He doesn’t want to date me.

The Russian called me last night.  I missed the call initially because I’d fallen asleep watching the cringe-inducing Iron Chef America.  “Who doesn’t fall asleep during that one?” he quipped when I called him back.

His voice was sweet to my ears, but I was tense.  It’d been a strange two weeks of texting between us since we’d met and he’d turned down my offers to talk on the phone.  A hangover hung on me like cheap perfume; I wasn’t prepared.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he began, “and the thing of it is, I don’t think we should take our relationship to the next level.  We can’t be lovers.  I’d like to be friends, though.”

I shook my head as if I hadn’t heard right.  “Ok…” I said.

“It’s too intense to be casual and too casual to be this intense.  I can’t unknow about your blog and it’s just too much.  It’s too much exposure; I don’t want to be a character.  I don’t want to do it.  I’m spending as much thought and energy on all of this as if we were in a committed relationship and that’s not what I want.”

Many more words were said.  I was keenly alert now, no vestiges of my night lingered.  “I need to be selfish,” he said.  “I choose me.”

I stammered that I understood.  He worried if I was ok, how I was feeling.  I felt vaguely punched, but only shared that I felt trapped.  “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”  This was my worst fear about the blog come true: that I would be rejected because of it.

He lamented with me, apologized again.  “I know this is the very thing you were afraid of happening and here I am doing it to you, but I just can’t help it.”

He said he didn’t want another intense and complicated relationship.  He was done with those.

Occasionally I felt tears well up in me, but I kept them at bay.  “I’m happy to be friends if you want,” he offered towards the end.  “When you’re up here for Labor Day you’re welcome to come over for a beer and hang with me and my friend.”  I told him I’d think about it knowing full well we’ll likely never speak again.

His words were well-formed and precise, my responses were bumbling and ill-formed.  I had known something was going on with him.  He’s a thinker, a thoughtful man and I took every pause in texts and new punctuation to mean something was going on over the past couple of weeks and I was right.

My blog, he said, is me and he would never ask me to stop.  I didn’t offer any solutions because it didn’t seem relevant.  He lives so far away, the mechanics of any kind of relationship with him were already complicated.  I was keeping an open mind and feeling my way through this new exposure.  He was safe, he was sexy.  That’s as far as I’d gotten.  Apparently, he’d gotten much further.

“I don’t want the burden of your secret, the double life.”

I sat on my couch as every word hit my eardrum.  I felt overwhelmingly sad, yet relieved.  I’d no longer be hurt by my texts being ignored, at least.

“Meeting you and liking you has been great, but it can’t go any further.”

I’ve always known that my blog could be a deal breaker for someone, I just didn’t expect it to happen.  It’s scary even for me, but I’ve chosen to take the risk.  For any man who gets involved with me he’d have to be comfortable with the level of exposure that could come if my cover were ever blown.  Don’t date me if you have a political career on your mind.  I’d ruin it just by association.

I’ve thought about the impact of this space on my life for years.  On the one hand it has provided me with a rich playground of creativity and connection.  On the other, I risk losing important people if it’s ever revealed — by me or by anyone else.

When I told The Neighbor, I was terrified.  I had been lying to him about what I did with my spare time for two years, I’d shared every intimate detail of our sex life.  He had every right to be angry, to leave me, to walk away.  But, he didn’t.  He was proud of me in a detached way and left me to it.  “Is it anonymous?”


“Am I anonymous?”


“Ok then.  I’m ok with it.”

It had been that simple.

With The Russian, even knowing I’d taken every measure possible to protect my identity, the very idea of that many eyes reading about him was too much.

When we hung up my eyes stung and my gut ached.  I had hoped for a different kind of ending.  He was intelligent, kind, introspective, sexy, and successful.  Being accepted by him would disprove the inner voice in me that says no one will want me if they  know everything about me.  Unfortunately, my worst fear has been proven correct.   I’m sorry, Hy.  I can’t do it.  It’s just too much.

Part of why I opened up to The Russian that night is because I’m tired of the double-life.  I’m proud of what I’ve done here and it’s a huge part of my life, yet I can’t share it.  It’s a difficult position to be in and my patience has petered out.  I need to search my soul about this: why now?

How do I manage this going forward?  I don’t want to find myself in another situation like I did with TN where I have years of lies under my belt, nor do I want to expose myself to a total stranger and hope he’s not a psychotic asshole who’ll rat me out — I got supremely lucky with The Russian.  What’s the middle ground?

Perhaps I tell everyone that I have a secret blog about my sex life, but won’t share any information about it until and unless we develop feelings for one another and decide to commit.  At least that way he’ll have been able to think about it and not feel blindsided.  I’ll tell him the size of my readership, the topics I cover, etc., but keep the URL and names out of it.  I just don’t know.

I’m missing TN tonight because he was safe and he accepted me.  I have to remind myself that he also never wanted me despite it all.  I found an old post where he said, verbatim, what he told me in January, “You’re not the right person for me.”  It’s been nearly a month since we spoke last.  It’ll be exactly one month on my birthday next week.  I don’t expect to hear from him.  In fact, I don’t expect to hear from anyone.

I’m lonely, I’m sad, I’m worried I’ve wrecked my chances for love because of my need to be Hy.  I’m sad to miss out on a man like The Russian, but relieved that he let me off the hook as he did, with kindness and like a grown man.

Maybe I’ll meet another one like him, but one who is also willing to take the risk to be with me.  I won’t be Hy forever after all.

I broke my biggest rule: I told someone about my secret sex blog

I’ve been agonizing over what to say here all day.  I woke up on the couch at 6 am, fully clothed, slightly hungover and surrounded by slumbering animals.  My first thought was, Holy fuck.

I walked into my room, took off all my clothes, and climbed into bed.

– Holy shit.

I checked my phone.  Maybe it was a dream.

Nope.  I’d definitely told him about my blog, address and all.

– Holy fucking shit.

So, I guess before I go any further I should say hi to the newest reader of my blog.

Hey, you.

How did this happen, you ask?  Frankly, I have no fucking idea.

I have been a loud voice in this community of anonymous bloggers that the first rule of Secret Sex Blog Club is, there is no fucking secret sex blog

Never tell anyone.  Never allude to its existence.  Search your soul if you find yourself wanting to tell anyone about it, ask yourself questions: how will this affect my writing?  what do I want to get out of them knowing?  can they hurt me with this knowledge?  are they trustworthy???

For 3-and-a-half years I have kept my lips tightly sealed despite pretty compelling situations to open up, but last night I revealed myself to a man whose voice I’d only just heard, whose scent I don’t know, whose kiss I’ve never tasted, whose life is a patchwork of new stories and characters I’ve never dreamed of.  What I know about him is very little: he’s 6, 7 years younger, tall, very handsome, nerdy, quick witted, a lover of the tortured Russian just like me, and willing to make his match-making aunts happy at least once.  He also lives closer to Marian than he does to me, 200 miles away.

– I have lost my mother fucking mind.

There are now 3 people on the planet who know who I am in real life that then gained knowledge of this space.  One has been a long-time hidden presence, a dear, sweet, giant of a man who convinced me to write my very first sex blog 5 years ago after we met on OK Cupid.  The Neighbor is the second.  And now this new reader — who deservedly needs a pseudonym, but I am afraid to even whisper a name because then it will be all too real.

Hi, again.

– Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t know how to answer my own questions.  I don’t know why I opened up to this man.  I have no idea where to go from here.  It feels freeing and terrifying all at once to know that he can dig through my archives here and see how my brain works.  It’s scary to think I might be judged for one post or another.  I almost want to say Read it all with a grain of salt, but that’s not entirely accurate.  That’s me minimizing my work here, the me that’s here.

It hurt me that TN never wanted to read this.  He claimed it was out of respect for my privacy, but I never wrote anything I wouldn’t stand behind or hadn’t already said to him myself first.  I would never use this platform to broadcast my feelings.  Except I’m doing that right now because I don’t have a line to my new reader.

I’m sorry, new reader!  Can I call you Alexei?  Or should I call you The Russian?

This space is also my art.  It’s my canvas, my pride and joy.  It will never make me rich or famous, but it always welcomes me with open arms.  Connecting Hy with me for someone is a challenge.   It’s like asking him to view my art: I hold my breath and hope he “gets it” and continues to like me in the meantime.

It extends the other way, as well.  It’s odd when I meet other [secret] sex bloggers as I fight to quickly catch them up on the real [and boring] me with the literary Hyacinth who flashes her tits any chance she gets and writes about her sex life in vivid detail.

I don’t think accidents happen.

Yesterday was a good day.  The sun was hot, the cicadas loud, my baby sweet and loving.  Friends were in town to break bread with me.  I drove through my busy city to sit on my favorite couch and process my feelings, a weekly ritual.  Then something happened to my heart while I sat across from the woman I admire, wiry and weathered from her love of tennis: I decided to let The Neighbor go.  For real.  All the way.

I cried into my hands and she looked at me with a pained face.  “This is going to be hard for you, Hy, but you’re tough.  You can do it.  I think you’re on to something.”

I left her office feeling composed, safe for the first time in months.  I know exactly what I need to do to stop hurting and I will get it done.  I always get it done.

My newly made decision instantly freed something in me and when the mountain climbing guy from a few weeks ago texted to check in on me I impulsively asked him to have a drink with me.  No pressure, just curiosity.

We met at the same dive bar as our first date and he had a cider in hand for me, he’d remembered from last time.  We sat and baked in the heavy heat and talked for 3 hours while the sun went down.

I can blame the drinks — though that would be untrue — but as the minutes ticked by I found myself drawn to him.  I wasn’t dressed up, I had on barely any makeup.  I showed up as just me, not the vixen I know how to be, and it was as if for the first time in forever a man was talking to me.  I wasn’t trying to make him want me, I was trying to see if I wanted him.

At 10 o’clock our carriage turned back into a pumpkin and we got up to leave.  We made plans to see each other again, shared an uneventful kiss, and I climbed into my car and checked my phone.  No new messages.

I’d been texting with the new reader off and on all day and he’d butt dialed me at one point.  I’d flirtatiously told him he could call me anytime — I mean, how novel would that be?  I texted him that I was disappointed I had no message from him.

I drove home with the windows down and the music blaring, my thoughts on the pain I would soon be rid of and the joy I hope to find again in my future.  I climbed the stairs and set my purse down on the kitchen island and pulled my phone out again.  Still nothing from the new reader, until suddenly there was his face from a Tinder pic I’d captured: he was calling me!

I laughed a hello and plugged in my earbuds, poured myself a glass of wine and sat down.  He’s maybe the 5th man I’ve had a conversation with in all my years of online dating.  His voice was smooth and slightly lilting, a product of his hometown.

By the time we hung up 90 minutes later I’d spilled the beans.  There was some magical combination of his unicorn dust, my decision to move on, and perhaps elements of the date that actually talked to me coupled with an old fashioned phone call with a potential beau/lover/whatever that made me do it.  I can’t blame the wine; I’ve been drunk plenty of other times and never told my secret.

We also brainstormed ideas of how to meet.

I’m in completely uncharted waters.  If he and I never meet he will have this blog address.  If we meet and amazing things happen he will have this blog address.   If we meet and things go in the shitter he will have this blog address.  It’s a scary thought.

Who will I be here knowing that someone who doesn’t know me all that well is reading my innermost [and ugly] thoughts I share with no one but the faceless, nameless internet?

I’m feeling a dozen things right now, but one of them is not regret.  It feels good to not have a secret sex blog for once.


Because I might as well let it all hang out now.




My paint brush is empty.

I write about sex here, this is not an online life journal.  It’s a sex blog.  It’s an account of my sexuality and the adventures that come with that.  I’m stingy with the other stuff.  Very.

I’m ok writing about countless sexual encounters, my insipid dating travails, my feelings about The Neighbor and some of our relationship.  I shared with you all a little of my broken heart when I lost a friend last summer and I open up a little on occasion about my ongoing frustrations with my exhusband.  You might remember I have difficult, complicated relationships with my mother and sister.  My father was a bastard, but is dead.  I miss my baby when it’s not my turn for custody.

But what’s left to share when I don’t feel like shagging?

I can’t share what I do for a living, where I live, or who my friends are.  I try to mix things up to keep the vibe of what I share truthful without giving away accurate details.

I could write volumes more if I opened the doors, but I don’t feel like I’m allowed.  I’m not certain it would ruin my life, but it’s possible and I’m not at all willing to take that chance.  We don’t like it when people are open with their sexuality or opinions on sex.  Teachers and state representatives better never show their tits online.   I certainly don’t want people I work with professionally seeing my breasts and knowing how I like it in bed.  Yet, here I am, compelled to risk it all because I need this space for something.  At least I used to.

I’m at an impasse.  My writing has waned, or at least the urge to write has.  I don’t feel negatively towards the blog, but I don’t feel positively towards it, either.  I get lots from it, but it also takes a lot.  I’m feeling less inclined to open up and share because I have less to share about my sex life.

I look at other longtime bloggers and see what they’ve done with their spaces.  Many of them have monetized their spaces brilliantly and others have become little sexy cottage industries.  I admire their fortitude and work ethic.  I look at myself and don’t see it happening.  I’m self-hosted and have the ability, but I don’t know what to do with the opportunity.  I’m overwhelmed.  I’ve thrown together an Amazon shop, but that’s it.

And these other bloggers, they haven’t seemed to paint themselves into such a corner as I have; they have other avenues of expression that they’ve worked out that don’t revolve around the sex they have.

On top of all that, I don’t feel sexy.  Ugh.

I’ve gained a couple of pounds, I’m constantly tired, I’m choked with fear about my financial situation, TN and I are wading through the doldrums of stability and a long-term relationship.  I’m working so goddamned hard at important, life-altering things that I have zero energy left for passion or creativity.  And I’m sad.  I miss being excited about my body and my art.

This blog used to be an oasis in the desert of my life, but these days it’s like it’s evaporated into a mirage.  My body and its pleasures are like an old memory I smile at when lost in thought.  I barely even masturbate anymore.  I’m tapped out.

I have to figure out what I’m going to do here.  I have some ideas — I still have hot sex on occasion — but I’m wrung out and I’m scared and I’m tired and I’m bored.  With my life, my lover, myself. I’ve lost something over time, it’s slowly leaked out of me.  Or maybe I’m just tired.  Pinched and wilted and dry, forgotten flowers in a pretty vase.

I am a horrible mess of a woman lately.  I’m painstakingly sifting through my life to untangle the negatives I was hand-fed growing up.  I’m struggling, but I’m committed to being as patient as possible about the process in general, but it still takes the winds out of my sails and that fucking sucks.

I wish I could work on all the important emotional things and still want to fuck my brains out. 

Fucking is fun, it’s fantastical, it’s freeing.  This other work robs from me the one thing I have always felt was a way to define who I was: sex.

Growing up my mother said, No, Hyacinth!  No, no, no!  You’re not to feel that way!  You’re not to want those things!  You’re not to need this, that, or the other.  Don’t be that way!  And as a young adult I used sex (and drugs) to differentiate myself from her… all without her knowing.  I did what I wanted the way I wanted when I wanted.

After the divorce, and a long relationship with a man who wasn’t unlike the dominant voice in my ear as a child, I used sex (and alcohol) to differentiate myself once again.  Like an adolescent, all over again, wild and wanton.  Dissolute.

Only this time, I had more success without all the fallout.  I kept an eye on my behavior and didn’t go off the rails like I did as a young woman.  I created a blog where I could channel my behaviors and become a writer, an artist, not just a woman who was fucking through her grief and secretly piecing herself together probably for the first time in her life.

My mother still doesn’t know about the woman I am, but at least I have friends and a lover who do and who love me anyway.  Maybe I need to sit with this a little more and I’ll come back to my body sooner than I think and I’ll get to slip back into my sexy pants.  Then I’ll have lots of sexy shit to share and this blog will be busy and thrumming with energy and sex and love and lots of Hy’s words.

All I know is that I’m ready whenever I am; to have lots of sloppy sex so I have the paint in which to dip my blogging brush and make beautiful, sexy art.   I want to fill the pages here with over-flowing content that titillates both you and  — just as importantly —  me.  This space is my blank canvas.  I guess I’ll just have to wait for inspiration.










The Neighbor will answer your questions!

What would it be like for you to discover your lover had been using you as inspiration for a secret sex blog for 2 years?  Would you have been furious?  Complimented? Curious?  Would you have demanded to read every word?  Would you have requested editorial power for future posts?  Would you get involved?

When The Neighbor found out I’d been writing about him for all that time he did nothing but see the half-full glass.  He didn’t view it as a betrayal, he felt flattered!

He trusted me and what I wrote, but he also honored it as mine, so being portrayed in only a positive light wasn’t important to him.  What mattered most was that I had a creative outlet.  That he was my central character was a bonus from his point of view.  He was my muse.

It was difficult at first to accommodate his virtual presence here, I felt shy and just plain fucking weird.  He said he had no interest in stomping around in my sacred space, but nothing was stopping him; he could do whatever he liked, but it turns out he’s a man of his word.  He’s left me completely alone and I’ve found my footing again (and with it plenty of inspiration and motivation to write!).

Last night he and I had a quiet, wonderfully endless evening.  With Peyton at my ex’s for the week I didn’t know what to do with myself and I needed company.  So we ate dinner, watched Castle, played Connect4!, cuddled, chatted, farted around.  Boring couple stuff that’s the best fucking thing in the world.

“Did you do the TN Tuesday post?” he asked.

“I did,” I replied and smiled.  I thought about how fucking cool it was that these words were even coming out of our mouths.

“I have an idea…” he trailed off and I perked up.  “What if I answered some questions for your readers??”

“Like a Q&A??” I almost couldn’t believe my ears!

“Yeah!  You get the questions and then I’ll answer them!”

I squee’d and jumped up and hugged him and promised him I would.

So, sweet Internet Boyfriend, if you happen to have any questions for TN, now’s your chance!

Ask anything you like in the comments (or send me an email if you’re feeling shy) and I’ll pass them on and whip up a post with his answers in a week or two! 

Damn.  I think my head is going to explode from writing that last sentence.  It may not seem like a big deal to y’all, but for me it seems an awful lot like amazingness.  My muse — my central character — is coming to life with his own voice and by his own choice!  It’s like someone is writing my story now…



I do what I can.

It’s not much, but here’s a little piece of me.


And to be clear: the post from yesterday is not a true life account of things between my father and me.

Dreams are often metaphors of our real lives and that therapy office and the relationships I thought I had with those male figures represent the space of this blog and the trust I have in all of you not to hurt me as I expose everything to you.

I’d like to think that my critic, Jiminy Cricket/Sonofabitch, didn’t mean to hurt me or make this space feel unsafe to me, but that has been the result. Even exposing my body today or for Boobday is a struggle.

fighting to be here, but it’s difficult knowing that whatever weakness I have in my walls of defense (that allowed my identity to become known) is still there — waiting to be found again — and maybe this time by a less benevolent individual.

I feel trapped, but I’m working my way out of it. I promise. Please bear with me.

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.



I sound like I’m gloating.


What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to you: Sometimes I get sick of myself.  I sound like I’m gloating.

Particularly when I look at my Chronology page.  Here I am writing about and documenting nearly every sexual encounter I’ve ever had over the past 3 years* and they’re all all, “Oh my god, it blew my mind!  I cried and he was huge and it was A.MAZ.ING!”

I cringe now at the long list, but when I started this blog I really just wanted a way to keep track of everyone I was screwing.  Now it just seems self-congratulatory.

