Love really does conquer all.

It’s been a stressful, scary day today.  Someone came out of the shadows this morning and let me know in no uncertain terms that they know who I am and what it is I do for a living.

And so with tears in my eyes, I had to tell TN not only was there a blog out there where he was the central character, but also someone who was threatening my anonymity (By virtue of calling me out. No actual threat was made).

His response was something along the lines of, “Who is that sonofabitch?” and “I don’t care that you’ve been writing about me, I’m rather flattered, and a little proud of you.”

Thanks for all the love and support, everyone.  Looks like the majority of you were right: I had nothing to fear in the end.

I’ll write more tomorrow.



PS: I’m still in utter disbelief…

I have a secret sex blog that won’t be secret for much longer.

Twenty-six months ago, in December of 2011, I started this blog.  I was alone, heartbroken, sexually awakened, lustful, sad, hopeful, terrified.  I was wild with passion to mask my pain and I used men and my body to slake the thirst that oozed from me morning, noon, and night.  I was quite a sight.

For a year prior to that fateful day in mid-December a typical week would consist of 2 or 3 dates with different men.  Sometimes I would sleep with them, sometimes I wouldn’t.  I would dress provocatively, yet tastefully, allow a spaghetti strap to fall and absent-mindedly pull it back up.  I would lean in close and listen to their every important word and hide behind their disclosures, then put my hand on their knee, in control and flirty, filled up and never fooled.  I’d dip into their mouths or fall onto their cocks with abandon.   Happy, distant, very busy.

In my despair I was able to create a space of comfort and control.  I was distracted in a productive, healing way.  I did what I needed to do unapologetically.  I met good men and I met some lousy ones, but they all were a brick in the wall around my heart.  Until one day, I didn’t want to lay another brick.  I froze my acquisition spree and held 4 men in my  hands: Phillip, Kevin, Jason, and The Neighbor.


My journey to blogging isn’t a mystery to me, though it may be to all of you.  When I was married and a stay-at-home-mom I blogged.  And when things began to change I blogged then, too.  It wasn’t until I was about to move out of my marital home that an important man I’d met online, Big Tex, suggested I write about sex, too.  And so I did.

He encouraged me to use my words in titillating absolution; he supported my silly endeavor and encouraged me to keep going when I got shy.  He helped me find my new voice, one other than that of mother.

It was a different blog name back then with very different characters, but what I discovered was that I rather liked reliving my wild trysts with Troy and others.  I switched blogs once more to better reflect my new life and kept on writing, but I had made the mistake early on of sharing my writings with Troy and Lina and others who weren’t as safe as Big Tex, so as things became less pleasant for me I found my outlet not my own.  I had made the fatal mistake of sharing my blog with people who knew me.

I shut down that blog and was creatively homeless for 2 months before I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Writing had stealthily welded itself to my marrow over the course of the previous several years and not writing created only more blackness inside of me.  It was this darkness, this need for connection, discourse, and creativity that drove me to start writing again.  I finally had to admit I was a writer.

I switched blogging platforms to WP, found a title that very much matched my behavior and feelings over the previous 12 months — A Dissolute Life Means… — and promised myself to not make the same mistakes regarding disclosure that I had with my previous blogs.  It would remain a secret, my ego forever in check, my drunken desires for confession squashed dead at arrival, my need for approval a private matter.

Two weeks prior to this decision, I met The Neighbor.


I had no way of knowing that 2 years later he and I would be in love.  Or that he would be my very best friend.  It started out fun and surprising.  He matched my passion, appreciated my humor, and did things to my body I thought no one could.  We assured each other it would only be a friends with benefits kind of thing, but a handful of months later it began to unravel when I stumbled upon him on a date he had kept secret from me.  That night was eventful: I realized I loved him and I “met” Noodle for the first time.

A few more months and more heart-wrenching longing later, he left me for a woman I called 4 am girl (f.k.a. Pisspants for you longtime readers).  That, he says, is when he realized he was in love with me.  But because this is a tale of two flawed people, he kept it to himself and dated her for 6 short, but agonizing weeks.

In the months following 4 am girl we hobbled along.  I was still certainly in love, but furious with him for hurting me.  I was also confused, embarrassed, happy.   Yet again a big, fat hot mess, but I kept on.

I couldn’t break up with him, though I’d tried numerous times.  Our connection and proximity made it impossible.  And frankly, I didn’t see the need.

