I’m listening.

I see the way, the obvious choice, I cannot ignore it.

I listen to his words, keenly and intently, like my wings are pinned to a wax board.

I believe him when he shows in a dozen different selfish, crushing ways that he cannot show up for me – even a little, even for a moment – to prolong the magic of our meeting.

I know he’s spent what little energy he has on me already and now it’s gone. Poof. Down a vodka on the rocks and the 18th hole.

You know what’s also gone? My lady boner. She has died – may she rest in peace. It was fun while it lasted, but I need a break and my wings need repair.

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I survived a very long, boring day.

I woke up before dawn and took Peyton to a swim meet.  I ran around for a few hours and hit my 5000 steps by 11 am.  And then it was over and my ex took my baby back home to his house and I was left to my own devices.

I ran errands, got stuck in that weird Target shut down (which saved me $150, actually, so thank you, Target!), and window-shopped for hours on my phone like my life depended on it.  I sorted through important life documents, did a few chores around the house, loved on the dog.

And I was thoroughly, completely bored.  I mean, so bored.

But, I managed to not do a few things, too.

I didn’t prowl for men, I didn’t hit up men I already know, and I didn’t mindlessly eat or drink.

So while I was devastatingly bored, I was also busy.

Busy sitting with my discomfort, busy trying to manage my need to be around people, busy getting organized.  Basically, I was busy making better choices for myself for a change.

And it’s 11:53 and I’m going to post just under the wire and day dream about London and about being like the couple I saw come home an hour ago from my perch on my balcony.  She ran up behind him and wrapped her arms around him and he turned into her and kissed her even as they kept walking to their apartment.  The cicadas seemed to chirp with delight at the little show of affection.

I haven’t felt that kind of abandon with someone in years, the freedom to show that kind of fairy-dust-affection and guilelessness.  Maybe soon…

Shit, it’s 11:56.  Better hustle!

It’s been a minute.

 

Sinful Sunday

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Friday, June 14th, is Boobday!

Jesus Christ. I cannot be trusted with this blog. How I forgot today was Boobday is beyond me, but maybe not y’all. I assume you’re used to my absent mindedness. Maybe? Hopefully??

In any case, I’m sitting in a parking lot far away from my house after getting my chin whiskers lasered, pecking this out on my phone before I go and have another vanity appointment.

After that appointment I’ll be meeting with the married man. The jury is still out on whether or not I’ll engage, but his attitude is wild and fun and free and – like every other cheater on the planet – doesn’t want to change his situation at home. Additionally, he’s never been faithful to anyone. Not sure why he hasn’t just admitted to himself and all his partners that he’s not monogamous, but that’s a thought for another day.

For now I’ll focus on his tight bod, his English accent (that’s right, he’s a Brit), and his attention on me because God knows I dig that.

My impromptu date from last night was a bust, but I did get my extroverted urges met, so that’s good. I also (re)learned that I’m not into men who live with their mothers, especially for child rearing help despite having a great paying job and a house of his own to live in. Boohoo, man, grow up. Ugh.

I also need to go and do links on some of my past couple of posts. I don’t presume y’all remember who all these revolving characters are. I can barely keep everyone straight.

And don’t forget!!

BOOBDAY IS OPEN THROUGHOUT THE WEEKEND!!

So post as you please and double up on memes! Lingerie is for Everyone ends today and Sinful Sunday is, well, Sunday!

Ok, c’est tout! Love y’all!

xx

Hy

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:

(My phone won’t upload the image, so I’ll have to do it later, but just imagine a side shot of me on my balcony sitting in a chair with my boobies in the sun.)

NOT my tits:

(Again, phone is being a fucktwat, so I can’t upload Miss B’s lovely gossamer bra, but I will later!)

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

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You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


I’m in extrovert hell.

I told my therapist today that I worried I might get myself into trouble this weekend, my need for contact with people is so high.

Imagine that urge, dark and insistent, to seek solace and quiet when you’re overloaded and stretched so thin you think people can see right through you. A clinging, persistent hiss in your ear to be the fuck alone. I get that to be with people.

It’s like dry mouth and I must have a long, cool slug of something lest I fucking die.

First I reached out to friends about happy hour, but they weren’t available. So I reached out to another friend and while I waited to hear from her I decided to pick up a dropped OKC thread.

Then while I was sipping rosé with her – feeling largely dissatisfied still – he and I made plans to meet up later at my favorite little wine house at 9 o’clock. I felt moderately better.

He’s tall, goofy looking, fit, funny, and a single dad. And 10 years my junior. Of course.

(My meeting with the married man this morning never happened: kid stuff popped up.)

I am going to keep a close eye on myself this weekend and maybe just contemplate my navel instead of actually finding that trouble I’m worried about falling into.

Hopefully this goody fella will do the trick for my thirst.

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A quiet night.

It’s only Wednesday and I’m exhausted.

I’m meeting a married man at 8 am for coffee.

I have no plans this weekend. With anyone.

The Vet texted me this morning and we had another inane, short chat.

I’m still angry at the 20 lbs I’ve gained since 2015. Wtf.

