Being alone together.

I needed that big, hot cock buried full tilt in my ass just like that.  With the world melted away in streaks and the sounds of the city clinging to my skin like sweat, his big hands gripped onto the softness of my hips.  I needed to feel myself from the inside out, to feel a big body slide against mine, a soft mouth on the apex of my legs, to laugh from ear to ear when we realized we were both carrying around LEGO men with us.  I needed this.

I came to London to runaway again, just like the last two times.  To escape the stifling real life of home where Hy exists only beneath the surface and between the sheets and where I struggle to combine the two very complete sides of me into a whole woman.  London is where I ooze and pulse and flow in all my exposed, dirty glory.

I came with him rooted deep inside of me and loosed my joy in rivulets down my thighs.  We collapsed like two dominoes briefly before he went to the shower to clean himself up.

He’d booked me this room in Soho and I’d wandered here aimlessly after my Eroticon goodbyes.  It was a pretty nice room after I’d upgraded it from a tiny hole-in-the-wall.

He had to work late and sent many apologies.  “Shall I meet you in the lobby?”

He was tall, bespectacled, nerdy.  My type.  I had to work to keep up to his long Londoner pace to the restaurant around the corner, a Scottish seafood place.  Over wine we unraveled our stories, our trials.  He met me as me, not Hy, but I immediately outted myself.

“Actually, I’m here for a convention…” and so the story goes.  Secret sex blogger, it’s a big part of my life, Instagram account, been doing it for 7 years, won awards, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah.  His eyes lit up.  He seemed to see it as a bonus.

We laughed at the ridiculous way we’d met, but really, he said, “It was just easier.”  He worked 60+ hours a week and every weekend, without fail, he traveled hours back to where his little boy lives with his ex.  “All I can do is this,” he motioned between the two of us.  “And few women understand.  I want intimacy, but I can’t offer more.  It all goes to my son.”

I nodded knowing all too well that drive to connect in any way possible while life swirled around and swept me out to sea far from the shore of another person.  “I get it,” was all I said.  “I really, really get it.”

Sitting there with him at that little marble table something happened to me again, that very thing I seek in the big, dark city of London: I opened up like some great force was attached to a zipper tab pulling down.  All the way, unzippered, exposed, opened up, me flapping in the wind.

The dim candle light which flickered lazily lit my unveiling.  Nothing was off limits for either of us.  Heartbreaks, family, love lost, babies, fears.  And then it was time to go and I had no doubts for our imminent future together.  I wanted to be even closer to this stranger.

Outside he reached for my hand – such a little thing that no one ever does – and I clasped it warmly.  He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly as we stood on a busy corner like we had done this before.

I nearly skipped back to the room; my heart was open, my hand held, my loins alert.

In the room I grabbed a pad of hotel paper and drew a gallows and ten dashes.  He guessed my BUTT FUCKER and I guessed his PEEPING TOM.  SEND NUDES, BOXERS OR BRIEFS, SQUIRTER, and so on with the giggles and innuendos and references to things we’d talked about over that lazy candle on the marble table.  We couldn’t seem to lose so I upped the ante.  It’d now be strip Hangman.

I lost my tights and he his pants before the final game.  It was my clue.

As the solution dawned on him he threw me a wicked smile and crushed my mouth with his, deeply and passionately.  I clung to him and willed my skin to dissolve to be ever closer.

We fucked until I drenched the bed with uncountable orgasms and screams, until I sparkled pink and the neighbors banged on the wall.  The concierge called twice and, unfettered, I unplugged the phone in a rosy haze while we kept fucking until he emptied his beautiful balls in a dark, tight place semen shouldn’t go.

He left me shortly after – he had a long day of work ahead and he wanted to get some rest for me for the next night we’d be together.

I lay alone in the king sized bed spread eagle, sated, full, not alone.

The next day, completely homeless between beds, I strolled through Covent Gardens’ cobblestone paths and listened to violinists play in the atrium.  I bought a double-decker bus key chain and a London Tube tea towel.  I crossed the Thames and sat on benches and quietly watched the skyline as barges scuttled by.  I had a drink at the top of the OXO building and Facetimed my baby who was in New York City with my ex and then strolled through the Tate flitting from art to art like a fat little bumble bee going from flower to flower.

I took pictures of the Millennium Bridge to send to Peyton (“Its the bridge Volemort’s followers destroy!”) and walked across briskly, like I knew where I was going.  I ended up back at Trafalgar Square and sat on the lip of a fountain and watched scores of tourists take pictures.  A Russian family next to me were particularly enamored with the lone duck paddling behind me.  Are there not ducks in Russia??

It was no where near time to meet Dave, my Legoman.  My legs ached from criss-crossing the city and I was sad.  The potion we created from the night before had long since worn off and the drop from the highs of the convention seemed to have replaced my heart beat.  I was so, so alone.

I tried to imagine the day with someone and wondered why that appealed to me.  This day was completely mine to do with as I wished.  The year before Jean Claude had dragged me all over the city and the south of England and while I’d enjoyed it immensely I had still felt disconnected, disjointed somehow.

I meandered back to Soho and was turned away from four restaurants in an attempt to find somewhere to rest and have a glass of wine.  Fucking London and their tiny restaurants.  Finally I found a place to land out of the cold night air and waited for directions to Dave’s near Greenwich.

