and freedom from toxic masculine expectations.

Orgasm is fun.  Penetration is fun.  But what’s even better is a pleasurable experience.  Pleasure from being seen, pleasure in being devoured, pleasure in being tangled and touched and tantalized.

When sex is about rushing blood to a piece of flesh it’s diminished – literally – into a sum of its parts.

We fuck during the day, sober as church mice.  There’s no hiding or obscuring each other, no soft candlelight to hide my rolls or dimples, my little brown asshole.  I am exposed to his hungry gaze in every way. And I am blessed with consuming every inch of his long, lithe body.

I get lost in watching the muscles along his rib cage shimmer with each  thrust, the cuts and shadows down along his arms and shoulders braced above me.  And what I’ve learned is that when he sees my eyes, dark blue and true, his pleasure seems to spike.

I can sense it in my body, see it on his face.  When I show up below him and allow him in to my person with open eyes it’s the single hottest thing I can do.  And it has nothing to do with his penis.  It has to do with me enjoying myself.

There is a cultural belief that men are simple, that all they need is a willing partner and he’ll be good to go.  Gay, straight, bi, it doesn’t matter.  The trope is that men are “red-blooded” and therefore “easy” to turn on.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Men are complicated, magical creatures.  Sensitive, complex, afraid.  They carry a tremendous burden to be expected to know everything about sex for both themselves and their partners, and those partners erroneously rely on his hardon as proof that they’re attractive or “doing it right.”

I cannot imagine the weight of that expectation.  It would cripple me.

Sex isn’t a performance, it’s a partnership, an experience.  No one is putting on a fucking show – no pun intended.  We are doing it together, to one another for our own personal gains.  That’s the way it should be.  I use you to get me off and you use me, all tied together, as one, willing our bodies to be conduits of pleasure for the other.

I have never thought men were simple, but I have certainly relied on their belief that they were.

I’ve silently demanded a stud in my bed and been disappointed when they couldn’t deliver.  They expected to perform for me and I let them think that’s what they needed to do.

I wonder how my sex life may have been different had I stepped in and said, “Honey, I’m part of this, too.”  Would they have listened to me?  Would they have even heard me??  Enough men have yelled at their limp dicks or left in a shameful rush for me to wonder if that were true.  I promise you, I’ve tried a handful of times.

These days I’m approaching each liaison I have with the intent to connect and be present for a whole person, not just his erection.  It’s enabled me to have much better sex than I had been having.  My young friend, Walker, for example.  The Aussie, The Doctor, Peterrrrrr, the true definition of a friend with benefits.

It’s amazing what can happen when two people actually treat each other as more than only a vagina or penis.

 

 

 

Seeing if anything is left.

I have to make this quick because I’m headed to Elliot’s for the first time since meeting his wife.  This will only be the second time I’ve seen him since then.  Exactly a week ago I was ready to end it because I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who pushes me away and shuts down when shit hits the fan, but I couldn’t get him to call me to do it.  The irony.

This weekend, I feel less like ending it, though, and more like just accepting it for what it is: a very pale smear to the bright and vivid thing I believed it to be.  Besides, I haven’t been lacking in male companionship, so what does it matter?

Peter filled me up 14 ways to Tuesday the afternoon before I met Eleanor.  Our trysts have been filled with passion and cuddles and his long limbs entwined with my mine.  And last night a stunning young man whose dark skin burned against mine drove several hours just to come see me.  He filled up all my holes with his giant cock and made sure I could see what was happening between us contorting my body in ways I didn’t know it could bend while he drilled into me.

I lay in his nook and he played with my hair and we laughed at how when the drugstore clerk automatically asked me how my night was going he didn’t realize he was ringing up a box of extra extra large Magnum condoms.

“Well…” I hesitated.  It was then he saw what was in his hands and he laughed out loud.

“Sorry,” he smiled mirthfully.  “I tried to keep a straight face.”

