Know when to hold ’em.

I’ve been wanting to write a lot lately, but have been keeping quiet and just thinking instead.  I don’t like it; I need to pour myself out onto the page, to see myself wind through the letters and lines like water through a little ravine.

The Rich Golfer, the man I met in person one fateful night has significantly highlighted some of my greater faults and weaknesses when it comes to love and relationships, namely that I love a good chase to the exclusion of all else.

I love the thrill of hunting a man and twisting him to my will, the dark heat of seduction and manipulation.  I mean no ill will, but I light up at the thought of moving pieces across a board.  If I knew any good chess move references, I’d use one here now, but I only know checkmate, and I am wise enough to know that scoring sex is far from the checkmate I really crave.

After our first incredible and drunken night we kept in touch with some basic sexting.  A pic here and there, no real communication.  Interest was mutual.  I finagled a second meeting to return his RayBans, to which he’d shown no real attachment and had even said if we couldn’t coordinate schedules that I could keep them.  But I insisted.  It was the ethical thing to do!

At his posh house near a golf course 5 miles outside of town (and a 30 minute drive from my house) he met me at the door in jeans, a tee, and barefoot.  We hugged and he sniffed my hair and made an appreciative sound.  I was sober and would have to stay that way for the night because of some antibiotics I was on; he had imbibed with some golf buddies earlier and he vibrated sex and oozed an easy confidence.

We sat in a separate sitting area with a record player and candles flickered around us.  His floofy dog made bids for attention while he rubbed my feet and we talked and laughed.

He massaged my feet with candle wax and sucked my toes and took me out back on his little patio and insisted I sit on his lap while we shared a cigarette, my occasional vice.

In his room he ravaged me and his cock stayed hard for hours, magically.  “Did you take something for this?” I panted, spent and cum dumb, my hand absentmindedly joy-sticking his dick.

“No.  I swear.  You’re doing this to me!”

We fucked all night long, my cum soaking the bed just like he’d been begging me for all week on our phones.  Sideways, backwards, standing, sitting.  On his insistence I’d brought my vibrator and as I sat on his hips I rocketed out my skull with a body-shaking orgasm, pouring my soul all over the bed sheets.  I would have cried for mercy had I any water left in my body.

He gently washed me in the shower and the bubbles were slick under his hot hands, his cock still unbelievably hard.

We fell asleep after one more long and punishing fuck with a movie on his big screen tv, sprawled in his king sized bed.

I slept fitfully.  There were moments throughout our coupling – with him inside of me – where I thought This can’t possibly be real.  He’s going to cum then tell me to leave, that it was all just a big joke.  He’s far too hot for me, too rich, too successful.  These thoughts ticked through my mind as I fell asleep cradled in his arms.

The next morning I woke before dawn.  I had to get home to let the dog out.

He got up with me and pulled me down on the couch for one last cuddle.  His hand found my pussy and dug inside.  I came almost instantly.

Without a word he stood up and I followed him into his room, dropping my panties along the way.  He took me one last time from behind with a grinding, gripping dump of cum on my back.

I showered quickly once more and he walked me to the door and gave me a long hug goodbye.  I drove with the windows down, the sun fully risen, my panties in my purse, and my mind racing.

I left for London the following Wednesday thinking about him.  Neither of us could believe that the second time was at least as good as the first and we were still in disbelief over the first time, drunken or not.

We texted a little here and there over the course of my trip.  He’s not much of a texter, but he couldn’t wait for me “to cum back.”

We made plans for me to come over that first Saturday I was home.  How do I like my steak?  Mooing.

I stopped and bought two bottles of wine and arrived in jeans and a tee with the dog.  “Yes, bring him,” he’d said.  I wouldn’t have to rush off this time.

The night flowed like the last time.  He cooked two filets and baked potatoes with a salad.  We ate at his dining room table, a first ever for him, and chatted and laughed about fuck knows what.  It was easy and fun and exciting.

It started with another foot massage and led straight to the bedroom.  We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more.

“I had such big plans for you tonight,” he whispered huskily in my ear, “but you’ve derailed them all.  I was going to tie you up, but I just can’t get enough of you…”

I purred and cuddled closer, pulled him into every hole I had and screamed with lust as the pleasure of this kindred spirit poured over me while he was buried deep in my ass. I watched him above me, eating me alive with his eyes, grimacing with his own elation. My bellybutton filled with my cum as the room filled with sounds of my orgasm.

“I wonder if it will always be like this,” he mused, collapsed beside me.

“We could find out.”

“Let’s do it Monday,” he suggested.  It was Saturday night.

