I’m invisible.

When it’s quiet, it’s a roar.

Stillness doesn’t suit me, yet I’m certain it fits like a glove.

Goddamn I wish someone loved me – even a little.

I keep seeing men from my past who swore they weren’t interested in a girlfriend Now, with girlfriend!

I am like a stinky cheese.

I sound decadent, but when I’m on the palate once is enough.

I suspect Peter is with his lady friend as I haven’t heard from him all day.

The Golfer is likely busy wooing some other woman he’ll probably make plans with 5 days in advance without bitching about it.

Or making love to a bottle and some Titleists.

It’s so quiet I can’t hear.

I can’t breathe the suit is too tight.

I am so completely invisible to the men I am in front of.

I don’t exist.

Hy, Hy, Hy.

Why can they not see me?!

I must just be too quiet.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

I told two more friends.

“So why tell us now?” my friend asked, his wife listening intently As we sat on by the pool of their hotel.

“Well, I realized I had isolated myself over the years, only sharing parts of myself with people I really care about and if I wanted to change that, I had to start opening up.

“I’ve told blogging friends what I do for a living and where I live and even my real name and now I’m sharing with you guys my blogging side.”

My girlfriend wanted to know more, “Oooh! I want to know your name!”

I didn’t share, but I warned them of the content and the vibe of my writings. My friend said he may have already read it, but really he focuses on lifestyle blogs rather than just some random, lonely woman blog. That was my joke, not his.

We have drinks coming up, then dinner and with my other friend of ours who knows, and more hanging out. I feel so full and whole and have hardly thought of The Golfer today except to think, “Hmm, I don’t feel like texting him.”

I’d share a pic with y’all of me hanging at the bar while my friends shower upstairs, but my phone isn’t cooperating. Just imagine me with a white linen shirt with a deep V-neck avec cleavage and a black skirt topped off with a little smile.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

Friday, May 10th, is Boobday!

Ok, forgive any formatting issues, I’m doing this from my phone (I can’t login to my WP dashboard).

This week has been great. Since my breakthrough in therapy everything in my life feels easier. Everything. From cutting out sugar to cutting out men. I suddenly have a place in my own world and I’m no longer chasing anything or anyone.

That said, I don’t think I’m “fixed,” or anything, I just feel righteous in the best of ways.

I have a Saturday night free this weekend. The Rich Golfer is out of town for a family event, Peter’s dad is in town, and The Vet may have a work thing. I’m cool with whatever, but regardless of men sharing my bed/time I’ll have a great night.

I would have said the same thing 6 months ago, but this time it feels a whole lot different. I dig it.

Ok, on with the boobs! This week I’m posting two old ones. Since I’m on my phone I’m unsure of the dates, but they were just a couple of lines above the one from last week in my WP photo library, so I’m guessing they were from May of 2012.

I’m posting the first one because it was me at a painful worst in my life. I can’t even remember the specifics of that particular self harming without the date (I’ve only done it twice), but it speaks volumes about how far I’ve come. My poor old soul… I feel badly for what I’ve done to her sometimes.

The second photo of me is one where I was feeling myself. The backlit silhouette, the curves. It was taken just a few days before the first pic (based on its location on the photo grid).

It’s funny how quickly things can change.



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

Hy and self harm

A little self never harm anybody… wait, what?

Hy at the old apartment backlit and sexy
In just a short while this woman’s heart would break for some reason.

NOT my tits:

SANDY 051019
Sandy has an important message for us!

Before I forget again this week….Had a sudden hair dye reaction that was unpleasant and had me rushing to urgent care. Then even more unpleasant allergy testing. PSA to all the ladies in your group “do the damn patch test!!”

Anyway, just a lazy day pic


MISS B 051019
Y’all are inspiring Miss B!

I wish to submit this binding picture as a way to show off/celebrate my great boobs.  

I thought of this picture due to another person’s binding picture recently on your site.   

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

I’m too tired to write.

I’m worn out like a puppy.

February Photofest


I always wanted to be Miss Piggy.

Some days I don’t think about my size at all. On

odd days I struggle to think of anything else.

This body is only a temporary thing and reflects a life full of wine and food, chronic pain and an aging body.

It’s a sum of my ethereal, passionate parts specially made to soften a man’s impact as he loses himself between my soft, white thighs. It’s a holding space for me and my friends, me and my visions.