We spent more time together, learned to communicate better, and embarked on a different power dynamic that made something in me sing and we lurched yet another step forward, blind as newborn kittens but compelled to grow nonetheless.

As my anger faded my guilt rose regarding the blog: should I tell him about it?

When I was angry and we were clearly not in a relationship it was an easy answer: it was none of his business; what would it hurt?  But as we grew closer I began to question the ethics of my decision, so I battened down the hatches to safeguard my privacy and our identities.

I purchased a VPN for both my computers and my phone; I made a secret email account; I paid for StatCounter which I keep secret; I got a secret PayPal account; I refused prizes that had to be mailed to me and asked for gift cards instead; I’ve deleted browser tabs with the blog on it before I share my computer screens with TN; I opted out of opportunities to broaden my network in person via sex blogging conventions; my computers were set to save zero history; there is no auto-fill in their search boxes; I’ve avoided social media which I might accidentally get mixed up with my own real life personal ones, so I don’t do Instagram or FB as Hyacinth or Twitter as “me,”; I’ve painstakingly deleted all my copyrighted photos so as not to accidentally give away my URL; and lastly I have made up an association with a friend (Noodle) so as to not have to explain how she and I met, as well as with various other characters in my life who’ve come and gone into my personal realm (Gillian and Ella to name two who are no longer with us in our blog-o-verse here).

I never lie outright to TN, but there is a lot of omission going on.  I think I told him I met Noodle through my blog, the assumption being the retired one.  I never clarified, but left it up to him to be curious.  He never really was.

But all of this won’t matter if he feels betrayed.  I wouldn’t exactly blame him, but I hope he can forgive me and get on board.  If he feels betrayed, then I have to own that and figure it all out.

I’ve also come to believe that TN might actually be a little flattered by all of this and maybe — maybe — even a little proud of me.  I have grown my stupidly wild life and tales into a little tiny community of brilliant, open, loving, sexy people.  I’m kind of proud of me.

I can’t begin to fathom how he will react.  It’s just another unknown.


I told myself months ago while wrestling with this secret that I would tell him if he ever told me he loved me, because in that instant it would change the scene from me brokenly pining after a man who wasn’t interested in me to me loving a man who loved me back.  I would now be accountable for us, not just me venting solo on the internet.  He would deserve to know.

In a strange twist of emotions, I can’t wait to tell him.  I want to show him Boobday and have him meet all of you.  I want him to see how I see him: beautiful, intelligent, sexy, kind, loving, quirky, funny, complicated, and above all else worthy of all my efforts and affection.  I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am today without his influence.

I want him to see the journey, how I’ve gone from fearful to daring with my heart and gone out of my way to let him tell me his story in his own way and never speak for him; I want him to know that even though he might feel that we have few real life supporters, we actually have a small army of them here.

I used to say that I knew he loved me, but would never hear the words slip from his mouth.  It is pure paradise whenever I hear it now.  Of course, I still don’t know what the future holds, but then again I never knew, so I haven’t lost a thing.


I’m not sure what my goal is in revealing my secret blog to him other than the basic sense that it’s time to move on to the next phase of this whole thing.  I trust him with my life, why can’t I trust him with this?

I know that some of you are adamantly against me revealing this blog to him and to you folks I ask to what end?  I doubt I’ll blog here forever or even for a decade, but my relationship with him may last as long as either of those times.  I have no way of knowing.  And my blog, as important as it is to me, is not more important than my relationship with him.   Writing, on the other hand, is different.  I will always write, just not necssarily about the details of my sex life.

Having said all that, I am still afraid.  My hopefulness has its limits and I fear I will lose him, but the clock is pushing me: the longer I wait, the bigger the secret.  I have to do this.

I’ve never presumed to know what he is thinking or feeling in the past and so I’m not going to start now.  I must be brave and patient.  I will tell him and I will wait for him to show me his cards.

Maybe he’ll be holding the King and Queen of Hearts.



I feel a little empty.

I look robust.

Stress about money has reached another fever pitch. The move, solvency in general — I feel so fucked. Add allergies, my exhusband, my fear of what my life will be like not living next door to The Neighbor anymore, and the stinging, always there guilt I feel about my secret sex blog and you get a raisin of a woman, not a plump and glistening grape.

I’m also tired. Tired and empty.

TN fucked me to tears on Friday. He was a fiend. I’d spent some time with a girlfriend and come home early. He was ready and waiting for me as I climbed the 40 steps up.

It was different this time, though, only the third coupling since our I LOVE YOUs. We didn’t mean to fuck, it just happened.

I pet his soft pile of flesh absentmindedly while we cuddled. It grew long, hot and hard, and suddenly a switch was flipped. He was going to have me.

And so I let him.

He kissed and nipped and I grabbed and moaned. Ankles on shoulders, one leg up, one down. Orgasms streamed through me and poured out of my face in the hot tears and sobs that burst forth.

No Hitachi made me cry like that. Just him.

We lay and cuddled and talked about our fears, going in circles. “If it sucks, then we’ll stop, because if it sucks, we’ll stop.” In my defense, I was barely coherent.

Can’t stop the world turning or sands through the hourglass and all that.

As for money, I need to find the old lady strip joint and grab a shift. Seriously. I’ve worked hard over the last year and made massive strides in getting my career going, but it’s like slogging through knee-high mud.

TN is always reminding me that a year ago I was making basically $0 and today I make a lot more than that, but it’s still not good enough. And I’m back to feeling like a raisin.

I wish I felt as good as I look in these pics.



Sometimes, I want to shut it all down.

I am not trustworthy.

A trustworthy person doesn’t have a secret sex blog.  A trustworthy person doesn’t share elicit photographs of your body on the internet without your knowledge.  A trustworthy person doesn’t worry about being discovered and her life ruined.

Therefore, I am not trustworthy.

I live in a world of cognitive dissonance, supported by excuses and denial.  This is my outlet, I say, I need it I shrivel up without it.

I speak of things which I ordinarily keep hidden: my fears, my feelings, my lusts.  Here, as an anonymous voice, I am vocal about who I really am, not shy of my body’s quirky, leaky features and proud of my desires and the many words I choose to describe them.

This is my secret sex blog.  The sex blog of which I am at once wholly proud and deeply ashamed.  Who am I anymore if not a trustworthy individual?  Is this blog worth my integrity?

With the exception of this one thing, I am true to my word.  I never break it.  I never share information a reader divulges to me and I never break my own rules about disclosing my secret.  I don’t tell my real life friends anything about this world and I keep a controlled drip on my real life here.   I live firmly in both: my blogging universe and my real one.

I write because it is in my blood, but I chose this medium because I also need attention.  I am not afraid of facing that fact.  I don’t believe it’s a failing to need others.  Blogging allows me access to an ever-present IV of support, feedback, and creativity unlike anything else.  My real life friends have lives and are busy; I can’t always catch them on the merry-go-round of life, but here, here I can tickle a fish out of water.  It’s easy and familiar.  My readers are wise, my friends accepting.  I belong here.

I worry that what I need from life isn’t sustainable by less than a cloud of faceless names and words, that part of my wiring begets requiring an unreasonable amount of interaction and support.  Perhaps that’s the case and I will always rely on blogging to fortify me.  I don’t know.  I don’t know how this will all end.

It might end if I ever tell The Neighbor and he asks for me to stop.  When I began writing here I didn’t have anything to lose, no one had my heart.  I was recording a period of my life, but 18 months later, it’s become something much different.  It’s a living document of my love and relationship with a man who is innocent and who has never given his consent to be written about.  What’s the protocol for this??  I feel so lost. 

The choking weed of this fact has grown slowly, sneakily.  I didn’t fully realize it was happening until now, when he and I are closer than ever and I swear he says, “Hy, I love you,” in a look, through words, and his warm touch every time we’re together.  Those words would shatter my world of cognitive dissonance.  I would be unable to continue the lie of A Dissolute Life Means… if he admits to loving me.

I have played a game until now, telling myself it doesn’t matter that I do this because we’re not together, he hasn’t committed to me, I can do what I like because it’s my story, too, but those are the excuses that are built on bullshit.  And bullshit is loose and washes away.

I don’t know how he would react to discovering this blog.  Frankly, I don’t like to think about it.  I imagine it would feel flattering and a little special at first.  Then the anger would rise in him as he read all the minute details I shared, my petulant anger which seethed beneath the surface for months, my manipulations to seduce him, and the brute force of my unrequited feelings.

