I believe.

Getting ready to cook my ass off.

I believe in lots of things:

Family driving me nuts
A bright grey sky that gives way to blue
Friends’ unending capacities to listen and support
My loving Internet Boyfriend
Rosy cheeks and cold noses
The lisp of a child
A turkey that got to be a turkey
Canned cranberry sauce that keeps its shape and quivers under my scrutiny
Quivering beneath my lover’s gaze
Moving on
Owning who I am
An empty wine bottle
A warm hug and a furry cheek
A warm hug and little arms

Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans, Happy Hanukkah to my Jewish friends, and just plain, ol’ Happy Thursday to everyone else!

All the best,


I wait at bars for friends.

Would you come say hi?

I promise I’m a friendly sort.

I stand naked before you.


Both literally and figuratively.

As always.



Sinful Sunday
Click to see who else is being sinful!

I fantasize about blowjobs and being a good girl.

Cardigans are my friend.

It was 65 and muggy and the light grey eyes I’d come to expect each morning would soon be on me. I tried to rest nonchalantly against the wall near the bus stop, but felt anything but inconspicuous with a washed-off coffee stain on my shirt and larger-than-fucking-life tits jutting out arrogantly from my cardigan.

All too soon, I saw him walk up.  His comely daughter tagged behind, her nose buried in her phone.  She rides the bus with me and we never speak.  Her father and I typically exchange small talk until the bus arrives; awkward, yet obligated words.  He’s tall, lanky, Irish.  A transplant with silver hair and matching scruff.

I remembered the pic I’d just taken and sent off to The Neighbor with the note “I’m feeling better about my body.  Will you please fuck me tonight?” and stood a little taller.  The past few days I’ve been plagued with self-doubt and body dysmorphic thoughts, felt heavy and saggy.   This kind photo spun me around and opened my eyes.  I knew this married man found me attractive; his furtive, nervous glances couldn’t possibly be anything but guilty approval of my body.   And I wondered what it’d be like to debauch him for no other reason than because I know I could.

I wondered at the sound that would escape his lips, the taste of his warm, turgid flesh.

I imagined a springy nest of hair, a bouquet of clean man, and a tremble beneath my hands as I gripped him back in my apartment, my bus ride skipped and his daughter on her way without my silent presence bouncing nearby.

He would speak softly about how wrong it was, that he shouldn’t be doing this, that his wife hated to suck his cock. Stilted, Irish lilting.  Magical and halting to my ears.

I would smile up at him, his erection dividing my face with its fleshy stripe and he would be lost on a sea of conflict as pleasurably confusing as watching a stallion mount a mare.

Then I would flick the glistening aperture of his cock with my tongue, unafraid of his body’s response to me, and then suck in the head, letting the helmet catch on my lip like a hook.

My eyes would close then as I lost myself to lavishing his cock with attention. My legs would quake, my pussy would pulse and in seconds he would be fumbling for purchase in my silky hair as he cried out and burst wildly into my mouth and his hips bucked against my face.

I’d stand up slowly as he stumbled backwards to a chair and I would follow him, grinning, and slowly close my tingling, cum-coated lips on his.

It would have been years since he’d tasted himself and he would tell me so.

And then, I thought, I would tell N. all about what I’d done. Every lurid, debauched detail and I would hope he approved.

“Good girl, Hy. Good fucking girl,” he would tell me.  And with encouraging words he would hustle me to my bed and convince me to touch myself.  I would look down on my phone at each chime and see pictures of him “applauding” my dissolute behavior by way of his hand bluring the hardon he’d say I’d created. fap fap fap fap fap, Hy! fap fap fap fap fap

I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share.

I want to fuck another couple.

The Neighbor and I are headed out to meet a couple, the Greens, for drinks tonight. Soft or hard swap, multi-swap, all-way, one-way, whatever and who knows. I don’t even know all the lingo — it’s its own language. A separate sex vocabulary.

The grey sky will blanket us all, drinks will warm our bellies, chemistry — if there — will do the rest with the help of my butterflies’ muscles.

So far, and happily, down the rabbit hole that I’ve forgotten what a sunrise looks like.


I’m grateful.

A quick note to say thank you from the bottom of my heart, Internet Boyfriend, for all your generous support of me and this blog. I’d name you all individually if I could, but alas, I swore not to look too closely at the names of my benefactors so as to secure their anonymity as much as I protect mine.

But it doesn’t really matter whether I call out Tom, Dick, or Harry. What’s important is that I address your generosity and giving spirits. I cried each time I got a Paypal notice, a reminder that pure, unadulterated kindness really does exist.

So, from dissolute heart, Thank You. Thank you so very, very much.


See my heart?
The bottom is right around there.

My homecoming made me orgasm five times.

I flew in late last night to similar weather from what I’d just left. My parents were all smiles as we drove back to their house. We’d all agreed it’d be better for me to stay the night since I was taking them back to the airport at 6:30 the next morning.

I had a couple of glasses of wine with my mom then dragged my sorry ass to bed. The Neighbor’s sweet pleas to come get fucked glowing on my phone.

“I guess I’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning,” he realized.

“Looks like it,” I replied.

As the sun rose pink and yellow over the horizon I squirmed in my pajama pants and boots as my parents chattered like birds, excited and eager for their own trip.