We cleaned up under a hot rain and he asked if I’d ever had a golden shower.  My answer was to shake my head No and offer him my back side.  He smiled wickedly and peed on my rump as the clean water and piss mingled down my legs to the drain.

“I’ve had two ‘firsts’ tonight,” I said back in bed lying in his nook.  “I came on my back while getting fucked in the ass and I got a golden shower.  I didn’t know I still had ‘firsts’ left in me!”  I couldn’t stop smiling into the candlelight.

“I’m happy I could help.”

Our dogs had romped happily during our sex breaks outside and mine whined the night away as he was locked out of the bedroom, but we slept soundly and as dawn broke once again we fucked and bathed again and then he made us coffee.

He was quieter now and put golf on the tv.  I sipped his coffee and sat beside him, sensitive to the new vibe.  I didn’t have to rush off this time, but I didn’t feel welcome to stay, but stay I did because it felt silly to run off when it was unnecessary.  I didn’t want to acknowledge the shift.

Determined to end on a high note, I rubbed the bulge in his red sweat pants and it immediately hardened.  I pushed the coffee table away and knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth, fat and hard.

He moaned and gently touched my hair.  “Let’s go to my room.”

We hadn’t touched the vibrator the night before, but it lay on the ground on his side of the bed like a long-tailed lizard.  I pressed it to me as he pounded me from behind and came mightily.  His skin glistened with sweat and I pushed him on his back, crawled up his legs and licked me off of him and sucked every last bit of jizz right out of him.

He shook and got quiet.  I licked my lips and got up to redress.

Back on the couch, with more coffee in hand, I tried to engage him.  I asked questions about golf, his Game of Thrones encyclopedia that lay like a brick on the coffee table.  He answered, but showed no interest in the connection.  The dogs irritatingly played  on top of us and he kicked them outside.

When it finally felt like time to leave – after 3 too many cups of coffee – he hugged me goodbye, but deflected the kiss I attempted.  His lips fell on only the corner of mine.  I drove home with the windows down again, but my heart wasn’t light.  Something was off.  And I’d left my vibrator behind deliberately on accident.

The following three days opened up to nothingness.  We did not meet up on Monday or any other day.  He explained that it was a week-night and he couldn’t fuck like on a weekend, but I could “swing by anytime” to retrieve my vibrator.  He was also going out of town that weekend.

I suggested we get together the weekend after.  He said he should be around.   Slightly defeated, but not wanting to let on, I told him to send nudes with a smiley face.  He sent a winky face.  Since there was no urgency to see me again, I just ordered a new vibrator instead.  I’d see him when I saw him, I supposed.

It’s been two weeks since that text exchange and I haven’t heard from him.

Last night as I parked a few empty spaces away from The Neighbor’s car it hit me again that our entire 3-year relationship was mostly a product of my will, my plotting, my sheer seduction of him and manipulation of the situation.  He never wanted to date me and yet I moved us both across the board in spectacular fashion because I wanted him and nothing would stop me.

If I pursue RG while he is doing whatever it is he’s doing I will be contaminating the data.  How can I tell if he wants to spend time with me if I am fiddling with our dynamic?  How can I know if I want to spend time with him if I don’t allow him to show me more of who he is?

The Prime Directive of dating here should have always been, Let him show you who he is.  Let him show me he wants me.  Rather than Hunt, chase, devour, win!  But I guess I’m a really slow learner and old habits die hard.  I need to fucking chill out and set my Seduction Level to zero.

So I have sat on my hands for two weeks and not said a peep.  I’ve felt hurt, confused, indignant, sad, hopeful, relieved, strong, weak, proud, humiliated.  I won a bet with a friend that I wouldn’t hear from him in a week.  My heart felt brittle and black.

When that next weekend that we might have met up came and went with no word I stayed the course, remained quiet.  I would not meddle.

And then I just re-read our last texts.

They were friendly, soft, not not interested, so I softened a little and felt my interest rise again.  I decided to place my piece back on the board, though with no strategy in mind, with a funny, sexy, innocuous text Hello.

I feel like I am observing myself in the wild.  What will Hy do now that she has peeked her head out from behind the Saharan bush and identified her target?

I guess we’ll see what his next move is and where I end up on the board. Also, he was probably just thinking about his golf game and taxes for the last two weeks.

 

 

[Ed. Note: the title is from Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler:]

 

Friday, April 12th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Late.  Again.  Big surprise!

I’ve been in a super funk all week.  I even bought a pack of smokes, which I have done only twice before in the past 4 years.  So that should tell you something about my mental state.