It was the only Uber I took the entire week.  I couldn’t muster the emotional energy to drag my suitcase through the tunnels of the Tube and navigate another part of the system.  My Romanian driver was nervous about dropping me off in the dark side street his GPS took us.  “It’s fine.”  Dave was right around the corner, his overcoat billowed open behind him, his arms opened wide for a hug.

I nestled closer and said I needed to rinse the city off of me before we headed to dinner.  I dressed quickly and powered my nose while he watched me and we talked about our days. The Italian restaurant around the corner was cozy and I ate almost my entire bowl of carbonara like a hungry street urchin.

Back on his couch he told me how special I was, how beautiful and sensitive and intelligent and open and so many things my brain vibrated with the praise and I faltered with words.  “You’re pretty great, too,” I said.

Our coupling that night was less urgent and more searching.  This would be the last time, possibly ever, we would touch one another.  His mouth was softer, more delicate, his thrusts more thoughtful.  I came more quietly, but no less robustly.  We fell asleep curled around one another.

When morning dawned I watched him from beneath my lids doing the mundane things men do every day of their lives that I never get to see.  He stretched, he staggered to the toilet, he peed and showered and put on deodorant, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  He put his pants on one leg at a time and fiddled with his cuff links.

His cologne smelled grassy and masculine.

He kissed me goodbye with instructions for his keys.  I could stay as long as I liked.  He wouldn’t be home until after 7, but I was off to my next destination in Pimlico.  Jean Claude was flying down the next night.  I cried.

I cried at my loneliness, the empty bed, the quiet.  This time the potion wore off much faster.

Deep beneath the city of London I sat between many strangers and watched tiles and things whiz by.  My belongings wedged between my knees, my heart feeling like a crumpled piece of paper.  Everyone avoided looking at each other until an American family from Florida boarded.

The mother sniped at her young daughter’s gum chewing and some nice Englishman engaged them almost as if to save the rest of us from their obnoxiousness.  I wished I was home with my dog.

In Pimlico, at the swankiest place yet, I could barely form sentences to staff to get to my room.  I cried in the restaurant and dragged myself back to my room and wept into a scalding shower, the water not nearly hot enough to scorch the loneliness from my being.

I wept for everything I do to connect, everything I lose by doing so, and everything I wish for, but fail to obtain.  I wept for the little me who somewhere along the line was so hurt she cannot trust anyone but strangers and for the grown woman who knows the difference.

I cried until the water began to cool and then wrapped myself in thick terry cloth and spread my tears on the bed.  I dozed and cried for hours until it was time to take another train to meet Girl on the Net for drinks with her friends.  I perked up like a watered plant in her sunshine.  When I left my dirt was once again dry and I drooped sadly as I returned to my room.  Alone again.

The next morning I lay in the cool dawn light, naked, and exposed.  On the agenda was only tea with a shy blogging friend at noon, then many more hours of nothing until Jean Claude arrived.  I decided to allow myself to sink into the solitary layout of my day and slept for several more hours twisted in hotel bedding, took another scorching hot shower, and boarded the Tube north once more.

Tea was lovely and I got to gaze into the most soulful eyes which, to my American eye, resembled exactly a lushly wooded English hillside with their greens and browns.  My friend was sweet and open and funny and flirty and, just like with Girl on the Net, my petals opened to his sunny disposition.  And, just like with GOTN, when I left I drooped again and could only just manage to crawl back in between my sheets until nearly after 10 pm when Jean Claude arrived.

We swept through the neighborhood looking for wine, bought two bottles and laid on my bed.  We talked for hours even though my eyes felt heavy and all I really wanted to do was fuck until I passed out.  But instead of rolling around with our clothes off we talked politics and finances and about family.  He asked about the convention and how I was doing.  He was interested and interesting and wanted to connect.  Finally I begged off, empty as a tin can, disrobed, and fell asleep in his big spoon.

On the second dawn in that room I fumbled for him and found his chubby meat resting in a pile on his thighs.  I stroked and petted and kissed.  I wanted to feel the connection from the night before, but whatever had happened between us was just a spell: his body remained aloof and uncompromising to my touch.

He managed to stuff himself inside of me a time or two and he swelled with concentration.  I  moaned and then he receded to some distant corner of his mind and I was left alone once again with a giant man on top of me who was not thinking of me.

Patiently and entertainingly, I played my fingertips along his skin and ran my body over his, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – come back to me.  I grew tired of the attempt to not to be alone and finally gave up, took up my position in his big spoon again and drifted back off to sleep.

We took showers separately and he bought me breakfast in Belgravia then walked me all the way through the Tube turnstile for the last leg of my trip.  He was nothing if not careful in his tender care of me.

We hugged goodbye and I felt a stillness where my heart should be.  I had already said goodbye to him in my own searching way in the dim morning light with him far, far away from me.

On the train north to Michael and Molly’s the urban countryside stopped and started half a dozen times.  I floated gently above my seat and the previous 9 days wove their way around me like silken branches.  I had transcended my earthly American body and inhabited the celestial London Hyacinth with complete abandon and whimsy.  I had never said no, never said too much, never stopped opening myself up.

As the train slowed down to my final stop I took a deep breath; one more day as Hyacinth was all I had left.

I crossed the tracks with my all my Hyacinth things and followed the pathway to an alley where Molly whooshed to a halt in her silver Peugeot.  Sitting on the wrong side of the car never felt so right.

At the house Michael crushed me in a bear hug then stuffed us all with homemade apple pie.  I hugged Cara hello and occupied her over-stuffed chair in the corner while she drank tea at the table.