“It’s ok and my night is going really well!”

I slept fitfully in his hotel room and only just now grabbed a short nap.  I can still feel the effects of our date – both on the toilet and in my alertness – but Elliot surprised me with a text around 3 pm asking me over for pizza and gelato.

He’s alone tonight and so off I go to see what’s left between us.  The only other time I’ve seen him was a chaste and disappointing breakfast a week after the meet and greet with his lovely wife.  I don’t think you serve gelato to someone you’re about to dump, so I’m curious to hear what he has to say.

Wish me luck.

 

 

I’m so confused.

Elliot is a long list of things.  Miles of arms and legs and words and mysteries.  Endless lines of communication and jokes and texts.  Long stretches of deep, soft kisses and fingers in holes with toasted brown eyes and endless gazes.

He also claims to not be sexually motivated.

“Sex isn’t my driving force,” he has said on multiple occasions.  And then I twitch.

My exhusband once told me he could live the rest of his life without sex.  I didn’t believe him and I ended up strapped down into a world of loneliness and neglect.  Should I believe Elliot’s claims about himself when I feel so engulfed in all of him?

He is amorous and loving, sweet and sexy, but I wouldn’t call the energy potent or pressing.  It’s gentle and fog-like, achingly tender.  In the moment it’s white hot, but any time before – during the long days apart – it’s chaste.  My bids to flirt and get dirty are largely ignored.  He claims to have felt less of an urge in general over the years and he shrugged it off as no big deal.  I’m not sure what it means for a relationship with him.

Could this be part of why they opened up all those years ago?  That there was a mismatch between drives and styles?  Perhaps they needed different intensities from their lovers.  There’s so much I don’t quite understand.  And tomorrow I meet his other half.

Perhaps the pieces will fall together when I see her and hug her hello, lay my eyes on her chestnut locks and quirky frames.  They’ve invited me to their house for snacks and booze, their little one will be around in some capacity I imagine, but perhaps my access will be post-bedtime.  I don’t know.

I ordered him a t-shirt with floating Scully and Mulder heads on it – I must be falling for him; I used to buy The Neighbor shirts, my exhusband, too.  Can I fall for another woman’s husband whose libido is by his own admission not a big part of his life?  And is that even true?  Is it not??  I’m so confused.

I want to swim in a sea of passion with him, deep as the ocean, as expansive of the sky and all his long limbs.  I don’t want to wade in knee-deep waters, but perhaps that’s the unique benefit of an open relationship.  Perhaps Elliot will capture and have my heart and I will be left to search for that furor with someone else.  Someone elses.

I reread some posts tonight about TN and me from January and March of 2013.  We were so overwhelmed by our lust for one another.  He played my body like a fiddle and he was always ready for me, hungry for more.  Of course he also rejected me with equal measure.  Elliot invites me closer, to open up, to trust.  My head is spinning.

And did I mention that I’m meeting his wife?

WTF.

I think there is a silent hope among them that I might fit into their marriage, too.  Not just for him, but for her, too.  Could she woo me as he has?  Would I find myself lost in her soft embrace with his lips on my neck?  Their hands all over me?  Does a man with a lower libido fantasize about such things??  Could I date a couple?

Each question I have raises more questions, nesting eggs of curiosity and uncertainty, when all I really want is to be wrapped up in his long arms tracing the lines of his beautiful face with my fingertips and time standing still with him inside of all of me.

 

 

 

 

 

Sex is everywhere if you care to see.

Perhaps I’m unique, but my eye is drawn to sexual energy and potential. A stranger’s vibe can be discovered if I look closely and focus. It takes only moments to decode the hidden signals.

What would the driver’s stubbly jaw taste like on my lips? His black jean-clad thighs make me wonder about the force of his thrusts.

The older woman with an ample bosom saunters by and I wonder what beauty lies between her legs, if her gray husband beside her buries his face in the mounds of flesh on her chest and smiles.

If that teenage couple have discovered the glory of their own touch between them, the sunbeams that can blast out of their souls if only they tried.

I think about how driven we are to lay beside another. Always. Whether love is involved or not, most of us crave that inexplicable, universal thing that may only be achieved through our bodies.

We twist and touch, moan and mangle our limbs to smash so close we slide into a sea of sex.

Pure, religious, hedonistic, transgressive. It doesn’t matter. We want it. We need it.

And so I follow the lines of his bulging veins on the steering wheel, the dark smattering of hair and I imagine how his hands would feel on me – this Brazilian driver with a Swedish name – and I smile.

Sex is everywhere.

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



I thought of Girl on the Net while fucking.

It’s true.

She strutted into my thoughts all English and lovely and long-legged and stupidly smart late yesterday afternoon while a 6′ tall Australian man was doing his best to kill me with his giant cock.

I lay beneath him with my eyes tightly shut and thrashed about – as per normal – and thought about a tweet I’d seen of hers a few days before.

I’m not much of a Twitter user – it overwhelms me – but I caught one of her tweets last week about a post she’d written.  I hadn’t even read it when she came bursting into my thoughts, but the title and her comments in the tweet were more than enough: Eye contact challenge: can you keep your eyes open for an entire fuck?

Well, my answer is a resounding NO and it has always been NO.  I could probably count on one hand – 2/5 of my hand actually -the number of times I’ve gazed into a lover’s eyes longer than .75 seconds at a time from beneath passion fluttered lids.  It makes me want to die.

Like the kind of cringey, never show your face again, humiliating, you can’t look at that it’s too much information about me kind of dying.

So imagine my surprise when GotN’s challenge creeped into my grunts of More!, Deeper, Yes, I love that huge Aussie cock!

I looked up and he was staring at me grinning from ear to ear.  “I love your smile when I’m inside of you.  Just love it.”  His pale blue eyes were crinkled, his face red and brows furrowed.  He was devouring me.  I shut my eyes.  Was I supposed to look back at him like I was going to conquer him, too??  wouldn’t I look ridiculous?

We fucked like animals for a good 20 minutes, deep and punishingly.  He folded me up and turned me this way and that and I was relieved when he turned me around for a spell.  I could finally NOT look at him in peace.

But the final move was with me half hanging off the mattress with him on his knees.  I’d suggested he put on his bright blue sneakers for traction on the wooden floors and laughed at the preposterous image.  A Nike ad, but with sex.

I was going to really do it this time.  I was going to look longer than it took for him to complete a sentence.  “Do you want me to keep fucking you or do you want me to cum all inside of you?”

It was an easy choice.

“Fill me up,” I panted.

I watched him look down at me as his orgasm passed across his features like a wave.  He looked so lost in himself but still with me, comfortable with it all.  I thought, I kinda did that. 

I still failed miserably at GotN’s challenge, but I am now wondering why the fuck I have this aversion to allow someone to look into my eyes.  I know he’s already staring at me – the joy of being male with his sex organ placed on the front of his body, I suppose – so why can’t I look back?

I avoided looking at TN, too, so it’s not just FWBs.  I couldn’t bear to look in my exhusband’s eyes, either, though I may have tried a time or two.  I don’t deny wanting to keep people away from me even while they’re buried balls deep between my legs.  My body, my rules. It’s just odd that even after all these years I continue to employ these little tricks to not connect with people.

So, ok, challenge accepted, GotN.  I’ll look into his fucking eyes next time whoever it is.  I hope you’re happy.

 


The dark side of the moon.

Look at my body. What do you see? You read my words, but do you hear me? My face, my form. Blessings and curses. Ready-made excuses to use and dismiss. I get out ahead of it. Here I am! My mind and my heart!  It’s still for nought. I am still just a face and a form.

I feel things.  Lots and lots of things.  I’m what you’d call a sensitive person, but not in the pejorative sense, in the objective sense.  I am sensitive.

I smell the sunshine and hear the leaves, I taste a whisper and see the music.  My entire being is made to filter every atom of this universe and it is hard.  It is hard to feel this way and be a normal person when every raindrop might burn like a wildfire.

This is not a disorder, it is a state of being, a movement.  It is my muse and my soul.

I know I’m not like other people – that much is clear – but I am not wrong.  I am just different.  I think ahead and I listen, I peel off my own skin and put on yours and flex my fingers and wriggle my toes.  How does it feel to be you? 

But how does it feel to be me?  How does it feel to be this pulsing mass of cells that cannot switch off save for that liquid vice that gently dulls the world and turns down the volume?  How does it feel to need to connect and relate, but abhor intimacy?

It feels like Hy, I suppose.

Hy is out there and sharing and she is bold.  She is sexy and powerful and quick and kind.  She holds her space here and elsewhere, but she is also alone.  Hy is misunderstood and vilified.  She is assaulted because of her looks and her swagger, devalued because she “is asking for it,” or “too quick to give it away.”

Hy fights the good fight every day, blocking and talking, trying so hard to put on that skin, but she is tired.  I am tired.

I am tired of the sadness which falls about me like mist.  It’s not a downpour, I am not depressed, I am sad.

Sad because I am fucked up, sad because I am alone, sad because I cannot trust, sad because no one wants to put on my skin and flex their fingers and wriggle their toes.

Yesterday my shrink gazed at me shrewdly, gathered her thoughts.  “You of all people know what this is about, Hy.  You have got to figure out a way to separate this out.  Other people aren’t like you and you know this, yet the pain you feel is enormous.  There has got to be a better way for you to do this, to enjoy what you do for what it is.”

We talked about my anxious, insecure attachment, the unknown, unmemorable, yet tattooed trauma of my early life which drives me to connect and leaves me in emotional darkness the next day because I feel rejected for any numerous reasons – real or imagined.  My dark side of the moon.

I am reluctant to open up to a man sitting across from me, but I welcome his cock into my body.  This has long been my pattern to achieve intimacy and I am unapologetic about it; it feels good.  It has also been a long-time pattern to choose unavailable men.  Men across the world, too young, too busy, too whatever so that they may never ask for more than what’s between my legs.

It’s in that space between, that place where I know exactly what I’m doing and what to expect, that I yearn and keen and cry for my loneliness despite being the designer of it all.  And so to control for it I present to you this woman who is fearless and potent, desperate to believe that others can and will see past it, though rarely any do.

I am treated as less than, cast aside in so many ways by both those who matter and those who don’t at all.  Strangers on the internet calling me a fucking moron for defending myself and setting boundaries, men I’ve slept with disappearing from corresponding for days without a word.  Sometimes they can all get caught up in the same gust of emotional spinning, though they are not remotely the same.

The men who are quiet have done nothing wrong – they owe me nothing, as I owe them nothing – but my sad little lizard brain sinks its teeth into that expanse and I hurt.  I roll around in it and soak it in like sun upon a rock.

As I breathe each breath and walk through this life I am sensitive – far too sensitive for what I do to myself.  I ride too hard and expect the utterly wrong things.  A penis in my vagina triggers panic, a system reboot to the little girl who only wants to be seen and acknowledged just as the wanton woman the night before was so very clearly seen.

It’s that little piece between me and what I know to be reasonable that squirrels under my skin and festers like so many maggots until I am rotten and sobbing for attention.  I know that’s my hurdle.  It’s not the men themselves, it’s how I react to them waking up well-fucked, sleeping in, playing football with friends, finally checking their phone at 8 pm and maybe saying Hey, how’d you sleep?  It’s how I react to touching the stars with them one night and being back on Earth the following day.

I know my feet are firmly planted, I can feel the blades of grass on my bare skin, but my heart is still at the theater, center stage with roses at her feet smelling the sunshine.