I was up 28 hours yesterday with jet lag and the time change back in the States and having coffee after 12 pm London time. Fuck.
I thought about posting Boobday, but didn’t want to tempt myself with falling down an internet rabbit hole when I should have been sleeping, so I put myself to bed at approximately 9 o’clock then proceeded to torture myself for the next 4 hours ruminating on wishing I’d brought a different suitcase (among other things).
So, here we are, on regular Hy time.
My friend, Miss K is back! She used to submit ages ago; it’s so lovely to see women come back to Boobday after long breaks. Sandy is sexy as ever and Miss B is here once again, as well! She’s on a 3 week streak, I think!
To all my fellow Eroticon-goers, I’d like to get a group shot this weekend for next week’s Boobday. Hit me up on Twitter or email email@example.com – or just come find me – if you’d like to join in! Here’s the group shot from Eroticon 2016. Just gorgeous, ladies!
I’m currently sitting at a little Italian Cafe a stone’s throw from the convention hall and about to set myself loose on London for a few hours to stretch my legs and beat this fucking awful jet lag.
See some of you tonight at the Meet and Greet! And to everyone else, Happy Friday!
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??”
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.
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 Palaceand 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.”
“I’ll see you in June,” he said.
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.
In late spring of 1999 I flew to Heathrow International Airport and took one of those funny, old-fashioned looking taxis to meet up with my family at some flat my father had rented. It was above a pub (everything seemed to have a pub below it) and within mere hours of close proximity to everyone I found myself downstairs without one cent of UK currency.
The pub looked like the Irish-themed bars in my city: dark wood, brass touches, a long, polished bar from years’ worth of elbow-rubbing.
I sat at a gap at the bar and listened to two ruddy-faced men with caps on. Their accents lilted, their laughter rumbled. The tall, curly blond bartender who looked to be about my age loped from one end of the service area to the other as they called out his name, “PEE-tah! PEE-tah!” and he deftly filled their orders calling them by name with a foreign accent of his own.
His partner behind the bar was a short man with salt and pepper hair and darting eyes. He missed nothing. “How can I help you, miss?” he asked me.
I explained to him I’d just arrived and had no British money. “That’s alright, I’ll give you one on the house. What do you want?”
“Gin, please,” 24-year-old me answered.
He gave me a drink called the Virgin Mary, a triple gin and tonic in a very tall glass.
By the time I hit the bottom of it I’d tried to talk to the two gentlemen beside me in my best British accent but had failed miserably. “Where are you from, lassie?” they asked.
“Guess!” I said coyly, worried they’d know I was faking.
They talked quietly amongst themselves for a few seconds before they began guessing out loud to me. “Denmark? Finland? Sweden!!” they blurted all the Nordic counties. They were convinced my bone structure gave me away.
I don’t remember which of those countries I picked — maybe it was Norway — but they were very impressed with my grammar! (I still laugh thinking about it.) I told them I’d spent a summer in Los Angeles recently to work on my English. They bought it.
Peter, however, didn’t.
He’d been hanging around our end of the bar and listening surreptitiously as he washed barware. “Where are you from?” he asked me directly.
I didn’t even try. “America,” I giggled.
He winked at me and I left.
A few nights later I returned with money in hand and a plan in mind. I wanted to hang out with Peter. Several days with my divorced parents, grandmother and judgmental sister had driven me to need time alone to be myself, to be Hy.
There were two American kids in the pub with me and the three of us chatted with Peter throughout his shift. When it was over they invited us to their rented flat across the street to get high. Sure, why not go somewhere with 3 strange young men and smoke weed? Sounds like fun!
The room was strewn with backpacks and travel guides and a little bong was on a coffee table. We sat around and smoked and laughed and if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you the names of the other two Americans; I only had eyes for Peter.
He was Swedish and well over 6 feet tall. He’d been in England for several months while he tried to figure out what to do with his life. His accent reminded me of snow and blonde braids and his smile was large and toothsome.
We decided to leave together and find another place to drink. His pub had closed at 9 so we walked some distance to an even darker pub below street level. We drank and made out, sloppy revelers in the bowels of a London neighborhood.
That pub closed at 10 and we staggered on to yet another and when that one closed at 11 — Why do all the pubs close at random times and so early?! I wondered noisily and repeatedly to Peter as we lurched down the street — he suggested we go home to his place. Above the pub.
“I live there for free and work below and Jimmy my manager also lives there. I’m not allowed to have anyone over.”
We sneaked through the darkened pub with only the shiny bits reflecting the street lamps outside as our guiding lights. “Shhh,” he reminded me as I began to laugh.
“Here. Get on my back.” We were at the base of the narrowest staircase I’d ever seen, tucked behind the bar. “He’ll only hear one set of footsteps.”
I jumped up and clung to him as he ascended each creaky, screaming step. I nibbled his neck and he giggled, told me to stop. He tripped and we muffled our laughs as he caught himself. Up three flights of stairs we were at his carved, wooden door.
His room was dark and shadowy and his window was eye-level with the street lamp. Light poured in and illuminated a window box with a cushion like a block of pale, artificial sun.
We were all over each other. Drunken, half-strangers. Our height difference made my neck hurt and he split his stance like a giraffe at a watering hole. My face in his hands, his mouth on mine.
The window box was long and we moved to it. I straddled him, the window to my right, and pulled my shirt off. My little 34B breasts were pierced then, perky. He moaned and took one in his mouth and I clutched his curls to me.
Our clothes peeled back to reveal our yummy bits and I sucked his deliciously uncut cock. “They don’t do that in Europe,” he explained in his loopy Swedish sound when I remarked on it. Literally drunk with lust I asked him if he had a condom. He shook his head.
I thought for a split second about it and decided to throw caution to the wind. I peeled off my jeans and pressed his naked body back on the cushion and sat astride him, his cock pressed against me, but not in me.
Above him like this I saw a beauty, a lithe young man heavy with passion — and me — bathed in light on his left side and melting into darkness on his right. His nose had a bump in it, his mouth a Cupid’s Bow. I cupped his face and felt his blond scruffy cheek against my palm.
I bent down and kissed him and wrapped my hand around his cock and slowly guided him in. This was me, this was what I really wanted to be doing in London.
He gasped as I sat back on him, my mouth locked on his, his air mine. I slowly sat up and wiggled him into me and he said, “Hyacinth, you are so beautiful. You are like an angel spreading her wings. I cannot bear it…”
I smiled and felt as though everywhere the light touched my skin and us I shimmered, and where we joined in the dark was cool and quiet. I felt alive and humming, utterly beautiful.
Sadly, Peter couldn’t go much further than just that. He was overwhelmed he said.
Instead, he pulled me down onto him and we cuddled in the window box beneath the city lamp.
Eventually, I had to head back upstairs to my family, but I gave Peter my email address before I left and for a number of years — nearly 5 — I would get an email from him saying he wanted to come to America and see me.
But I had moved on from that night and that place, though Peter would forever remain one of my fondest memories.
I’m returning to London in roughly a month for Eroticon where I’ll be speaking on a couple of panels. I’ll be in Bristol for the first few days of my stay for the convention itself and then will flit about after that until it’s time to come back home on the very next Wednesday. It’s not a very long stay, only a week, but I had less time than that my first time over.
I wonder if I’ll have as much fun this time around.