The four of us, this motley crew of secret sex bloggers and advocates and writers and movers and shakers, perched in our chairs scattered around the kitchen table for hours.  We laughed and drank more tea, the other two women lamented at Michael’s rich foods and their potentially expanding waistlines.  I basked in the intimacy, the beautiful little family unit that I had somehow weaseled my way into yet again.

That’s when I realized: I needed that big, unconditional love and acceptance buried full tilt into my heart… just like that.

And then it was another dawn, another bleary-eyed Molly taking me to the airport, another hug goodbye, another security line to maneuver and another day-long journey home.

Alone.  Not together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, March 29th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Ahhhh, it’s the Big Boobday today!  This is where I share the most amazing group Boobday photo yet!  Thirty of us piled into a room at the end of Eroticon, unceremoniously stripped, and got up close and personal with one another.  It was glorious.

If you look closely, there are many, many body types represented here – though obviously we’re quite a pale bunch – the diversity in shapes, ages, and presentations is pretty fierce.

Thank you to all the folks who followed me to the back of the room and shared your bodies with me.  I promise to do something like this every single Eroticon I ever attend and hopefully someone else will organize it in my stead if I can’t come.

Don’t forget, Boobday is all about body confidence, seeing yourself through others’ eyes and loving the skin you’re in because I know that sometimes it can be a struggle.  We all need to see how delectable we are, to believe in our beauty, and to feel accepted.  Controlling your image, being in charge of what you show and when can be a big part of that for some people – I know it is for me.  I feel like a different person when I see an image of my body, like Wow, that’s me??  I want that for everyone.

I love you all and if I didn’t thank you personally that day I’d like to say it again now.  Thank you.  Boobday wouldn’t exist without you, your support, or your participation.

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 (and lots of others!):

Black and white image of a group of 30 white women naked from the waist up with their hands covering their faces
Glorious, glorious boobs! Pic taken by the talented Missy.

NOT my tits:

Miss B gets shady.

This is one of my first sheer blouse purchases and my favorite. Of course, you COULD wear a camisole underneath if you wish, but I do not wish to do so! I wish my boyfriend and others to be able to see my great boobs!

::

Sandy torturing her pretty titties.

A little rubber band play

 

 


Bright English mornings.

Hy stands on a small rug in her boots with Jean Claude's giant shoes and sunlight
A domestic scene.

I am not darkness or anger, nor hate or despair. I am sunshine and sweetness, pleasure incarnate, a playground of words and sensation that slips hot and silky down the gullet of my life and warms the belly of my soul.

I want to rip myself open for him and roll in our blood and semen and juices and fall asleep to baritone giggles and my own soft exhalations of peace. His pile of meat cradled in my hand, his hand on my hip, lashes to lashes as our chests rise and fall together, drunk on each other and happy.

When we are through twirling with comets and tasting each other’s sweat I want him to know exactly how I like my coffee because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me while the moon shone bright in the night’s sky. He is here for all of it. All of me. And especially the morning and long hours that follow.

He’s seen all of me, suspended and cascading. Swallowed me whole and is still thirsty for more. There is no possibility of him ever getting his fill.

Truthfully, I want him to bore into my center and spread like a fever, never to leave, incapable of leaving.

And then we have coffee, mine black. His with a splash of whiskey.

 — Excerpt from my, “I am Whiskey in His Coffee, in the Eroticon Truth anthology, 2018 available here.

When I wake up to the sun I am always alone for either I or the man I was with has typically stolen off into the night like a shadow, the intimacy we shared washed away with each step like tears in the rain.

I don’t know how to be when I see a naked shoulder and peaceful, stubbly face. I wonder how I must look, honestly.  Will he find me as fetching in the singularly innocent sunlight as he did under the cast of the lustful, boozy night before?  The tall Englishman I met sure seemed to.

Six-foot-four with magnificent, wild dark brown hair that glinted with the occasional silver thread and walnut colored eyes we met on a big dick website because when you have one and you crave one it’s a good place to start.

For weeks we chatted and talked on the phone.  He’s close with his family and friends, fit, loves his career, is paid handsomely and attends business meetings regularly not far from where I live.  This could parlay into something beyond our March days together, I didn’t know.

We planned on meeting on a Monday and getting a room.  If things went well he’d take the rest of the week off and tour the country with me.  Then tragedy struck a week before my trip: his uncle passed away.  There would be a funeral to attend during my stay, but he was committed nonetheless.  He wanted to meet me.

And so I woke up in that terrifying morning gaze twice, fingers and bodies entwined, smiles and snatches broken wide and open, all filled up.  I was out of my body and terrified, yet happy and at home.  This is what normal people do, I thought.  They wake up together.

On Michael and Molly’s font doorstep we’d kiss goodbye, sweet and fervent, all too quick after so much time.  Fifty-two consecutive hours spent together ended with, “I’ll see you in June.”

And then I cried in Molly’s arms.

::

We met at noon at a swanky London hotel in Kensington where I poured my heart out about my secret double life – the blog, how I was Hy, my tits on the internet – all before we’d even dropped off our bags in the room.

I paused and charged forward. “Do you still want to hang out??”

“Yes.”

And instantly the two parts of my lives zippered together. 

We strolled under dinosaur and whale bones and wove our way in and out of the crowds like old companions laughing, talking, sharing, and under gigantic tapestries and paintings I found myself hoping he would kiss me in some empty room at the end of a great hall.

