My brain hates me.

I dream a lot and every once in a while I seem to like to torture myself.

I couldn’t tell you if any parts of this are from some repressed place of my mind or if it’s all fabricated.

I fucking hope it’s all a dream.

What I can tell you is that all the feelings are real: my sense of responsibility, my shame, my feelings of helplessness, my complete lack of trust in my sister (and people), my disappointment.

Ironically, I’d like to think that these are all things that I can change, namely being able to trust my sister and people. How different would my life be if the world were generally more safe than dangerous?

Anyway, here it is:

I was young, late teens, and in my father’s bed. He was huge, warm, and naked next to me. I felt out of place and didn’t know how I’d gotten there, though I felt as though I had manipulated my way there to be closer to him than my sister.

He rolled to his side, facing me, and I lay perfectly still on my back, not breathing. The head of his hardon pressed hard into my thigh until it hurt.

I hoped it would only be that, but I was also flattered at the affection. In that instant I flipped. This was not right.

I adeptly maneuvered my way away and he lost interest. I lay there, heart pounding hating myself for going quietly into the night, so I began to scream. Out of no where.

Loud and long and keening in hopes my little sister would come to my aid, but she didn’t.

Dad and I argued. Why was I doing this? I’d liked it, he said. I screamed how sick and gross it was and how fucked I was.

I ran to wake my sister, certain that she would jump to my aid, but instead she met me with a tidal wave of mistrust and doubt.

I begged her to call the police; they’d know what to do.

When they arrived I feared I didn’t “look hurt,” but I hoped that the possibility of incest would spur them on the protect both me and my sister.

They were more skeptical than my sister and I was left standing in the rain watching them drive off.

Then my nephew came in to tell me that he still had a sore throat from the night before and inadvertently saved me from myself.

Forty-three has been an interesting year for me, that’s for sure.

Friday, June 28th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I had the worst fucking dream last night and I wonder if it had anything to do with my last thoughts last night about clarity and boundaries. I’ll post it in a minute – it has no place here.

In other news, I bought my tickets to London! I watch fares on an app called Hopper (I highly recommend it) and use my CapitalOne Venture card for everything to earn miles. My flight is under $500 and will be erased with my reward miles I’ve earned this year. Woohoo!!

And today is the last Boobday of Every Damn Day in June! Which makes it all the more funny that I’d forgotten all about it. Again. I swear if my head weren’t attached…

Love you all!

Fucked up dream to be posted shortly…

xx

Hy

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:

Hi, how ya doin’?

::

NOT my tits:

Miss B enjoying herself.

I thought I would submit something different than a bra picture.  I’ve discovered in the past 10 years that I am a Masochist on taking pain, although not humilation.  I’m grateful that I have breasts that can be enjoyed in a consensual relationship.  

::

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::

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Clarity.

My sister sent 2/3 of her kids out to stay with me and my folks last minute yesterday. I was in the middle of the beginning of a posh meal with an old friend and ex-lover, Zed, when my step dad asked what time I was coming over.

I side stepped my assholery and killed two birds with one stone: I’d be there around 8, and no, that meant I couldn’t hang out and “play,” Zed.

I have zero interest in ol’ Zed which fascinates me because we’re legitimately friends. Isn’t that the type of man I should go for??

He was the best friend of a graduate college friend and once I’d chewed him up, I moved on to Zed.

We hit it off with our appetites for food and cocktails and penchant for long, dark nights out on the town. I was 36 at the time, or 100 years younger than I am now if you want to know the truth.

I thought he was a fantastic kisser, but our bedroom chemistry fell flat. He tried to be cute with criticisms about my “performance” and not surprisingly, I wasn’t amused. I was also hungry for giant cock at the time and Zed was just a normal human male.

I got the sense not long after that he had caught feelings for me, but I was on the war path and couldn’t be bothered. Then one night while playing with my Book of Questions with me and The Neighbor, Zed had some allergic reaction to one of my answers and stuck his steel-toed boot in my face and derided me menacingly for what felt like an eternity.

He also wasn’t good with Peyton, falling back on an old school “I am the adult, hear me roar and kowtow to me!” sort of mentality with a fucking sweet little 4 year old. Uh… NO.