Im sipping white wine and watching the third season of Black Mirror and am terrified.

I wish I was obsessed with something that hid me from the rest of the world. Like golf.

The pic from Saturday night that never saw the light of day.

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You teach people how to treat you.

Peter and I met today at a little pizza house down the street from my office. I kicked off my Calvin Klein pumps for my battered Chucks and walked under rain-heavy clouds, my laptop in my tote. I was immersed in my work and a glass of white wine when he arrived all long legs, lean hips and a shy smile.

He looked worried which kept me rooted to my seat. What was he here to tell me? Were we going to say goodbye? I wasn’t sure what would happen; I have no experience telling people they can’t treat me a certain way.

We made pleasantries and I marveled at his dashing good looks. “So, why did you want to meet besides showing off how pretty you are?” I said breaking the ice, smiling slyly.

He made a coiffing motion with his hand and smiled back, laughing.

He explained the circumstances that prevented him from coming over Sunday and apologized again for hurting me. “You deserve to hear from me in person and not over text,” he said. He’s disoriented and lost since ending his relationship last month and he’s been couch surfing. He’s also somehow already gotten entangled with another woman who wants him to move in with her. He looked hurt as he told me.

“I don’t want to repeat my past,” he said. “But she seems to think we’re a thing and it’s not what I want.” I did a little probing and discovered she’s a woman I noticed on his Instagram despite no social media trail I could see. (“I’m psychic,” I told him.)

“Get out, Peter, you can’t keep staying there with her. You don’t seem to realize your effect on women. You are so pretty and so kind and so sweet and we are all so horribly treated that just the most minimal humanity shown us is seen as interest or intention to commit. You need to be sensitive to this about you and be responsible for it. Get the fuck out of there before you hurt her.”

“This is why I love talking to you,” he said. “You’re so mature and respectful and straight forward. I believe everything you say.”

“We’ve known each other for years now and I care about you. C’mere.” I moved my purse and patted the seat next to me. He moved closer and we embraced. I nibbled on his lips and he stroked my hair and back.

I told him about The Golfer and The Vet and how his flakiness has been coinciding with their whatever; I wanted to show him what a woman typically deals with.

“All my friends who date experience similar things: men are fucking awful to us. Please, you can stay with me when Pey is gone, sleep on that bed, you don’t have to share mine. We’ll get high and watch cooking shows and I’ll play with your penis.” I pulled him down to my lips again as I laughed. “It’ll be like a slumber party!”

He laughed into my kiss. “Thank you, and I may…” he hesitated. “It’s just I’m never jealous of you and all the men you go out with, but I’m jealous of her.”

“That’s your gut telling you to get the fuck out. You have got to end it now before you hurt her more. Look at these men I’ve been dealing with: yeah, it hasn’t been awesome for me, but they’re being honest and setting boundaries. They’re not interested in a relationship with me and they’re being very clear; I’m free to leave if I wish. You need boundaries.

“I was in a 3-year long relationship with someone who loved all I offered him, but didn’t really want me and it was devastating. Don’t do that.”

“I heard that “you teach people how to treat you,'” he replied.

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I called you out yesterday for hurting me and why I called The Golfer out for ignoring me for 3 weeks. If I decide to accept less than I deserve or want it’s on me, but I have to set the boundaries. We all do.”

I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a losing campaign with Peter. He’s catnip to women and he doesn’t know how to be on his own. I don’t know why I care, but I do. I just really don’t want to see him ‘shipped up so soon.

I also feel something – that this one-month chick is being so damn nutty and capturing his attention and being rewarded – What about me?? Why is her fucking ridiculous behavior attractive?? Am I chopped liver? It kinda sorta feels like it. I’m in the Sex Silo, but not the Girlfriend one. Maybe if I were clingy and inappropriate I’d have a boyfriend by now, maybe Peter would want me – except I don’t want Peter, he lies. It’s all so fucking fucked up. I’m fucked up.

But whatever.

I “taught him” not to treat me like that and I was rewarded with a warm smile and a kiss of friendship. It wasn’t half bad. And hopefully I’ve spared some idiot chick years worth of heartache loving a man who was “too nice” to hurt her to her face and instead cheats on her for relief behind her back.

I paid for my glass of wine and he walked me out. A line of cars on the street waited for the light to turn green as we kissed on the sidewalk in front of them; I cupped his buns and pulled him closer and we smiled into our kiss at the little show we were giving. I walked back to my office and the clouds let loose little kisses of rain along the way.

I’ll see Peter again soon.

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I suck.

This weekend was a roller coaster of emotions, highs and lows and vodka and shitty men.

I had an incredible weekend of mommy-ing, one of the best.  We loved on each other, laughed a ton, cuddled, played in the pool, I rooted and cheered at a swim meet, we saw a movie.  It was fucking great.  Just what a summer weekend should be.

With school out, Sunday swaps make more sense, so this weekend was my first Sunday free.  Peter and I made plans for him to come over – he’d cut out of a poker game early, he said, and would be at my place around 7 or 8.