When night fell, still and seated at dinner with the wine flowing, he told me how much he liked me and how much he was enjoying our time together and I bloomed and flirted shamelessly.  Confident my advances would be returned, his cool British demeanor replaced with enthusiasm and warmth, we melted into one another along the dark London streets back to our room.

There, under the gentle guidance of some delicious English sparkling wine, we played with each other.  First Hang Man to riotous laughter, then with our bodies lit with exploration – stop and go, learning, pivoting – followed by a cool dark dawn with fingers entangled, face-to-face, and hours of talk peppered with dozing.

I blow dried my hair while he worked on his computer below my elbow, a towel wrapped around his waist.  I applied mascara in the bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth.  The most prosaic of things novel and new.

I had survived my first morning with a man.

On Tuesday we traversed the city to his car and headed south to Brighton on the English Channel.  We ate ice cream in the cold, bright afternoon sun and sat on deck chairs on the pier and watched the people go by.  Too shy and out of my element to make the advance myself, I could only wish he’d kiss me at the end of the windswept pier behind the carousel.

My inexperience with a date lasting longer than 6 hours had begun to take its toll on me and I was fraught with insecurity and fear, worry and disgust that I had done something wrong.  He was done with me, tired of my shit, I told myself.

Emotions tumbled through me as he led me from place to place in search of what he said was the perfect Brighton souvenir for Peyton, some thing called a Brighton Rock.  “He’ll love it!” he assured me.  “It says ‘Brighton’ all they way down as you eat it!”

Words were streaky jumbles and I found speaking difficult.  I fought to appear normal until while crossing a lush, green courtyard I nearly burst into tears as we passed a man playing Stand By Me on his electric guitar.  I felt unmoored and lonely, lost.

I circled back around to buy a second to compose myself and dropped two 50p coins in his guitar case.  The tall Englishman didn’t seem to notice my struggle, though he had stopped to wait for me.  He never let me out of his sight.

That night in a little village inn somewhere north in Sussex I took a slug of wine, sat in one of the two red chairs and cried after he stepped outside.  “I’ve got to call my mum.  I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

Each tear a streak of fear and anxiety.  This kindness, this ease was too much for me, and I just couldn’t read him.  If a man isn’t pawing at me, is he interested?  Am I?

He appeared to be the type of man I’d want to know: educated, globally minded, kind, thoughtful, funny, sexy, and loyal. He understood complex situations and was sensitive to his own limitations. “I’m penny wise and pound foolish,” he told me.

I breathed through my tears and held my beating heart as I heard him approach from down the hall.

His face was drawn.  “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m ok.  I’m wrung out.  How are you?”

“I forgot to pack a suit, so I’ve got to sort that out, and I really think my mum needs me there.  I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you…”  We decided together that we would cut our trip together a half-day short so he could go home to his parents to prepare for the funeral on Thursday.  The decision felt good.

I poured him a glass of wine as he plopped down in the chair opposite me.  Maybe this was hard for him, too.

Later, in the dimly lit brasserie, we spoke sweetly to one another about our connection and expectations.  We would see each other again in June, for sure, he said.  “I have a meeting in America.  I’ll come out a week before or after.”  I agreed.

And a little while after that, after three courses and cheese and port, I sat on his lap on that same chair in our room and he stroked me through my black tights until I came like a cat in heat and left a wet spot on his jeans.  My fingers dug deep through his wild man hair and my mouth devoured his like I was starving for his flesh.

On my knees I set him free and impaled myself on his meat, gagged and drooled and dove down again.  A hot, wet mess from cunt to cock we tangled on the bed, and in the dark against the white sheets I found myself at the end of his cock buried beneath the waves of our lust and his long, probing fingers which dipped delicately into my asshole.  I was finally where I wanted to be.

And so I came.

Long, hard, trembling, I shimmered beneath him and kissed his neck and growled into his ear.  Fuck.

I slept a dreamless sleep, then in the indigo belly of dawn, I nestled in his nook, my ear on his heart and my hand on his warm chubby cock.

Lub-dub, throb. Lub-dub, throb.

Heart, then cock. Heart, then cock.  I told him what I felt and heard.

“Really…” he said.  I heard a smile.

“Mmhm.”

I rolled on my side, back to his front, guided him in.  Our last morning together.

We rocked and rolled and moaned together until we climbed to our knees where he buried himself into me like a desperate man reaching for something.  He was in my throat, my middle, my everything and when I felt his fingers pull my cheeks apart I begged him to touch me in my dirty little place again.

He slammed into my one hole and tapped and prodded at the other until my climax shook us both and took everything from me.  We flopped into each other’s arms.

“I’ve never been able to do that with anyone else,” he panted. “That angle doesn’t usually work for me.”

“I’m not like anyone else,” I replied, pleased.

“No, clearly not.”

We fell asleep in each other’s arms then spent the morning eating breakfast in the 400 year old inn’s dining room and exploring the garden outside our window.  Big shiny crows kept busy in the distance and purple hyacinths grew in the flower beds at our feet.

I had survived my second morning with a man.

::

On our last day together as we drove north towards his mother’s house I broached the topic of my writing.  “I rather like the idea of you writing about me and me not knowing what you say.”  I would write as if he’d read it anyway I told him.

“What would you like your pseudonym to be?”

“Jean Claude Van Long Dong.”

I laughed the most this last day, free of worry and doubt, hungry for the moments we had left.  We stopped at Hampton Court Palace and strolled through the halls and bed chambers of Henry VIII, and sat on a bench in the garden lined with gumdrop-shaped yew trees.  We kissed as the fountain’s mist kissed us and walked with our arms around each other to the back canal.  A herd of royal deer gathered not far away.

It was time to go.

A couple of hours later at Michael and Molly’s he helped me in with my things and said hello to everyone.  He could only stay for a minute or two — he was trying to make it home in time for dinner and taking me here was quite a detour.

I stood on the front step, he on the ground.  “Thank you for everything.”

We kissed.

“I’ll see you in June,” he said.

“Yes.  June.”

I turned to open the door then looked back over my shoulder.  He was watching me again. We smiled sadly at each other and I walked inside, saw Molly standing there and burst into tears.

“Oh, Hy,” she said and opened her arms.

I hate goodbyes and I want more mornings.

 

Eroticon 2018 Meet and Greet: Hyacinth is coming!

Hahaha – not that kind of coming!  I’m coming to London to Eroticon 2018!

I attended in 2016 and it quite literally changed my life.  For the first time ever I was Hy in real life and real time.  I was accepted and welcomed with open arms and I was changed, my DNA forever mutated.

Not only was everyone incredible, but I was honored to be on a panel with Molly and Girl on the Net about blogging and conducted a session on how to write real-life sex scenes.  They were significant highlights of the weekend that seemed unmatchable in beauty and and intensity except they so totally were matched by every other moment I had there.

This year I’m not on any panels or conducting any sessions, and nothing is brand spanking new, but this year I am returning.  Returning to friends, warm hugs, wives, laughs, community.  Home.  And I cannot. fucking. wait.

So, without further ado, this is my 2nd Eroticon Meet and Greet post!:

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

Hyacinth Jones, people call me Hy.  @adissolutelife

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?

The people!  My wives, friends both new and old and real and virtual.  Being in England at the end of winter – the land of [some of] my people.

Mostly I’m looking forward to that feeling I had last time of being where I belonged.  Living a double life is hard and very few people can relate.  Nearly everyone at Eroticon knows what that’s like and it’s a beautiful experience.

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song

 

Oh boy… I’m terrible when it comes to naming music!  I’ve been listening to a lot of Beastie Boys lately and Time to Get Ill comes to mind.  It reminds me of being a girl.

What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?

I was obsessed with horses and wanted to be a jockey.  I read every Black Stallion book Walter Farley ever wrote and if I could have been Alec I would have been him for a living.

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)

Under a bridge in downtown.  Got on my knees and gave a nice little blowjob while some ducks paddled by in the moonlight.  Then literally grabbed my ankles while I got fucked from behind.  We were down by the water so passersby couldn’t see us on the higher running trails.

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself

I lost my virginity at 19.

I love peas.

I wanted 3 babies.

Complete the sentence: I want..

… to be able to stop worrying about money one day.  Buy a house, be secure, be loved.

I don’t know what to do next.

I began writing because I had to.  Words crawled against the underside of my skin like so many marching ants, less like blood flowing and more like an itch that had to be scratched.  And so I did.

I began an anonymous sex blog on Blogger and wrote about the intersection of motherhood and being single, but I quickly realized I didn’t want to talk about my child in that iniquitous arena.  I morphed it into what I really wanted to talk about — my sex life — and wrote with an openness as wide as my legs.  Too wide, as it turned out, because I naively shared the URL with lovers and friends and soon felt the pinch of the gag in my mouth.  Semi-anonymous is not fun, y’all.

I decided to shut it down and regroup, but not before I somehow I caught Rori’s eye way back in 2011.  And thus began my journey to not only continue to write but to improve upon it.  I wanted to create content that was beautiful, yet compelling, thought-provoking yet welcoming and above all else entertaining and A Dissolute Life Means… was born.

Earning the top spot on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2015 list is what one might consider the pinnacle of my blogging “career.”  It’s what I ached to reach and worked so hard to achieve.  Its subjectivity humbles me, but the position also creates a welcome pressure to prove to everyone that I indeed earned that top slot.  I don’t want anyone to wonder, “Why the fuck did Hy get #1?”  At the very worst, I’d at least want someone to think that I’d worked hard to get there and at the best think it was well-deserved.

But with attaining a goal comes a strange dark side of achievement, the side of the mountain I couldn’t see as I was climbing the other: Now what??

Looking at the seven past #1s I find a variety of things ranging from a continued vibrant internet and writing presence to none at all.  One #1 disappeared shortly after her nomination under a dark cloud of allegations of illegal activity and another #1, Pandora, seems to have disappeared for nearly two years.  The other five #1s (Sinclair Sexsmith, Dangerous Lilly, Guy New York, Molly Moore, and Girl on the Net have all done exactly what I hope to do: grow.

They grew as writers, artists, and activists; they kept going, wrote books, gave talks, plugged in to the community of which they’re such a big part.  Some have even taken over Eroticon such is their dedication to all of us.

There’s a silence here in my life right now; I’m catching my breath.  Maybe I haven’t actually summitted anything.  Maybe I’m only half way there. 

This year has been a strange mix of unbelievable highs (Eroticon and London) and radical lows (health, finances, shitty anniversaries, continued heartbreak) and I have been bereft of my normally easily tappable imagination.  It’s not that writing feels like a chore, it’s just that I can’t seem to carve out the sacred space to allow it to happen.