I chalked it up to his PTSD from multiple tours in the Middle Wast, but that essentially ended my sharing my time with him in any capacity for some years until we crossed paths on a dating app in 2016.

He’d calmed down, softened, been through more shit. He’d missed me he said. I agreed to see his new house and go to dinner with him.

The night was decadent and hedonistic, though also completely sexless. I was irritated with him the majority of the night and felt like I was putting up with him as I danced just out of arm’s reach. Last night was no different when he made it very clear that he’d like to date me or at least fuck me.

“My physical needs are met,” I said frankly. “Plus, I think I may just be done looking for more than that anyway. It’s too hard, my bar is too high, and I need to focus on other things, anyway.”

He made an ill-timed joke about the “coincidence” of me reestablishing contact. Which I hadn’t – it was another internet crossing, but whatever. Peyton is gone for two weeks and I’m sick of Mens, so I took him up on an offer to see each other.

I’ve been thinking about it pretty much non-stop – this idea of “giving up.”

I had yet another boring, go-nowhere date on Tuesday and when I saw a lone man sitting in the bar my first thought was OH NO. Never a good sign. What’s it called when you feel absolutely nothing for another human being? Apathy?

I just looked at him and couldn’t imagine him giving me half as much pleasure as The Golfer gives me. Also, his five o’clock shadow reminded me a little of my father at his age, just before he died. Also never a good sign.

If things between me and The Golfer stay the same then I can expect to have the best sex of my life 1-3x a month. I’d rather have it 3x a week, to be sure, but I wouldn’t be sexless and I could focus on other things. Like moving and working up the ladder at work and organizing my sock drawers and blogging more.

He’d be a known and familiar quantity in my life; I could just relax a little.

And Peter has to go. He just has to.

For more than three years I have been a willing side piece gobbling up whatever stolen moments and scraps of him I could get and since he’s met One-Month-Girl I have been relegated right back to that role without ever getting the chance to grow tired of him from a marathon weekend together or even a motherfucking sleepover.

His recent illness has put an even finer point on it: despite me being his destination when he was struck down, I was probably the last person to learn of his condition and status and was left completely in the dark overnight and stood up. Again.

He apologized in a drugged haze and I struggled to think of what to do about feeling so cast aside and disrespected; this isn’t a text conversation and I also felt badly for him. He has no insurance and spent the night in the ER.

I decided to focus on him first and offered to have food delivered when he was up for it, and yesterday he called in the favor. I even remembered his ex-girlfriend – who’s nursing him back to health – is a vegetarian and a picky eater so got her Pad Thai with tofu as a way of apologizing for my intrusion.

He was grateful and called me baby and sweet and kind and caring and said he felt almost cured since the beef pho I’d ordered for him. He passed on her thanks.

You’re very welcome. I can imagine how stressed out you are by all of this and I wanted to help somehow. I doubt you’ll take me up on my offer stay with me (One-Month-Girl wouldn’t like that lol but it’s still there), but I can at least feed you, so feed you I will ?

He never denied that OMG was his ultimate destination once he’s well enough to leave his apartment with the ex-girlfriend in it, which confirmed how far from the top I am in his mind. It sticks in my craw like a lump of ice, cold and painful, but my righteous anger is swiftly melting it. Fuck. That. Shit, man. Fuck that shit.

I am fully done inviting people to stay in my life who treat me like a faithful dog, ever ready to forgive and always searching for a pat on the head no matter what the fuck they’ve done to me. That goes for everyone, not just men.

Clarity will be my word for the back half of 2019. Clarity to protect myself and clarity to be patient, but most of all, clarity to be real and bold and stronger than ever. No one needs boundaries more than I do and it’s gonna be tough.

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I’m thick and needy.

Se t these to The Golfer. Three guesses as to his response.

Curvy as fuck.

See my bruises?? ON MY ARM, you pervert!

Baby bruise right there.

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I’m just a fool who wants to be loved.

So Peter has kidney stones. And the pain was so great, the trauma so overwhelming, he couldn’t text me until after he’d gotten his ex girlfriend to drive him home this morning. Never mind he was en route to my house and I texted worried and freaked out several times.

