The source is here.

Between there and there it all begins. The dip and the curve, the swell and the swerve.

It enchants us all with its mystique, it’s from whence we came and where we peak.

We seek its source throughout our life and return back through the afterlife.

It’s everything and everyone, my greatest power and my biggest gun.

 

February Photofest

I haven’t written in 72 days.

That’s 10 weeks and two days or two-and-a-half-months.  That’s nearly as long as the last blogging break I took way back when before I birthed A Dissolute Life Means… when I was between blogs.

Honestly, Boobday was dragging on me.  Memes are fun and all and then suddenly they’re not.  I’m not the orderly sort, though I am highly organized; I tend to do things in bursts and clusters, not on a schedule.  Meme-ing, therefore, is a mild form of torture for me and since I couldn’t figure out how to manage it I just stopped completely and abruptly.  I need to think about it some more, but I think I’m going to move it to once a month.  I’ll work out the details later and keep y’all posted.

And while I haven’t been writing here I’ve still been around.  I occasionally pop back on to IG and write painful things to go along with my sexy ass – as I tend to do – and I’m still on Twitter tweeting my little tweets here and there.  I even recorded a podcast with Molly – which was an absolute highlight of September – and have made it to the final round in the Smut Marathon!  What???

I’ve also been continuing with my therapy and my gentle exploration of myself – if “gentle” is a cold-gloved cavity search.  It’s been so hard this year.  I’ve been cracked wide open to all the trauma I’ve suffered, the sexual assaults, the abandonment, the lifelong pursuit for a real father’s love and affection.  I’m exhausted.

Almost two weeks ago Ann St. Vincent came to visit and it was wonderful.  She was as sweet and supportive and open and inquisitive as ever and my friends from another city drove in to see me and meet her and we all spent a decadent day together getting meat sweats and napping and eating pasta under an warm fall night sky.

And when everyone left the next day – after an afternoon of cheering on Pey doing all the athletic things – I fell to pieces, kicked off by Netflix’s Unbelievable.  For the third time in my life, I cut myself.  I sobbed and wept and tore at the tender skin beneath my breasts wailing for the girl who could never find safety, though she tried so hard.  The people she turned to again and again failing her in every way.

I’m talking about me, not the protagonist.

I didn’t know it was going to happen like that – I watch SVU all the time and various other heinous crimes-against-women type shows – but this one was different.  This one was so fucking real to me.  There she sat, this little thing in a stark room with two white men in power.  Their privilege and antipathy literally oozing off of them and she was there to do the right thing and share her pain and trauma and instead of opening their arms to her to soothe her and right the wrongs they shut her down.  They denied her.  They denied her existence.  They denied her visibility.

It knocked the breath from me as it thundered through me that that was me, I was her.  I was that girl looking for safety from my father, my boyfriend, men who were otherwise supposed to be safe.

I should be able to stand on a subway platform and trust that no one will hurdle me onto the tracks, but that is not how life is for me – for women.  I cannot stand too close lest someone shove me right off.  The tears were for this desperate realization that I want so badly to stand on the edge with no fear, but the reality is that I cannot and for all the times I’d been pushed.  A yin and yang of sorrow.

I woke up on Monday with an emotional hangover the size of the Empire State Building and lost all desire to drink.  All of it.  The ragged marks beneath my breasts meant I couldn’t wear a bra and the occasional sting I felt reminded me of the pain I had been denying I carried.  I was finally confronted with the truth of things: I hurt.

And I felt awake for the first time in years.  The kind of awake that makes you see each little brush stroke of fur on a cat’s nose like a masterpiece painting.  I could not unsee this part of me.

This might not be a surprise to some of you more critical readers – this entire blog is a diary of my flight from my pain and trauma via finding that one safe man – nor is it a surprise to me.  I know what I’ve been doing and why, I just never really understood the depths of what it was I was running from.  How dark and oozing it was, how cloying.  Now, I do.

I’m kinda sorta finding my footing.  I’m grateful for this mid-life awakening.

And then, this weekend was the last in my little apartment with my little offspring.  We watched movies, I hosted a kid sleepover, ran around, saw a movie, watched another sporting event from the bleachers.  I did very little in the way of packing, but I did a lot in the way of packing up emotionally.

I cried thinking this was my last Sunday on my tiny sunny balcony, the last Sunday sunrise with a kitty in the window.  The last Sunday my baby and I would fight over the bathroom sink.  It’s time to move on from my little haven and move us closer to my ex’s house and into the right school district, same bus, a bike ride apart from mom and dad’s.