And I have no shortage of stories to tell: Charlie the “Italian” waiter in Bristol, Poppy, Peter, George with the man bun, the many sub males with whom I am exploring my dominant side.  The men flow like the wine in my life – fast and continuous – but my creative juices not so much.

When I think about where else I want to go here a few things leap out at me: I want to convert this blog into a book, I want travel to London to attend and/or present at Eroticon 2017, 2018 and beyond if at all humanly possible, I want to keep advocating for body positivity and feminist sexual freedom.  And most of all, I want to keep writing.

I want to fill the world with my silly words that connect me to all of you.  I want to make art with these little black squiggly things pretty much for-fucking-ever since I can’t fathom my life without them – that’d be like eating food that tasted like nothing but chalk — but there’s a vacuum that my small success has created and I feel adrift.

I need to look more closely at my surroundings; there’s so much more beauty left to ascend and consume.

In lieu of a creative emotional space I have fallen still on my mountainside.  My exhausting summer of mind, body, and spirit must come to an end; fall, my most favorite, is oh so close.   Things will change because they must, but they’re going to change in the direction of my choosing.  I will regroup and refocus, double-down on my efforts because I’m not done.  Not even close.

I now know what is next for me: More — more art, more community, more Hy — and I will look at my achievements as flags staked along the way, not as stopping points, because I have higher to climb.  Hopefully, a lot higher.

 

Friday, August 5th, is Boobday!

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Thank god it’s August already!!  And as I write this, August 4th, it’s exactly 7 months before Eroticon 2017 in London!

So, please, if you have a minute, click here and contribute to my travel fund.  I need all the help I can get!

Or, click here, and buy tickets of your own to attend and learn amazing shit and grow as a writer and I’ll give you a hug in person!

(Or click on the appropriate lips in the sidebar if you’re on a computer, or at the bottom if you’re on your cell.)

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There’s been a lot of talk in the media lately about body shaming — too skinny, too fat, too something — and it’s reminded me of why I host this little meme each week: to prove that confidence is a choice and a skill, not something bestowed upon anyone.

I choose to be confident and have practiced it for many years.  Sharing my body on my terms exemplifies this, it contradicts the idea that anyone else but me has a say in how I feel about this body of mine.  I’m the only one in it — well, you know what I mean.

Today’s pic of me is one of my all time favorites.  Why? you might ask?  Because of how my breasts look loppy, full and juggly.  I know those aren’t really words, but just look at the picture and tell me you don’t think they’re the perfect words for them.

There was a time in my life when I would have been horrified to share this image, but today I am proud and I hope other women see it and the beauty in their own loppy, full and juggly breasts.

Or their toony, scanty breasts.

Or their sloopy, lushy breasts.

You get my drift…

We are more than the sum of our parts, but we should also celebrate those parts for being a part of us.

Happy fucking August, y’all!!

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

My tits:

Hy lopsided
I posted this a couple of weeks ago, but completely failed to do it justice in my comments.

NOT my tits:

Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.
Kim is chilly this winter down south, but she still looks nice and warm.

ops, forgot my shirt….. ;-)

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I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.
I love how gravity is fucking with Sandy here.

Napping in my car during lunch I realize I forgot to send a pic!!!

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This is Lauren’s 2nd Boobday and also her 1 year Boobday Anniversary. Welcome back, Lauren! Click the pic to see her blog.
Here I am lazing in bed before a busy day.

Click below for more amazingness!

Friday, July 1st, is Boobday! (With a surprise announcement!)

hy_tits_bannerLots of lovely boobs this week!

Thank you, as always, for lending me the images of your bodies and showing thousands of people that sexy and confident isn’t only what we see in a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

We’re far more diverse than just those lovely young women.

Ok, now for the big news!!

There were rumblings of something during this year’s Eroticon, but no one knew for sure what.  Well, it’s official!

EROTICON 2017 LONDON IS BACK!

The incredible, stupendous, fantastic trio of Molly Moore, @DomSigns, and Girl on the Net will be carrying the torch for the lovely and brilliant Ruby Kiddell!!  (You can also read all about them here.)

I knew by the end of my stay that I would have to find a way to make it back through fundraising and/or sponsorship.  There is absolutely no way I’m missing out on another one.  It’s too important to my writing, to my being, to my sense of community.

I encourage all of you fellow bloggers and writers to find a way to make it over there.  You won’t regret it.

LipsEroticon2tIWish LipsEroticon2trans250Attending LipsEroticon2HelpMeCurrently, I’m all three of these buttons, but grab yours and let’s get started!

Ok, I’ve been procrastinating enough today.  Time to get down to business and get these titties out to the world!

Love y’all!

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

My tits:

Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.
Three friends might taste this cotton candy this weekend.

NOT my tits:

Miss Shy's first, delicious submission.
Miss Shy’s first, delicious submission.

I’m very shy so this is very hard for me to do and because my breasts are so large-I’m very self conscious. I chose this pic because it was right after a cool shower and some coconut oil makes them appear somewhat exotic.

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I love the open shirt on Kim.
I love the open shirt on Kim.

Such a versitile item, the denim jacket…..clothed or topless!!

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I haven't figured out if she's anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.
I haven’t figured out if she’s anonymous or not, but she has submitted at least once before. I love so much about this pic. The white, the pale, the dark. Stunning.

Happy weekend ;)

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Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.
Miss Green lets the light hit her in all the right places.

Ms Green catching rays in the kitchen washing dishes.

Click below to see more!

It’s hard to leave your people: EroticonLive 2016

I’ve gone to ground since returning from London two weeks ago.  I’ve been unable to write, to think, to move.

Somewhere over the Atlantic — mid sobs — my lymph nodes swelled and my head cracked open.  For days after my skull blistered as I went through the motions of mothering and work.  By the following Monday the headache was gone, but so were my words.

I wrote in Heathrow and at 38,000 feet.  It took everything out of me.  I cried because of the beauty of the experience, but also because of the irony of my choice: a young man thousands of miles away.  Ben was safe to practice being all of me, Hy and the other woman.  He won’t want to be in my life full-time or even part-time.  He won’t demand I open up more than I want to.  Basically, he won’t need more of me and that feels fucking great right now as I navigate my way through zipping the two sides together.

It was a revelation to be more of me with one single person than I usually am with all of my closest of friends and those magical 36 hours never could never have happened were it not for the incredible previous 4 days at Eroticon.

I landed in the middle of the tarmac at Heathrow and we had to load onto a bus and drive for 15 minutes to even reach the terminal.  It was 3 am my time and I clung tiredly to my backpack and tried desperately to look like I knew what I was doing.  In a fog I shuffled through customs and angled for wi-fi to contact Michael and Molly, my fairy godparents for the trip, and let them know of my whereabouts.

“I’m here!  Gotta run to the bathroom and grab my my luggage then I’ll be right out!” I texted.

“Ok.  Just look for the short, fat man with a small penis,” was Michael’s response.

I knew at that moment the weekend would be remembered in the grooves of my marrow.

To be called “Hy” by everyone who saw me, to be hugged, to have casual discussions about sexual pleasure, agency and consent, to be in a massive conference hall with dozens of strangers and realize many of them had seen my tits, to know that each night couples frantically coupled high off the day’s activities, to drink and laugh and cry, to speak passionately about writing and sex.  All of this meant that I was a part of this small, yet vibrant and committed community and I felt like I was home.  Real fucking HOME.

There are many people who made my days in Bristol magical and who need to know their impact on me.  Of course my fear is I will forget some since it’s been so long now, but if I do, just email me and I’ll fix it.  My memory is utter shit, which is why I typically write about sexual encounters the day of or following day.

I called them my fairy godparents, but Michael (@DomSigns) and Molly are so much more than that.  At the train station Monday afternoon I had to fight tears as I hugged them for our 3rd goodbye in 24 hours (I had a couple of false starts). I didn’t want to leave them.

Not only did they drive me around western England, but they also took me under their wings and made sure I was fed, knew where I was going, how to get home safely from the “Italian” waiter’s house (he turned out to be Brazilian, for what it’s worth).  They answered my endless questions about the universe in general and never made me feel like a burden.  On the contrary, I felt like part of their little kinky family, their little sister.

Molly was a co-panelist on Ask a Sex Blogger and she conducted a brilliant session on photography and how not to take shit photos.  Michael did tech-y sessions and hauled out their BDSM arsenal for the last session on Saturday where he’d intermittently scare the shit out of all of us cracking his purple whip.  (I’m pretty sure the lovely Honey made that whip for them.)

They even set me up with the most incredible roommate known to man, Girl on the Net.  She wrote she could write an entire essay on me, well, the feeling is entirely mutual.  She’s vibrant and hilarious with a mile-a-minute intellect.  She’s sensitive, but tough and seems to be a shrewd business woman beyond what she’s alluded to in her writings.  She taught me how to get from our apartment to the hotel with long, Londoner strides and what “bell end” meant.

I went home earlyish Saturday night and bought a bottle of wine on my way home just in case.  She burst through the door not long after having DMd me, “Shit!  I didn’t buy any wine!”  We drank and talked until fatigue set in and in the dark in our little twin beds on wheels we talked more like kids at camp until we both suddenly agreed we’d never stop talking unless we just decided to.

The next morning she was my co-panelist for Ask a Sex Blogger and by the end of the night we were deep in our cups laughing until our sides ached.  That night I got home after her and flung open the bedroom door.

“GOTN!  Come talk to me!” I shouted to the mound of covers in the dark.

“I’m tired!” she answered.

“No!  Get up!  THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!” I insisted.

And guess what she did??  Guess what this wonderful, funny, bad ass, wickedly awesome woman did?

She got up.

And we watched Babestation together and she fed me her peanuts and we drank more wine and she recorded us rambling about what, God only knows, until nothing but sleep was an option.

The next morning she walked with me for a bit back towards the Raddison then gave me a fierce hug and just as hurriedly as she’d run into my life 3 days earlier she was off to catch her train home.

Marie Rebelle is another I can’t forget to mention.  I could lay cuddled in her arms for days.  She’s focused, sexy, and kind and her love for the community was evident each time she saw a familiar face who’d embrace her.  We dined together and drank and talked endlessly about life and kids and kink.  And of course there’s her indelible partner, the quiet Master T, whose wit and sweetness was a perfect compliment to Rebel’s.

Remittance Girl wowed me with her intensity and sharp wit; eye and I somehow found each other in the Raddison lounge and shared at least two bottles of bubbles on two separate occasions; Liza and I talked and laughed like sisters.

F. Dot Leonora and Exposing40 burst into my life simultaneously with hugs and smiles and by the end of the weekend I had promised Leonora some fiction and was saying Hello! just like Exposing40.