And before I heard from him, I texted The Golfer a hot pic of my breast hanging out while on a walk with the dog this morning. Surprisingly, he responded relatively quickly. He’s still spent from our night together, he said. I’m quite satisfied by that.

I’m having conversations with Peter in my car and kitchen, with The Golfer in my office and on my couch. Of course they can’t hear them, but it’s where I am strongest and most clear: Do not mistreat me! I say. Do not make me feel insignificant and worthless! I will not stand for it!

I’m fighting the urge to ask The Golfer to spend the Fourth or July with me poolside and in my bed. He will only say No.

And then I remember that giving them access to me despite how they’ve treated me is a hand written permission slip signed by me to keep doing whatever they fucking like.

One, I can handle. The other is going to have to go.

Ah naturale.

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We’re all just here to hurt one another.

I’m in a mood.  A bad mood.

I spent another magical night with The Golfer last night – our eighth since February.  He’d texted to confirm that morning that he would be too busy to hang out and said he didn’t want to disappoint me by making plans.  Two hours later he took it all back and asked me to come over at 4.  He apologized again.

Suddenly it all made sense.  He was actually thinking of me all week, worried about letting me down.  He wasn’t being a dick; I found it a kind gesture and agreed to come over at 6.

He met me at the door with a giant, sparkly smile and wrapped his arms around me from behind and filled his hands with my breasts.  He may have nibbled on my neck.  He told me his plan to talk to me, bathe me, tease me, feed me, then fuck me and that’s just what he did.

We took a shower together then fit ourselves together like a puzzle in the Japanese soaking tub and he massaged my chest and breast bones and watched me intently as my head lolled and my eyes pinched shut from the attention.

We sucked and fiddled with each other and both came close to cumming before we remembered The Plan.  Sushi arrived, we dove in to the food, me wrapped in his monogrammed robe, and then we went at it.

I clawed and bit him as he ravaged me with his perfect cock.  He rained down blows on my ass and hips and twisted and bit my nipples until I cried.

I came so hard I hiccuped my ecstasy and when he finally came buried deep in my ass I sobbed and laughed as eveyr cell I have seemed to fuse into one giant ball of molten feels.

We took another shower and fell asleep an arms reach apart.

I didn’t sleep again.

I dreamt that Dream TG callously dismissed me the next morning with a brushing away motion of his hand as he looked at important papers.  Go, Hy.  I won’t be walking you out.  Bye.  I was devastated and humiliated.

I awoke with a headache and sense that I’d only been asleep for an hour or two.  I got some water and went back to bed and hoped we’d fuck again in the morning.  We didn’t.

He quietly got up and let his dog out and got in the shower.  I took that as my cue to leave and got dressed while he casually watched from the shower.

“Do you want me to help you with the bed?” I asked him.

“No, that’s ok,” he answered, looking me up and down with a hungry look.  That was new.  Usually it’s just a look.

“Ok.  I gotta get home to the dog.  Thanks for everything last night.”  I opened the shower door to kiss him goodbye.

“Thank you,” he replied and gave me my usual peck on the corner of my mouth.  I’d hoped using his mouthwash might encourage a real kiss, but I was wrong.

I drove home listening to Lizzo with the windows down.  The post-dawn roads mostly empty, my body and mind still.  So this is how it is.

We smoked pot and drank wine and laughed so hard I cried.  We flirted and fucked and talked about what I don’t know.  Then the sun rose and it was all over.  Poof.

And as much fun as it all was I spent a tremendous amount of time processing our interactions: why don’t we touch when we sleep?  why don’t we fuck in the morning?  why won’t he kiss me on the mouth?  why has he said stupid things to me about other women?  why don’t we see each other more often if he knows what we have is so rare?  I was completely emotionally exhausted and couldn’t wait to see Peter for our Sunday pool date, to fill up on his sweet, loving energy.

I needed a hug and I knew he’d wrap me in his arms, kiss me, tell me how much he loved hanging out with me and hang on every word I said.

Home and still warm and buzzing from TG I texted him before 8 asking if he’d like to come over around noon or 1. At 10 he texted back to say he’d just woken up, but wasn’t feeling that well.  He was hungover; he’d be over at 1.