Lemme just give a quick update and I’ll fill in the gaps later:

Rich Golfer – the drunken hookup – and I have met up twice more.  Both glorious.  Of course now he is ignoring me.

Milwaukee –  A guy I met on Seeking Arrangement because apparently I lost my mind for about 5 days and reactivated my account for no good reason, but turned out to be a total surprise of a human.  He’s flying down next week to see me for a couple of days.

Peter – my longtime FWB – came over last Friday and we had a proper date and fucked like monkeys.  In my butt.  I loved it.

The Dom – a 50-something fella I stumbled on on AFF who also is on Fet.  Obviously being openly submissive is NOT my thing, but we met for coffee before I left for London and he emanated dominance and it felt so warm and lovely.  We’re meeting for wine next week.

The Vet(erinarian) – another AFF discovery.  He’s a GenXer like me and also wants to see me soon.  We’ll see.

Ok.  Time for boobs!

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:

Missing this little beautiful room and its incredible shower.

NOT my tits:

Miss B likes her red.

I love red bras anytime possible.  This is one of my favorites.

::

Sexxxy Sannndy.

When you can’t have His warm strong arms wrapped around you on a chilly morning, steal his jacket. Mmmm his smell awakens me

::

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

Friday, March 8th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Well, as I suspected I blew my writing wad on February Photo Fest and so I’ve been languishing in not writing much this week.  I’m also on an antibiotic for BV and I can’t drink for 10 days.  Not a big deal at all, but it has allowed me to just really have chill and introspective nights alone with myself which I’ve been enjoying a lot.

I suspect I got the infection from my raunchy night with the Rich Golfer.  Drunk men aren’t the best at not cross-contaminating with fingers in holes, after all.  So no booze what so ever and no sex what so ever, either this week.  It’s been really really great, actually.

Friends and men both have teased me about giving either or both a try, but I have been unwilling to experiment.  I need the puss in tip top shape for my trip to London in the event I get lucky.  I also don’t need to feel the wrath of whatever my body would do to me if I were to introduce alcohol.

So, here I am: sober and sexless and loving it.

Of course, having said that, I will be seeing RG tonight to finally get him his RayBans.  I think I’m going to bring my vibrator and some Topo Chico.

This weekend is the last mad push to get ready for Eroticon and I have lists as long as my arm to get finished before I leave next Wednesday.

As far as boobs go, I think y’all will like this week’s submissions – read Sandy’s comment closely.

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:

I love doing these selfies again.

NOT my tits:

I love the sparkles on Sandy’s fingers and wrist.

Mother of the groom.

::

Strappy black on Miss B for the win.

This is a fun band bra to wear under anything and protects the precious boobs!

::

 


I’m dunzo.

Cried in therapy about my sadness today.

She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.

“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”

Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.

“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.

“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.

“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”

I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone.  Rich Golfer.  His real name is almost a “Chad.”

We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”

Peace out.
February Photofest

I’m sad, too.

Good angles only.

The man from Saturday, Rich Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.

In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging where it never used to sag ass?

It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.

He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I let her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.

He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”

Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.

“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”

I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.

“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”

His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.

“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”

Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel after all drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.

That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.

Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.

I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.

As RG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.

He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.

And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?

He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.

It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.

February Photofest

I have mixed feelings.

Bottles of champagne, Veuve Cliquot!, a hot, drunk young man confused about who to pay attention to, me or my friend with a long term boyfriend who’d been shamelessly flirting with him.

I watched half amused most of the night until at the second bar she began to exclude me where I had made sure to include her. I excused the two of us from the table.

“Tina, I’m not judging what you’re doing here, but why?? I’m single, he’s single, you’re not and you love your boyfriend. Do you really want to do this? I’m not going to compete for his attention with you.”

And then the night ended with him in my bed and his mouth all over me and his fingers lodged in my asshole as he pounded me to fucking oblivion and I came all over us and my poor pink bed like a goddamned vomiting waterfall.

He tried to get me to come home with him in the morning, but I demurred; I needed more rest and time to be alone with my thoughts. The sex was intense and when I closed my eyes and thought of it my pussy would pulse and twinge.

I may have accidentally gained a new pair of RayBans. “Nice,” he said when I told him I’d found his glasses in my purse. “When are you gonna come over and drop them off? We can soak my bed too.”

Another night set loose by bubbles and held by nothing but whimsy, my memory and manners spotty. Who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again. I hope I made his sad day brighter. He certainly brightened mine.

I’ve spent my entire Sunday washing the entirety of my bed linens and wondering when I’ll stop having drunken, loneliness-driven nights like last night.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest