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!!


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!



One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email ( 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!)

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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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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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I feel the urge.

I want so badly to text The Golfer, to set something up, to know I’m on his mind, to know I’m special.

My skin crawls with my need for it, empty and fleeting like the cravings for sugar. I feel dirty with it.

I’m a mother fucking junkie for attention.

I’m jonesin’. And no, I’m not trying to be precious.

I’m really dying to know I’m not invisible, that I’m worthy and seen and wonderful. But I’m tired and sad and bleeding and really just too good for any of this.

Too good to pine over a boy who clearly doesn’t want me. Too good to waste my energy. And too good to waffle about it. It’s not him – spin the wheel on the man – it’s about being desired and that desire equaling worth in my brain.

I have to keep an eye on me: I’m not all that trustworthy, either.

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I caved.

I had a horrible dream about Peter last night. I dreamt that he came over to my house and asked if he could bring some friends. Of course I said, Yes.

I had other friends already over by the time they showed up: Peter, a blonde woman in her 30’s and a dude. I flittered between rooms hosting the best I could when it suddenly occurred to me that Peter hadn’t really said hello to me since arriving.

I walked back to the room they were in, sprawled on a big couch together. I scanned the scene: the dude was to my right, siting with a beer in his hand. Peter was to the far left, with the woman in the middle. His hand was just barely under her tee-shirt at her waist. Casual and intimate.

“What the fuck are you doing here??” I hissed instantly and without regard for decorum.

He stammered.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”  The three of them blinked at me.  “NOW!”  I shouted.

“I don’t have time for this fucking shit!  Get. The. Fuck. OUT!!!

The two strangers scurried out, but Peter ran to me and flung himself at me bawling.  “Hy, Hy, Hy!” he cried.  “You’re just too good to me!  I’ve wanted out for so long, but you’ve kept on being so amazing and I couldn’t let you go!”

Snot and tears ran down his face as it reddened against my bosom, his arms wrapped around me.

I stood still and hard looking down at him hating myself for making everything so easy, yet so hard for poor old Peter.

I pushed him away and told him to get the fuck out again.  Then – as dreams do – I was lost in the dark alley ways of some city in Italy.

When I woke, the dream lingered like a hangover and pestered me for hours.  I checked in on Instagram and saw that he’d posted again.  I liked it like I had all his posts the past week.  Then I decided to fuck it and DM him.

He responded almost immediately.

I told him that I’d dreamt he was very sad and I hoped that wasn’t true.  He replied that he was stressed, but otherwise ok.

I caved.

“I need some TLC and some of your dick,” I said.

“I’ll give it to you as soon as I can.”

I fucking fucking caved.

But Dream Hy knows what’s up.  Peter is also a liar and duplicitous and there’s a part of me that doesn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.  In the mean time, he’s the only person I know that wants to be nice to me when it fits into his schedule and I need someone to be nice to me.

I guess that’s the plan for now.




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