At 1 he texted to say he was freaking out – he’d found blood when he went to the bathroom -and he was en route to an emergency clinic and he’d call me as soon as he could.  I haven’t heard from him since and am not all that surprised.

I also don’t believe any of it.

I think he’s hungover and wanted to hang out with his new lady and I couldn’t quite argue against blood in his urine, now could I?  Short of emergency surgery or death, there’s no reason he couldn’t text me an update or answer any of my worried follow up texts.  None.

But the point is: I don’t trust him.  And if I’m honest, I don’t trust anyone.

People are dangerous, men even more so: they take and use and discard.  They’re precious and weak.  They’re selfish, unenlightened, and fragile.  And I bear it all like blisters on my skin, suffering, but still able to function and hike the mountain.

The Vet answered some recent veterinarian questions for me the other day and we briefly caught up.  I called him on his offer to be friends, but I know that was just bullshit.  He’s done nothing to foster a friendship since he said that’s what he wanted.  And despite saying he couldn’t handle even something casual I can see his online activity in search of such a thing.

My loneliness hit a peak as I sat on my couch, my makeup recently touched up for Peter’s imminent arrival, and my child’s absence palpable.  I put my head in my hands and cried.  Why does no one want me?  Why am I so bad at this??

Then I thought of the wife of the married man I’m talking to and how she thinks her life is perfect.  She thinks she has a loving and devoted husband – and she does – but he is also duplicitous and conniving.  She would be obliterated with the knowledge of what her husband does for his survival.  She’s “got someone” and it’s about the cruelest kind of fantasy one can have.

And I thought of the friend with a lifelong partner who’s a raging alcoholic who’s nearly lost his job because of it and only miraculously not killed anyone when he’s wrecked his car during blackouts.

And of the friend who’s cheated on her husband over the years as she’s dealt with his neglect and battled her depression and sense of unworthiness.

And of the friend whose baby daddy comes and goes as he pleases and isn’t reliable.

They’ve all “got someone” and I wouldn’t want what they have just so I wasn’t so alone on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June.  But I’m still sad.  I’m still lonely.

I swiped a thousand times on my reloaded dating apps and lazily browsed through Instagram when I came across this:

View this post on Instagram

 

I have such a crush on this guy. He repeatedly shows me how big his heart is and that it’s the little things that make up the best part of a relationship. After replacing my license plate covers at 5:30 in the morning because I forgot to the night before a road trip, and then setting out a beer in ice for when I returned from said road trip after being stuck for HOURS without snacks and a bathroom break (and not letting me enter till I had a few sips to relax), I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him as my sidekick through this life. He constantly makes me want to be a better version of myself and to continue to grow in love, patience and kindness ❤️ now I just gotta find some creative ways to repay him ?

A post shared by Becca Kufrin (@bkoof) on

It hit me like a ton of bricks.  Everything this reality tv star wrote is what I have longed for my entire life: to be seen.

I’ve never had a boyfriend or husband do anything remotely close to this.  I’m so starved for attention that when anyone does the absolute minimum that would constitute human decency I feel softened from the inside out.  It’s nothing short of pitiful.

I haven’t lost sight of my two big epiphanies, either: I have long entangled getting something from a man with him loving me; I do things for others in order to make myself feel special to them – they don’t make me feel special to them.

These broken survival skills are most obvious in my dating life, but easily apply to my life in general.  I don’t feel seen by my friends, either.  They overlook me and fit me in when convenient, even when I’m explicit in my need for help or caring.

It’s like we’re all just here to hurt one another.  Take one look at the news and it’s confirmed: babies crammed in rooms with no beds, separated from their families, my rights to my body being stolen away, one state at a time, more assault victims being panned and crucified.

And in my pocket, my little corner of the world, wives are being lied to, burdened and hurt, men are stifled and stunted.  I’m constantly being slighted and cast aside.

I’ve come at it from every angle.  Caring, not caring, hard, soft, all ages, all attractiveness levels.  I’ve abstained, I’ve indulged.  I’ve paid for dating services and done all the free ones, I’ve done nothing, too.  I’ve been Me across the board and all I feel I have elicited is an erasure of myself.

No matter how hard I try to draw the outlines of myself to the world I seem to remain hidden.  Except here.  Here I am seen, here I am real, here I am heard.

I’ve never needed Hy more.  I’ve also never needed someone more.  Looks like it’s gonna have to be me…

 

 

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Mammograms are important.

First nudie pic I’ve taken in recent memory is [fittingly] during a cancer-screening appointment. That should tell you something about my sex life.

Before the grabbing and pulling.
After the smooshing, all plump and warm. The mammographer said I “had a lot of ‘pack’,” which means my breast tissue is dense and makes for pretty pictures and high fives. Also makes it harder to find cancer…

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Friday, May 21st, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Yay!  I remembered Boobday!  Small wins.  Though I did forget to post on Tuesday and just played it off with a nice e[lust] post.

I haven’t taken any pics in days.  The married man has been away at a work thing and he’s been entirely MIA today – which is not what I expected.  But whatever.  Married.  Who cares?

I also haven’t heard from Peter which makes me as nervous as ever that he’ll flake on Sunday.  We’ll see.

I went ahead and reopened all my dating apps since the last crop was a colossal bag of poo in terms of potential (I’m sure they were all really nice men).  Nothing to report there except to say that when I’m not actively looking for a mate (of whatever variety) I feel like I’m not taking care of myself, like I’m not putting myself out there.

So, I’m back out there.

Also, still nothing from The Golfer.  No big surprise there.

I never did get around to posting my and Miss B’s pics last week, so you get them this week!

We’re now in the home stretch for Every Damn Day in June and I am so proud of all of us!  Way to go, team!

Ok, gotta jam.  I still need to write for Thursday!

xx

Hy

 

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:

I’ve always loved stripes.

NOT my tits:

Miss B’s pretty gossamer bra.
This is a sheer Gossard bra that shows the breasts/nipples in a beautiful way.  I also have a red sheer one; both favorities.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


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.

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Little joys, little pains.

It’s really freeing to not give a shit.

It’s also simultaneously lonely.

Peter came over for an impromptu night together on Sunday. He groaned into my ear how much he loved the way I fucked. For a moment I thought of the woman he’s newly entangled with, the one he’d told me he hung out with by the pool all day the day before.

I guess she doesn’t fuck like me.

We have plans to hang out by my pool this Sunday. I want to do that better than her, too.

But then I think he’s going to cancel on me. Something will come up. It’s like I told The Golfer repeatedly, I just don’t trust that men will follow through and I was surprised each time I ended up at his doorstep the day we planned.

To that end, TG is sensitive. “I can’t commit first thing Monday morning to a Saturday. I have a ton of shit going on and I don’t want to disappoint.” Maybe he doesn’t know what’s disappointing to me, to any woman.: to not be important enough to lock in a time to see me is rather a large let down.

So congratulations for not failing to follow through on a Saturday. Too bad you left me standing there grinning ear to ear all dressed up with no where to go. Silly, Hy, it’s Monday morning. Give the guy a break.

Peter said yes to Sunday on a Monday, though. Good for him. Only, I doubt he’ll actually show up. One-Month Crazy Lady will likely have a moment of some kind and he’ll need to tend to her.

I’m having 4 am girl flashbacks. — Oh, that reminds me, I saw The Neighbor again today. Pey and I were walking up the hill after swimming chatting away. I saw glimpses of him walking to his car then he drove slowly past us. Peyton didn’t even notice him. My baby only noticed the woman with a broken arm.

“Look mom,” Peyton pointed. “Now that must’ve hurt.” I had to look where the finger was pointing and it was right at TN pulling out. I wondered if he thought my baby was pointing at him. Fuck if I care. —

But yeah, 4 am girl, the one TN tried to date after he told me he didn’t want to date me. Crazy Lady reminds me of her because Peter has claimed he doesn’t want to date anyone either, but here we are.

Hot messes getting the guy.

My therapist asked if I could ask Peter why I didn’t seem to be a candidate for him. I’d told her I could, but I was too afraid of the answer to ask him on Sunday. Maybe I will at the pool.

Then again, I’m not sure I give a shit, but fuck it if I’m not lonely as hell.

Post kiss at a swanky downtown riverfront hotel. My date had to go back to work. I decided to stay and languish with my feet up and some bubbly rosé.

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