I still haven’t touched myself.

Though I want to. Badly.

I had a Guinness or two last night and The Neighbor stopped by, drunk from drinking after softball. He wanted me to try some of his jello shots.

As he walked in, I could smell the baseball diamond on him, dusty and sweaty. I imagined licking him clean and splitting my face on his pretty cock.

But then I remembered my promise.

I dutifully ate my jello shots while he explained his new recipe. I laughed as I swirled my tongue around the plastic soufflé cup at his direction. “That’s right. Now suck. Like this,” and I watched him fill his mouth with the grass colored gelatin.

Our eyes twinkled as I followed suit, my mouth stuffed to capacity. I struggled to move my tongue without parting my lips; it was a mouthful, to be sure.

I sat cross-legged on my couch, my white men’s Hanes tank top stretched across my breasts. He stayed a safe distance away. He never took off his cleats.

When he left to shower and pass out at 10:30 I told him he was welcome to return and watch Cheers with me. He thanked me, but declined. My hope to be strong and turn him down foiled.

I returned to the couch and laughed as Sam and Rebecca were caught fucking in the office. Naturally it’d be an episode of sordid details.

I fell asleep in the living room eventually. At 2, an aching back woke me up. I dragged my sorry, horny ass to my bed, spied my Hitachi resting unmolested in my bedside basket and groaned.

I didn’t realize until that moment how much I rely on a good orgasm to straighten me out.

This week is going to be interesting, indeed. Fuuuuuuck.

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Wouldn’t these be pretty with some pearl-colored jizz on them?

[Update: I still haven’t gotten any cockshots. If you’re shy, check out my tutorial for tips!]

I promise not to orgasm or fuck for a week.

You read that shit right.

My wet lips, my moist panties, the tightening in my cunt as I walk, sit, feel my short cotton skirt stretch across my thighs all must be ignored and beaten out of my mind.

A small exercise in control; a muscle flexed to prove a point; running in knee-deep water at sunset with a cocktail in my hand.

It’s possible, though unenjoyable. I’ve joined the other team, it seems. I’m part of the Peanut Gallery to pulse-thumping fucking and a compatriot to self-restraint.

I’m no longer the main event in these parts.

And I’m ok with that.

This is a new Hy, I suppose. For a week. It will steel my resolve for every time The Neighbor stops by for no reason for 3 minutes or pops his head over his balcony bars on a muggy morning while my baby and I are eating breakfast high above the palm trees.

I have made a promise to a friend — sweet, pervy AM — to not release myself. I can keep a promise to him. Not myself.

Sad, yes, but true.

So today, Wednesday, marks the first day of one whole week of abstaining from both orgasm and sex. A week from today I will post pics of me writhing and cumming with glee. Hopefully. Cross your fingers my partner in this gets laid because then I can at least touch myself.

The deal is, I won’t fuck anyone and AM won’t wank. And since we both find it unlikely he’ll have sex in the next week, I’ve decided to be a sister in arms and give up jerking off, too.  It’s only fair.

I will be a pulsing, whinnying mare in heat in seven days, guaranteed. I might also shit epiphanies and giggle rainbows. Regardless, whatever you do, don’t send me cock pics, ok?? (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com).

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Kiss me I’m drunk or Irish or whatever.

And PS:  Holy fuck! The ubiquitous Rincewind featured me today! I’m so honored and humbled!  Wowza!

I’m wrung out and horny.

The last day or so has exhausted me. Lots and lots to think about. Too much, really. I feel parsed out over so many words, like an envelope that’s been licked too much and won’t stay shut.

Also, my softball team creamed The Neighbor’s tonight. I was brilliant on first and at bat. We said hello, he was kind. I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his shorts.

We arrived home at the same time again. He honked at me, called me a pretty girl. We walked up together then went to our separate corners. “To vomit,” he said. He’d gotten sick.

Me, my reward is watching Cheers on my laptop on Netflix. In bed. Naked. And alone.

Thanks, everyone, for being my Internet boyfriend. Enjoy.

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