I also cried thinking how alone I am in all of this.  Packing an entire house and moving all by myself while keeping it together for a watchful child.  It’s a lot.  I have to find ladders to reach all the high spots because I literally have no one who can help me.  I asked The Vet, but he has to work.  Peter says he’ll come and help, but he’s all wrapped up with his new girlfriend, so we’ll see if that actually comes to fruition.  (Yes, Peter and I are talking again.)

So, yeah.  I’ve been busy, just not writing.  Growing.  I’ve been growing.  I also had a week of really fun sex with a beautiful young man 18 years my junior.  Built like a little rugby player replete with a gorgeously furry chest and perfectly curved cock. We spent 3 nights together with one of them being a full 24 hours of fucking, smoking cigarettes, drinking, watching movies, eating, and fucking all over again.  Of course he then drew distant and announced he’s moving away for work.  Such is life.

This felt good, though, this writing thing.  Maybe I’ll do it some more.

 

[Ed. Note: I wrote this on my balcony on Sunday, but couldn’t get back to it until Monday am.  It feels good to hit “publish” again.]

e[lust] 118

Elust 118 Header of My controlled ascent

Photo courtesy of My Controlled Ascent

Welcome to Elust 118

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #119? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

I have daddy issues

Processing Emotions about Polyamory

Mirror Masturbation

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

V is for view

Not Alone

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Negotiating “NO”

 

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Tension

Erotic Non-Fiction

BDSM for Beginners
My first time being co-topped
The power of touch

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Hear My Confession
Avengers Assemble
#30DayOrgasmFun: Tapping Out

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How I Started Moving Past Old Hurts
#AtoZChallenge -X is for XXX
Vanilla date #1: Incompatible-Awesome
Confessions of an unruly slave

Writing About Writing

Relying on Email More Than Social Media

Erotic Fiction

His turn in the shower
Sharp Beauty
Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun
Oxana, With Love
Sixty Nine Steps
Glorious garden fuck
Actually, that’s what the dog-whip is for

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Don’t ask us to watch you wank for free.

 

 

Elust

e[lust] 117

Photo courtesy of Master’s Eye

Welcome to Elust 117

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #118? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A dominant presence

He Gripped Her Hand and Centered Her

Being alone together.

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

What the fig?

Mind and body

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

O! or, errr… NO!: Orgasm Control in an F/m Dynamic

 

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Fantasies Never Let You Down
My First Love
New Fun with Old Friends
Sometimes coming joint second
emotional disconnection, sex and loneliness
People Don’t Talk about This Sh!t

Erotic Fiction

Waking the Fallen
Daisy
opera seria
Catch the Catcher
Club Dress Extended
Dreams … (the Second : Arabian Nights)
The orgasmic arch

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Five Senses of Sex
A public beating
Rope Dreams

Poetry

-01.04.19_00:22-

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Primal Regression and Submission
14 Qualities of a “Good” Dominant
Balance in F/m voices

Events

Do I want you to hold my hand?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Sex in Class
That’s My Kink – All Hail The Nipple Clit

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Why I’m not smiling for IWD

 

 

Elust

Hyperventilating and pushing through.

I’ve told a handful more of real life friends about this blog.  It was during a love-fuzzy day for two friends and I felt wrapped in friendship and so was brave.

“Ladies,” I said in the crowded cafe, “in the interest of being open and deepening friendships I have something to share with you.”  And then I blabbed my own deepest and darkest secret and probably shit my pants a little.

No one was surprised – as no one has been yet – and they were all eager to be sent the URL (Hi, if any of you are reading – eek! – but I’m still gonna write like no one is reading.)  I explained why I’ve felt the need to keep it a secret and each of them admitted to their own versions of hiding their true selves from the world.  It was nice.  But I’m still queasy.

It’s a lot to bare.  And to bear.

Speaking of sticking my neck out, I’ve decided to join in the Smut Marathon again.  There’s a giant pool of starting writers (102!) which will be quickly cut down to a more manageable number by Round 3.  Last year I got knocked out in Round 2, so if I make it to 3 I’ll consider it a win.  If not, that’s ok, too.  I’m not actually that great up against “real writers” who know their grammar and whose creative tools are more sharpened.

I just slap my emotions on a page and disdain commas for effect and hope y’all like what you read.