It’s ok if it grows. It’s ok if it shrinks. What matters most is that I take good care of it.

Friday, March 9th, is Boobday!

Today is a blue day for me: Peyton heads to my ex until the morning after my return from England March 23rd. Today is also the last day of being in mommy mode for nearly 4 weeks straight. I’m fulfilled, but exhausted.

Not from the parenting part – that’s been pretty incredible – but from getting up at 6 am 6 days a week, working like a dog, juggling meals, after school activities, being sick (both of us), family obligations and friends, getting ready for my trip, etc, etc.

Ho-leeee fuck. I can totally see how/why full-time single parents don’t date. I haven’t left my house unless it was child or work related. Ok, that’s a lie. I met with a couple of fellas for breakfast and lunch, but that hardly counts.

I haven’t had sex in weeks and though I’m not dead inside I certainly don’t care. I’m looking forward to London and what opportunities will come my way there to satisfy that itch. Hopefully I’ll get it scratched more than once.

Ok, enough with all the words. Enjoy the tits!



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

NOT my tits:

I love the textures and variance on Sandy in this image.

The boy toy was fascinated by something and took this


@miss__creant nails it with the black and white.

I’ve chosen this pic because it’s been a long while since I have removed my clothing (IG deleted my account last year) so I thought I’d get in some practice before starting up again now that I have access to IG again!

An InLinkz Link-up

Acceptance is freedom

No more chains, just love.
February Photofest
Sinful Sunday

I know part of why I’m not writing.  

Life.  Life kills my boner to write. 

I’m currently sitting at a bar alone and all I want to do is write.  Partly because I’m alone and bored, but also because the energy is filling me up, like foam from the tap.  My mug spilleth over.

I feel more observant, more on point, energized.  For months I have typically felt spread thin.  I’m worn out, sad, hopeful, determined, grinding, slugging through.  It’s a lot of emotion to sort through every day. But I rarely am filled with brimming creativity.  Until moments like this.

When I’m surrounded by strangers, completely ignored. 

 It’s like writing pornography.  I’m so turned on to write.

I was here exactly one week ago today.  One of the many Chrises had texted me and wanted to see me again.  We met here and talked and laughed and drank fancy hipster cocktails before walking around the hipster neighborhood and binging on sake and sushi.

He lathered me in compliments all night long.  My hair, my body, my dress, my ass.  He loved it all.  I was sopping wet with his attention by the end of our night.  Figuratively speaking.

We drove back to his house and smoked “the finest weed you can find in this town!” while I deftly avoided the inevitable.  He’s not that great at sex.  

The first time I blamed myself.  The second time I realized it was him.  But he is friendly to a fault, cute, attentive, a true pleasure to spend time with so I willed myself to relax as he began to touch me.  Softly, timidly, too intimately.

When the licking, whining, cuddling dogs no longer provided enough buffer between us I decided to give it another whirl; the weed had relaxed every nerve and I floated slightly above the both of us.  Let’s do this.  

Upstairs he moaned as I undressed and I savored his sweet kisses.  We moved better together this time, though I still yearned for more, for less thought and more abandon.

I came a time or two, eyes closed willing it to be just a bit better while trying to  immerse myself in what I was actually getting.  And then it was suddenly over.  He’d silently cum and I’d fucking missed it, robbed of even the pleasure of his.

I asked him how he’d like it if I did that.  He got the message.  

We dozed sideways on his king sized bed for a minute or two before I begged off.  

“The dog.”  

He understood.

It was the next night when I was out with another man trying to get into a bar that I realized my ID was gone.

I looked for it everywhere – including my date’s jeans and underwear – but to no avail (though I did find a perky, willing cock).  

A day or two later I called the bar from my date with the Chris and voila!  They had it.

And so here I am, alone, thrumming with creativity and verve, and chatting up a handsome stranger who sat beside me while he waits for his date.

The Chris knows I’m here and will be here shortly.  Maybe this time I can parlay this surge in creativity into more than just a blog post and finally get him to make some noise.

[Ed. note: He said he’d be 45 mins.  Forty-five minutes in I was at 6% on my phone and texted him as much.  He was on another work call, don’t wait on him, sorry. And so I left.  Alone once more and robbed of the will to write yet again.]

Friday, July 28th, is Boobday!

On a bullet train to Nice right now and I’m exhausted.  

My sister decided to unload a lifetime of resentment on me last night while our children stood around wide-eyed.  It wasn’t pretty and I’m relatively certain she didn’t hear a word I said.  For fucks sake.

Good times in France, I tell you!

This week I’m missing Mz. Hyde’s pic because of technical issues, but we’ll see her next week!

And to all the other ladies, thank you!



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

NOT my tits:

Bisoux1 on IG chose this pic because it’s one of her favorites. It’s definitely a good one.
Sandy dazzles.
Browngirl is also feeling her lovelies.

I have too many secrets.

As I walked back to my car among others leaving the throbbing venue I felt full, content, invigorated. And also sad.

Tears filled my eyes and my face cracked into a broken grimace in the shadows. I felt invisible.

I imagined all the conversations being had, the thoughts being mulled. Tears spilled down my cheek in one puny trickle as I made my way beneath the street lights, the happy voices behind me receded.

I wish I could do that.

I wish I could get up on stage and share my art.  I can’t play an instrument or sing, but I could share my writing, my life, my experiences and be the artist that I am for all to behold.

But I can’t.

Instead I am a secret, a closely guarded identity that only a handful know. It hurts that I can’t be all of me.

Recently I was at a professional event and we discussed our lives in relation to work in general. It’s tricky business, we all agreed. I have to cross an ocean to show my face and be myself. It’ll never happen here.

And I am crushed.

I am crushed that I have constructed a life which will never be able to reach its full potential as either Hy or me because the other holds us back.

The real life me has a professional standard to uphold and honor but Hy could endanger that. And Hy needs to share and expose herself and her art but the other me won’t let her.

I am stuck in the worst kind of purgatory of self and I don’t know what to do about it.

I have such a story to share.

Both parts of my life are dynamic sides to the same coin, each demanding special attention.

A man I met several weeks ago on Snapchat wooed me with his charm and broken heart and convinced me he was safe — he nearly had me in Vegas this very evening if it weren’t for my current and overwhelming need for distance from all men.

I told him what it is I really am and he instantly got it. “If you are found out as Hy, you won’t just face embarrassment or judgment, but you could lose your livelihood. You’d lose everything, wouldn’t you??”

Yes. Yes I would.

But it hurts keeping these two sides separate. It hurts never getting to be all of me in any part of my life. Always hiding and manipulating stories.

After the show where I laughed and cheered with deep belly-shaking howls I didn’t want to be alone. I needed to be around people and so I sat myself at a marble-top bar. Alone, but not alone.

I thought of the man who smelled like musky grass. His cologne was all natural and called something like Herbal Vibes.

“Hyacinth,” I heard a deep voice say behind me at intermission. “I thought that was you!” I didn’t know if he meant he’d thought that just then or if he’d spotted me in the crowd earlier in the night.

We hugged hello and I felt grateful I instantly remembered his name. He said he was there with Haley.

“Let me go get her!” He said with a broad smile. I wasn’t sure why he had to. She was the girl he’d fallen in love with 3 months before we met a year and a half ago and whom was his “primary” then. I’d told him I could be second to none and that had been it for us.

Haley came down, beaming. She had beautiful, glowing skin and the Millennial head-shave women of that age love to don. We shook hands warmly and then the three of us stood awkwardly.

They said they never missed this show. I wanted to tell them my life is a show.

They’re engaged now.

Good for them.

I told them I’m still allergic to relationships, and almost as if on cue she said, “It’ll happen when the time is right!” I didn’t think I’d sounded sad about my allergy.

I’m glad they’re so happy, but I couldn’t share in their joy. Seeing them get to be themselves in public together reminded me how much I don’t get the same freedom and privilege.

My friends, my family; other than the danger of strangers frivolously trying to ruin my life, do I really have anything to fear telling those who like and respect me??

Could people other than strangers know about Hy and be proud of me? Would they be supportive?

The answer is most likely yes — that couple for example — Herbal Vibes and Haley — but what if they told a friend who told a friend? That person wouldn’t give two shits about hurting me and then the dominoes would fall.

Later that night at the bar with the marble I drank overpriced Chardonnay and my vulva fell asleep on the wooden stool as I drafted this post, but at least I wasn’t alone and at least I was doing my art.

Right then. And in public. Even though no one knew.  Like always.