I would be horrified and embarrassed to my roots to be so exposed to him.  All my ugliness and insecurities, all my hopes and dreams, all my hesitations and complaints.  It would be too much.  I would die a thousand lonely deaths, hideous and bare.

And how dare I share a single photo of him without his consent?  I’ll save you the trouble of saying it: I know I’m an asshole.

Consent, which is so integral to what we do, has been absent from this blog.  Therefore, I am taking down all images of him effective immediately, even the ones that he said I could share on the internet somehow.  I will never share another image of him.  Perhaps it is possible to salvage some self respect, after all.

Becoming a blogger with even one reader has a learning curve and I’ve felt behind for some time.  There are no rules written, no How To Successfully Write a Secret Sex Blog and Not Blow Up Your Life or Be a Total Dick manual.  What do I share?  What don’t I share?  What’s  the right content for a fucking secret sex blog??

You may have been judging me for some time about this.  Well, thanks, but I’m way ahead of you.

My writing has changed as I’ve learned more about the pitfalls of secret blogs and my feelings have grown for my muse.  I’ve read numerous times elsewhere similar ethical uncertainties as a relationship begins, “Do I close my blog??  But I love it so much…”   Lots of wives have risked everything to tell their husbands of their blogs and some bloggers have just disappeared altogether, their reasons for leaving a mysterious whisper the rest of us pass along like confused school children.

When I became a sex blogger — and chose to remain anonymous — I relied on an unspoken agreement between myself and you, The Code.

I choose as wisely as I can which parts of myself to hold to the light and pray that no one will blow my cover.  I protect my location, the age and sex of my child, my profession, and all those same identifying facts about my lovers and friends.  My pictures hide identifying markers to the best of my ability and you only see ubiquitous doors and bathroom sinks, Ikea furniture that half the industrialized world own.  I hide my hair, the shape of my face, my smile, yet I bare my soul to you with the understanding that you know I know you know: if I don’t do it first, you can destroy me.

You could tell me where I live and what I do for a living.  You could find images of me on the internet and have them at the ready to spread around and connect to my sex blog.  You could steal from me the little world I have created here and I would be powerless to stop you.  But you don’t do that.

And in turn I protect you, your email addresses, and accidental uses of your real names here and there, blog addresses you decide you don’t want published after all, and you leave me in peace and take what I am willing and able to give and not one inch more.  It’s a beautiful, symbiotic relationship, one which is well-oiled in my corner.

But it doesn’t always work that way for everyone. Sometimes someone crosses the line and ruins a beautiful little world with one swipe.  There’s a galaxy in that drop of water you so carelessly wiped away.

It happened to one of our own recently; most of you miss her, too.  Her creative outlet ripped away because a reader became obsessed and tracked her down based on the loosest of details she’d shared with him as a friendly gesture.  She chose not to share his identity with us because she understands the agreement we have with you.

I pressed her to tell me who it was and she refused, citing her honor and integrity.

Being a secret sex blogger is a complicated, emotional endeavor.  I flog myself for my indiscretion, my betrayal of TN, my weakness for attention, yet I am pulled here like a riptide — to a mass of people who could destroy me — because of the friendships and creative-petting I find like a freshly tapped well.  All it would take is one individual to pull the plug on this, to freak out and be an asshole, and it would disappear as if it had never been.

It’s a dangerous dance, a dramatic play, a nail-biter, but a real live human being is behind this blog.  A terribly flawed woman, a woman of possibly questionable ethics, and attached to her are innocents caught in her narrative.  Remember that.  It’s not just me you would be unearthing, but them, too.

Goddamnit.  I am two halves living in one shell.

So what next?  Will TN and Hy ride off happily into the sunset with a signature post?  Will the blog go on indefinitely as Hy creates better rules and regulations for sharing?  Will Hy tell TN and he’ll give her his blessing?  Or will her world come crumbling down around her because eventually she was found out by a reader?  Her silly, dark needs driving her to never let go of her secret sex blog because it just all felt too good like another glass of wine, one more orgasm, or just one more minute, please, please don’t go yet.

Forgive me the frailties of my ego, protect me from myself.  I want to shout that I am better than all this, but clearly I am not.  I have no where to hide.  I admit I’m at a loss as to how to weave it all together, my blogging life and my real.  They seem so disparate, yet they are both me.  Sometimes, I want to shut it all down.  I am exhausted.