Free and alone I headed west, the day at my back, and giggled. It wasn’t even 7 o’clock and I had a date to get the shit fucked out of me.

Once home I quickly cleaned up and slipped into something more comfortable and snuck next door. I stripped down to only my argyle knee-high socks and did my best to wake him up.

I dragged my breast across his cheek and stroked his mighty, sleeping erection. Finally, he awoke with a jerk and pulled me under the covers with him.

We played and snuggled and I bathed his cock with my mouth then mounted him like a mare in heat. The headboard slapped the wall with a loud, yet bored insolence.

I rolled my eyes and panted, possessed with desire. He sat up under me and I locked my ankles behind his back.

“You happy to be home, Hy?” he puffed into my neck.

“Oh, yes,” I breathed back between thrusts. “Very happy.”

He rolled me over onto my back and I clutched the footboard. It was even angrier with us and its clapping disapproval made us burst with laughter. The neighbors must hate us, I thought.

TN’s phone chimed with a text just then. It was Downstairs Neighbor telling TN to “move your goddamned bed away from the wall!!”

He shoved something between the wood and the wall and rejoined me with a giant grin. “That oughta do it!l

He pounded me with a little grin and flipped me over and blindfolded me, pinned my arms to my lower back and rode for the hills wailing on my flanks, the crack of his hand mixing with my cries.

“Did you go home before you came here?” he suddenly asked.

“Yes,” I mumbled into the mattress.

“Good. Lets go next door. It’s been far too long since you had an orgasm. Nine days, Hy!!”

I lifted my rosy face to look at him. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yes. Now. Get up. And don’t put anything on.”

I stood on wobbly legs and we jumped the few feet from door to door. 45 degrees feels goddamned awesome on a bare ass, lemme tell you.

We beelined to my bedroom, my apartment quiet and still. My bed was beautifully made, a canvas for our sexual arts.

Our dance began with his mouth on my breast, him pushing me down, spreading my knees and sliding in. I gripped my headboard and it squealed in protest, too, but I hung on. My pussy moaned and dripped around us. He flipped me this way and that and tortured me with his kingly cock and my humming hitachi. I only barely watched him through my lashes; I couldn’t bare to meet his steady gaze.

One, two laying on the bed, his hands and mouth on me. Three, my bottom hanging off the side and him standing regally above me. Four, he just wanted to watch and five was a surprise as he fucked my face.

I lay in his arms, and we stretched out like cats. I, a languid puddle in a sunbeam, him a greedy little creature who couldn’t bear it when my hand stilled from stroking the pelt on his chest.

We laughed and talked and I gave him his gift. A 1000-piece puzzle of a Jackson Pollock painting I’d found in the SF MOMA gift shop. “I like to torture you,” I said as he opened his eyes, the box in his hand.

He was thrilled. “I guess you do!!”

With ten minutes to spare before he had to be at work he got up to leave.

“C’mere, you,” I beckoned and pulled him down for a kiss. “That’s what your cock tastes like.”

“Wow. I taste pretty good!” I smiled at him and walked him to the door, his pink hardon bobbing as he walked. He gave my breast a final squeeze, looked around the landing and ducked back inside his apartment.

That was our one and only kiss this morning because, he said, “I might just be a hooker with a heart deep inside.”

Indeed. He can’t kiss me and I can’t look him in the eye. We’re quite the pair, TN and Hy. I’m happy to be home, though. So, so happy.

At my favorite diner for breakfast. Black coffee and book must-haves.

I wonder if my boobs make me look fat.

I’m not really wondering that. It’s a joke. And just an excuse to share my tits with my Internet Boyfriend.

June Christy and my comfy cafe seat couldn’t keep me from sneaking off into the bathroom to take a quick pic. It was cold in there. I now regret not pulling the lacy cups down to let my goosebumpy flesh out for all to see, but there is plenty of time for that in the future. Plenty o’ time.

In other news, I officially ended things with The Neighbor on Monday. — Yes, I’ve couched this earth-shattering news in a lousy boob-pic post. — But, there it is. It’s done and I feel lighter than I have in months. I will share the details later in a proper post. The gist is he didn’t impress me with how he handled what I had to say. He cried again. Twice. I felt the age gap.

For now, I want to leave you with a line of prose I thought of today while sitting across from a woman who was drawing something in her lap. A beautiful soul, she is. I’ll likely never have cause to use this line in anything I ever write, so thought I’d share it now.

“She held the Tupperware lid into her middle and split herself like a cracker does wedged into a round a cheese.”


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.

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 like tan lines.

I used to abhor tan lines. Then I grew up.

Tan lines denote time outside, activity, youth. They outline the good bits and show off the rest.

I don’t “tan”, per se. I’m just out there in it and I let the sun do the rest. I love seeing a man’s pale bottom and upper thighs; I’m sure he loves seeing the white triangles on my breasts.

I went out last night. A man who swears he’s not gay invited me to make out with him. I obliged.

His beard tickled and his tongue was soft. Back at his apartment, drunk and curious, I went spelunking. He was quite small. And uncut (which I think is fucking cool). I remember his precum slipping between my fingers and then casually begging off to pass out. He slept on the couch but cuddled me this morning.

He never got to see my white triangles, but my Internet boyfriend does.