Meanwhile, Saturday night I’d gone out with friends and had vodka, which I never do.  At 2:30 am I drunk texted The Golfer whom I still hadn’t heard from – that liquor sure did a number on my resolve to not text him.  Fuck.  And it’s almost worse than drunk dialing of the ’90s because the worlds stay foreverrr, but I digress.

I texted asking if he were mad at me because I hadn’t heard from him knowing full well he wasn’t, but I thought it was a good enough ice breaker.  And then I asked him how he managed to not drunk text me.  I thought I was so cute!  But I guess it worked because he texted me Sunday morning.

Of course he wasn’t mad at me, he texted.  Then, “Come over and squirt all over me…”

I had plans with Peter so demured.  Also, I wasn’t crazy about being ignored for 3 weeks then invited to bring my pussy over to play.  I decided to tell him his silence was confusing and that I’d like to continue our affair, but wasn’t sure he wanted to.  His response was to simply reiterate his invitation.  But, Peter…

I suggested this coming weekend instead, but he said he couldn’t due to “some shit going on.”  I was disappointed – both in the scheduling conflict and myself over all.  I shouldn’t be entertaining this, right??

I decided to focus on Peter’s visit instead.  We’d texted a little Saturday, but I hadn’t heard from him yet.  I texted and… nothing.  But I didn’t fret.  It was Peter, after all.  I trusted him to keep our plans.

But 7 and then 8 o’clock came and went and no Peter.

Concurrent to all of this, a friend of mine asked if we could go swimming together yesterday – code for using my pool.  I told her I had plans to swim after a 1:30 movie.  At 3:36 I texted her letting her know we were headed to swim, but she’d found another pool and said she “wasn’t sure when we’d be done.”  Peyton was disappointed and confused, my friend’s kid is a bestie.  “I thought it was us she wanted to hang out with.”

“No, baby, she just wanted the pool, I guess.”  Nice, thanks, Amy.

I texted Peter this morning:

WTF Peter 😔 You completely flaking on me last night really hurts my feelings. That was so disrespectful and not at all what I expected from you – which is why I told someone else I wasn’t available to see him. I figured you would keep your word even though I hadn’t heard from you. Seriously, what happened?? If you don’t want to see me, just say so, but don’t fuck with me like that, please. My time is far too precious and you know that 😢☹️

I’m pretty fucking pissed right now, but I don’t hate you. Please text me back so we can work something out. I’m thinking we need to put this on the back burner or maybe say goodbye for a little while. Both make me sad, but getting stood up is worse and not good for me and I’m not going to put up with it from a man I like and trust.

He just wrote back.

Apparently he got his work truck towed with both his phones in it – though that doesn’t make sense because he said he would be too tired to come over Saturday night after work, so not sure where his truck was that it’d get towed seeing as he should have been at home.  He apologized and asked if he could see me for a quick minute to talk in person.

I didn’t post yesterday.  I thought about it, but just couldn’t bring myself to put words to paper.  I was humiliated and hurt and embarrassed.

And then this morning I texted The Golfer a video of me and my breasts on my balcony and, long story short, I’m headed to his place tonight after work.

I suck.

 

 

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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.

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Friday, June 7th, is Boobday! + May Roundup!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I thought Every Damn Day in June would ensure I wouldn’t forget to post early for Boobday, but I was wrong!

Coming back home from California was a shit show.  A four-hour delay meant we didn’t land until 4 am and I had a meeting at 9 am.  I’ve been playing catch up ever since.

Add in some extra emotional labor and boom! I’m asleep on the couch last night at 8:30 completely disoriented as to what fucking day of the week it is.

So now I’m on my balcony listening to some coffee shop playlist on Alexa sipping coffee and taking tit pics of myself, per uzh.  [Update: had to move inside because it’s so fucking hot already.]

Oh, and don’t forget that the voting round for the Smut Marathon is still open!  Go vote!  The stories are all told from the perspective of not being able to see anything!  Very cool, if you ask me.  And early bird tickets are still on sale for Eroticon!  There are only 4 left!

Lastly, I had a really hard time picking a Top Anything for my first Boobday Roundup.  I had about 12, then 7, then 7, still 7!  I finally whittled it down to 5, then hacked it to 3, then added back 2.  I love all your creativity and thank you so much for doing this with me!

In no particular order my favorite 5 images were:

Miss Scarlet Writes – I loved the color edit and the shadows, the hint of things

Anne Stagg – The angle, the closeness of her nipples to the edge

Love is a Fetish – When you see it you’ll see why I chose it.  I love the tension

Bisexual Minx – It’s actually her hands that do it for me: they’re so relaxed and make the scene 10x more intimate

Purple’s Gem – Her hair is alive and you can feel the intensity of the situation

Ok, I’m still half brain-dead.  My allergies are attacking my face, as well.  Welcome home, Hyacinth!

xx

Hy

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:

My shirt says SUPER MOM.

NOT my tits:

Miss B shines in silver.

 

 

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


The epiphanies keep on coming.

Short version:

I went to therapy desperate to reach out to The Golfer; I left without the urge.

And in the middle I cried because I realized that in order to feel special to someone I believe I have to do something for them.

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