I can’t tell you which entry is mine – but I can tell you to go vote.  You get to pick your top 3 choices and if you’re feeling really benevolent you can leave a comment with some feedback about them (and your least favorite 3).  I’ll be the one reading the comments between her fingers.

Voting is open until Friday.

My heart is open until I don’t know when.

Here I am.

February Photofest

My gut said No.

I am not a good listener

when she says no

Twisting, turning, trying so hard

to be polite ohhhh

I must be mistaken, sure, yes, ok

until the sun rises on tangled hair and

deflated balloons and

whisker rash and

an urge to go home

Then the sun rises again

and she hears it true

No, no thank you

that won’t do

It’s you, it’s you, it’s you

We did not meet today.

 

 

February Photofest

I’m still kickin’.

But barely.  In blog terms, that is.  I’ve been considering a lot lately that maybe my time as Hy is coming to an end, at least the version of Hy that I have been.  The voracious eater of men and writer of posts.

I’m tired of running Boobday, I’m tired of feeling bad all the time for not being a good blogging friend, I’m tired of not having anything to say that seems sexy or interesting.

This has happened to me before with my old mommy blog, the one I poured myself into as a stay at home mom with a baby and eventually a toddler, but felt all wrong once I left my husband and my “SAHM” status was no more.  I struggled with it for about a year, limping along, barely writing anything except gut wrenching posts about missing my baby every day and my fear for the future.

Before I moved out I started my first sex blog, though I didn’t know that’s what it was called.  I just started writing the way I write about my sex life, my new sex life.  And then I started another one. And then I finally started this one on WordPress and everything changed.  Everything.

My life, my loves, my very being was now free to be whatever and whomever I pleased.  Seven years on I feel like I have nothing to share anymore and even better, no need to share it.  I have my tribe; I’m not alone anymore.

Despite my apathy, I’m looking forward to February Photo Fest and then Eroticon and to the Smut Marathon.  I am and always will be a writer and an exhibitionist, after all, and I’m a consummate extrovert to boot, so all of those things embody me to a tee.

And look, I’m even too lazy (and rushed) to link to all the things in this first round draft.  I’ll circle back around later and link up.

Anyway, just my two cents to say I’m still here.  Mostly.

 

Seven years of comments.

I’m not going to apologize for not living my life the way others might think I should.  I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my behavior, that’s not why I write here.  I  choose to share my singular experiences with the world because inevitably I feel bolstered by the love and support given to me.

When people show compassion and caring it reveals to me a side of the world I don’t always believe is there.  I am the most cruel, nasty, hateful person to myself in some of my weaker moments.

I know all the things I have done that have brought me to a terrible situation – all of them – and I am not seeking similar voices in the ether; that’d be stupid.  I am hoping to find the voices that sound nothing like mine.  However, inevitably, in my darkest, most vulnerable moments of sharing someone will tell me I should have known better. 

Yes, thank you.  That was likely the plot of the post that you read: that I absolutely should have known better.

I have been blogging for the better part of a decade now and by anyone’s standards I am seasoned at this.  I don’t react to criticism like I did in 2011 or 2013, likewise nor does praise hit me in quite the same way.  I don’t weigh either more or less than the other.  I will admit that I roll my eyes a lot more, but my sense of self-worth remains the same.

What I find most rewarding in commenters’ thoughts and revelations aren’t what they say about me, but the insights they afford me into them. The kinder words might reveal a hard-fought acceptance of our faulty natures and I’ll feel a softness towards the writer, the critical missives belie the more skeptical outlooks on the universe and deeply felt wounds and I feel empathy and understanding for those folks, and everything else in between illustrates even more variables in each of you that I am in awe to witness.

Over the years I’ve been called nothing short of an attention seeking whore and been lauded as a self-actualized being.  I am probably both and neither, to be honest.  I also suspect I am what you see in the mirror each morning, groggy and puffy from your own illicit or peaceful night in bed.

Lately I find myself in an interesting position to be observing myself writing this blog and maintaining it like a many-leafed plant.  I pluck and pinch things here and there, water it a little, sometimes neglect it.  I’m not entirely sure if it has the same effect on me as it once did, though the idea that at least one person on this planet might feel less alone because there’s another lost soul out there who knows how they’re feeling pulls me back again and again.

I have received many thousands of comments over the years and what I have learned is we all have a TN in our life, we all have regrettable nights and body and self-esteem issues, we all yearn and we all want to belong and to experience love.  I don’t mind if you think I’m an asshole, nor do I necessarily care if you think I’m the best, though of course that is quite nice.  I just like knowing I’m not alone and that there are people who are with me on this journey to self-expression and love and honesty.

I have also learned that we want others to do the things we never did or to avoid the things we wished we had. Many years ago in my About Me – before I could imagine being Hy this long – I wrote:

“Every thought and feeling I have is bared here and you will likely become frustrated with me as I go right when you really want me to go left. But I’m not an avatar. I’m just me.”

I have never lied to you here; you know everything you need to know that will still keep me and my life safe.  The post I wrote the other day was devastatingly hard because I felt like I might be letting you all down – I’d sure as fuck let myself down – but then I remembered that if I hide from you I would essentially be hiding from myself.  In an average day when the sun sets I am filled with loneliness.  There’s no need to set the sun sooner on myself.  And so I opened up and showed you my weak and twisted ugly side and instantly felt lighter and straighter.

It’s the magic of this fucking blog.  It’s why I keep tending to it.  Every single week for seven years.  I might miss a Boobday or not write a post every week or not comment nearly as much as I would like, but I have never not been here.  I am always here.  How could I not be?  Hy is me and I am her and I love that about myself.

I love that I have this rich life that I’m passionate and knowledgeable about.  Friends from around the world whom I genuinely like and trust, a better, more solidly formed sense of self, and a new understanding of our human condition in general.  Of course I also love to craft a story, to weave my words in ways my readers can float away from their own lives and join mine, which leads me to the next great thing about this blog: all of you.

You all, each and every one of you, mean a lot more to this internet stranger than you might realize.  Just like I may touch your lives, you also touch mine.  Even when you point out all my interminable flaws and mistakes.

And let’s be honest.  I also like showing you my tits.

‘Sup?

Thank you for the last incredible seven years, Internet Boyfriend.  It’s officially my longest relationship ever and by far my best one yet.

 

It’s the last day to vote for the Top 100 Sex Blogs of 2018!

I had a super weird dream about Eroticon this week.  I dreamt I arrived and I was totally in the wrong place.  Luckily Michael gave me a massive hug and alleviated my fears, but poor Molly was beleaguered by all her duties and I couldn’t pry her away to hug her.  I wanted to cry I wanted to be in her arms so badly!

Naturally I have no clue how it ended, but it certainly speaks to my feelings about these two: they’re absolutely top notch people and pillars of our community.

A few years ago Molly took the helm of the Top 100 Sex Blogs project with Michael by her side.  She opened up the process to us all and dedicates weeks of her/their lives to meticulously reading everyone nominated.  No small feat.

And today is the very last day to vote!  So if you haven’t already (like me) or you’ve forgotten, go now and nominate your favorite blogs!

The list personally changed my life.  Waaaay back in 2011 I noticed an influx of traffic coming from a site I’d never heard of.  It was Rori’s of Between my Sheets list back then and I’d gotten an honorable mention as a blog she would miss (I’d deactivated it).

I started clicking and reading and making friends and I’ve never looked back.  Fast forward to 2015 when Molly took it over and I won the top billing, went to my first Eroticon where I presented on two panels, returned in 2018 for my second go around I JUST bought my plane tickets to London for Eroticon 2019.

I cannot stress how important a list like this is to people like us.  It’s not about ranking (that’s stressful and takes some emotional work to manage, I know).  It’s about community, sharing, learning and exposing us to knew voices from around the world.

I’ve met some of the most amazing people off that list both in real life and virtually and I can’t imagine what my life would be like without this community of sexy, scintillating, loving, passionate, accepting, and massively intelligent people.

Our connections create community. Vote for your favorites for the Top 100 Sex Blogger of 2018!

Smut Relay Part 4: Reasons

Continued from Smut Relay Part 3 – Decisions, Decisions by Violet Fawkes

Jay and Elly froze and watched Richard grip the bars thinking hard, calculating.

“Ok.  You’ll get your money.”

***

Richard liked to think of himself as a good person.  He gave old ladies his seat on the subway when he was forced to ride it, dutifully bought Girl Scout cookies every year, and gave an occasional $5 dollar bill to a panhandler.  But really, he was an asshole and he knew it.

First there were his fraternity years at Dartmouth.  His sense of entitlement was set loose on drunken co-eds looking to impress rich boys with connections and fancy cars.  It was a year of questionable yeses and more nights than he could count convincing an alcohol-saturated girl to have “just one more cup” of room-temperature punch.

Then after college he moved to the city and began smashing around town like Godzilla.  Anyone who didn’t want what he wanted was persona non grata.  He was stingy with his time and his money, felt entitled to respect and sex and a good paycheck and generally saw others as adversaries or stepping-stones to a better life for himself.

He was tall-ish, pretty good-looking in a puffed-out sort of way, and had an Ivy League degree.  His cush job was with his father’s development company – they were the ones who wiped out the parts of a city that had “character” in favor of sleek new strip malls or mixed-use buildings.  He wore a suit well and his poker face was above reproach.  He could play that game, too.

His friends enjoyed his showman antics – there was no one who could recite limericks better than him –  but knew he was not the guy to call when they were dumped or needed help moving.  Richard was like cotton candy: big and blustery, but ultimately a sad little sweet mess in your mouth.

Women seemed determined to find substance where there was none.  He targeted mostly models and aspiring actresses and any woman who might otherwise be considered out of his league.  He liked to reveal a story about hiking through the Andes on a summer break and coming across a little stone temple.  He’d found God there, he’d tell his dates.  Even the atheists took it as a sign he was worth at least one night of their time.  He didn’t care; none of it was true.

Friends watched with benign resentment that he never suffered a consequence for treating people so frivolously.  He seemed untouchable.

This went on for years.

The night he met Elly he was 40 and thought he had his life figured out: work a little, flash some cash, get naked with some woman who’d fallen for his smooth talk, rinse, repeat.

He quickly determined none of that would work on her.

She was British; bright, worldly, sexy as fuck.  Shorter than the models he liked to collect, she wouldn’t win any magazine covers.  She didn’t seem to care that his family had a house in The Hampton’s and she sure as fuck didn’t care that he had a view of the Park.

And it wasn’t just that she showed no interest, she showed a genuine distaste for him and his schtick and his Gucci blazer and Givenchy loafers he wore the night they met at his friend’s engagement party.  “Are you trying to hurt my eyes?” she’d said, champagne glass dangling from her fingers.

He was shocked to realize he didn’t want her to dismiss him.  It didn’t make sense.  He had to investigate.  They argued for two hours over fashion, politics, and the Oxford comma.  She never lost a look of utter disdain for him and he was enthralled.

At the end of the engagement party he intercepted her departure.  He wasn’t giving up without a fight.  “Wait, Eleanor.  You’ve forgotten something.”

“What?”

He grabbed his crotch and made a little pulse with his hips.  He grinned boyishly and waited.  This always worked.

Coat half on she froze.  Their eyes met and she burst into laughter.

“Ok then.  Let’s go.”

Their courtship was swift and unexpected.

They lived in a fog of love-making and laced fingers all over the Upper East Side for two months.  They agreed on everything it seemed except his fashion choices.  She didn’t mind his extravagant spending or short work days or that he never let the conversation linger for long on her.

He couldn’t get enough of his scruff on her soft inner thighs or his dick in her face and he loved it when she’d curl into him when she came.  He marveled at this turn of events.  He felt like a hundred feet tall, like everyone else had been a test run for his time with Eleanor.  He even didn’t mind she wasn’t as pretty as he preferred.  She made him feel smart and important.

When he’d told her he wanted to marry her she hadn’t seemed surprised.

They lay bathed in afternoon sunlight, limbs entwined.  He’d just fucked her with his signature “Dick Mash” move where he folded her in half and pounded into her with his eyes closed.  She had screamed in pleasure until he’d spilled into her.

“Elly,” he said, tracing a line on her hip.  “I want you to be my wife.”

She’d barely fluttered her lashes.  “Of course you do.”

They were married at the courthouse two weeks later and this nightmare on a fucking pirate ship was their honeymoon.  How could he have known that their shared dream of a remote island getaway would end up like this?

So, yeah.  Of course he’d pay this asshole whatever he wanted in order to keep her alive.  There was no question; he wasn’t heartless.  Even stingy, selfish entitled bros want to keep their wives alive.

Jay grinned into Richard’s challenging glare as the words sunk in.  Elly’s eyes sparkled in the darkness visible only to Jay and he knew what she was thinking.

“For Elizabeth…”

________________________________

To be continued… Smut Relay Part 5 by Molly Moore