The Other Livvy and EA were at the end of at least a couple of friendly toasts to the weekend.  Livvy lent her tits to our Boobday endeavor and EA showed me the edits he made to his reading once he’d taken my session.

I caught Jilly’s session on how to let real life inspire a story and wrote my first piece of fiction in years and Innocent Loverboy helped me with what -ing words are called in my own session and was my go-to guy for all the proper grammar words and then came up with a terrific story in my workshop.

I made sure to meet Charlie Powell and catch her session about writing about disability intelligently and she was everything I’d hoped and more.  Also, an extremely good hugger.

I lusted after Zak’s pants, watched in awe as Pandora paddled Celine’s bottom while Gryphon branded people in the other corner and Kerry used ropes on eye, became mesmerized by Andriy’s eyes which were like an Icelandic pool at dawn as we talked about sex and culture and he nibbled on his pie.  Every chat was another petal on the sunflower that was the weekend.

Adam and Monika are the two masterminds behind Godemiche and the dildo making duo can only be called artisans, really.  Their Technicolored phallic forest a testament to their dedication to beauty and functionality.  I blushed mercilessly as I chatted with Adam while holding a silicon replica of his beautiful cock.  Not every day that happens.  And Monika lent not only her breasts, but also her creativity to the group Boobday pic.

Alyson of Hot Octopuss (makers of ) and I chatted about sexual pleasure and the amazingness of their toy and their #SexWithoutStigma cause and Will from Doxy and I talked about vibrators until my cheeks were red.  The folks from Mystery Vibe told me they were fans of my Instagram account even before the realized who I was and I regret not having more time to speak with them about their creation.

Ruby Kiddell, the creator of this event, deserves a gold medal and every gold star known to man.  She single-handedly carved out a space for us to all meet and though it’s sad that her book is now closed as the steward of this gathering she has nonetheless set the bar high.  And though it was her “job” to run the show throughout the weekend we still shared good laughs and lots of toasts.

She’s a tough cookie and I can’t wait to see what she comes up with next and I hope she comes to whatever incarnation Eroticon becomes next because without a doubt I will be there, too.

The very last person I saw from the weekend was Stella who rode with Michael and Molly and I from Bristol and who then rode with me on the train until her stop which was miraculously just one before mine.  We laughed at the indecipherable message about 4 cars ahead in a London station and any numerous other things and she patiently answered all my questions about how one rides a train.  More excellent hugs were had and given.

Lastly, I’d be remiss if I forgot to announce that while floating on the waves of many glasses of crisp white wine at the very purple Raddison Blu Hotel bar in Bristol, England I got married.

To three stunning women.

I won’t tell you the order in which it all happened since there was some debate about this, but Molly, Girl on the Net and Rebel made me a very happy woman that night.

It’s no wonder my heart broke when it was all over for where else on the planet can a weekend like mine be topped off by three incredible women wanting to be your sister-wives?  Who argued over who should be my #1?

The truth is, I don’t deserve any of them, but I will endeavor to always be that woman they found me to be, because I want to be that person all the time.  I want to be the woman everyone met and hugged and spoke and laughed with that weekend.  I want to be more of me all the time, not just once in a lifetime.

I guess it’s time to let Hy take over a little more

 

Friday, June 3rd, is Boobday!

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This week I’ve been quiet.  I’m dealing with some funky health things and to be quite honest I still miss London.  I miss everyone I met while at Eroticon and I’m still transitioning back to my life after Ben.  That week abroad recalibrated me and I’m struggling to figure out what that means moving forward.

So, I apologize for my silence (and my late Boobday posting) yet again, but I’m still here, not exactly “stewing,” but more or less digesting everything.  It boggles my mind that barely over a week ago I was immersed in a completely different world than the one I continually find my self waking up to here.

Anyway, lots of ladies have sent in their pics to me this week.  Some new, some old.  As always, thank you so much for your continued support and love.

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

My tits:

My "Smile often and always" shirt.
My “Smile often and always” shirt.

NOT my tits:

Kate (pictured here) and Kim (next image) have almost identical photos this week and I kinda love it.
Kate’s pic makes me want to cuddle.
You can always tell when my boobday pic is taken last minute as it will usually be in bed. It’s almost midnight here. :)
Very tired boobs tonight. Sun shining brightly over here today. I should have remembered earlier and taken a boobday photo in the sun!
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I love the peak of the South African sunrise over Kim’s shoulder.

Good Morning Boobie World xxx

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It’s my boob-twin, Anonymous Aussie! xx

I finally got my act together for Boobday this week.
As I was leaving the bathroom, bathed in the light from my hallway, I’d noticed how long my hair had grown & the soft glow of the light on my skin. I just had to capture it.

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FullSizeRender
Welcome, Miss Green, to Boobday! Thank you for sharing with us and showing that beauty is everywhere.

I chose this picture because it reminded me of two water melons in a string bag (you know the 1970’s red string shopping bags lol) all juicy and ripe. I like the way they look in the picture less saggy more luscious lol.

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lolamoi03jun16
This is also Lola’s first time here at Boobday. I love the corner of blank space and how her dark hair leads us to her nipple. Check her out at her blog.

Teaching myself to love my bold, bulbous nipples.

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Sandy has been remiss with her sunscreen.

Tan lines (ok ok…sunburn lines)

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Check out the links below to see who else is participating!

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

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I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

The morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.