But that list, and the content of this site, is deliberate.  First of all, it’s all true (yep, go ahead and hate), but second, I can’t write about anything else.  Not the other parts of my life or what else happens between The Neighbor and me because I’m trying to not to be the worst person in the world.

So, what does that leave me to write about?  Well, honestly, all the really great sex I’m having, and I suspect it’s similar for most sex bloggers out there.  Others wrote about this one-dimensionalness recently and it certainly resonated with me.

My new life since leaving my marriage has been documented from day 1 and I don’t want to give it up.  The Neighbor was just going to be another notch on my belt.  He wasn’t supposed to become a great love, but he has and here we are: he’s my main character in a really steamy romance about two semi-kinky people who can’t get enough.

I protect him and his anonymity by only writing about our sex.  Go ahead, lambast me for my contradictions and ongoing betrayal, but don’t worry, I’m my worst critic.  I’m president of the Hyacinth is a Deceitful Shit Club.

It just so happens the sex is pretty fucking good.  And I like writing about it.

That leads me to this: Does this ever get old for you?  Because it totally does for me.  Post after post saying basically the same thing: Hy got the bejeezus fucked outta her.  She’s in love.  She’s really happy.  Yay, her.  Blah blah blah.

Would it be better if I told you about how every once in a while I get bored with our equation of cuddles + erection + missionary + ankles on shoulders + orgasms + hitachi + more orgasms?

Well, it’s true.  Sometimes I do.

The point is, that even though I write about having a shit ton of really amazing sex I can still feel blasé about it, even a little bored.  I’m almost eager to tell you this because it makes me feel like less of a gloating asshole.

On the last occasion I was feeling antsy about our sex I mentioned it to him and we both laughed at my ridiculous critique.  “All I’m really saying is let’s do more and different positions like we used to!” I suggested.

His response was something along the lines of, “If it’s not broke don’t fix it!  But ok, we can mix it up!”  I was grateful he wasn’t taking it the wrong way and with a grain of salt.  He was sweet enough to take me seriously, but also laugh with me.  It’s highly likely I was also slightly hormonal and a little out of my mind.

Then, as if to prove a point, he took his erection, shoved it inside of me with him on top, brought me to the point of boiling over, hoisted my legs up and hitched my ankles on his shoulders and brought me to a couple of swirling orgasms before he then lay on his side, still buried in me, and handed me my Hitachi for a couple more orgasms.

His winning remark when we were done? “Now is that really all that bad??”

I laughed and shook my head, but said, “Yes, yes it was!” instead.

The next night he did me doggy-style and I logged it somewhere on this blog as, “Yet another amazing night of sex, ohemgeeeee!” But I hope you now know it’s only because I won’t write about the other parts of me and I don’t want to bore you with the lame stuff about my ridiculousness.

I’m not bragging or trying to make you feel bad about whatever, I just lucked the fuck out this go around — big time — and I’m a writer who needs to write, so here I am detailing yet another night of the awesome sexy time for all to see.

I promise I’m not really an asshole.  I just don’t have anything else I want to write about.

*though this blog is only 2 years old, it covers the previous year, as well.

My political career is ruined: I have too many tit pics on the internet and a secret sex blog


I read something recently that made me sit up straight. Liza, a fellow secret sex blogger, relayed her experiences behind the velvet ropes of writing about a private sex life for an anonymous audience. She wrote for xoJane about the stress of having a secret sex blog and the pressures to share nude photos (emphasis mine),

The easiest way to get more [traffic] meant traveling a path I resisted. There is tremendous pressure on women sex bloggers to show our bits to the world, to prove we aren’t hideous hags, and to fuel reader fantasies. I’m no prude, but we all have limits, and sharing naked pics on the internet is mine.

On one hand, I proved sex blogging can be sexy without sharing naked snapshots. On the other, I suspect some in the sex blogger world never took me seriously because I refused to take off my clothes. I’m glad I’ve never posted nude photos, and I’m glad the people who do take me seriously are the people who appreciate what I write. I’ve saved countless emails and comments in which readers share how my writing moved them and helped them evince a change in their own sex lives, and that feels amazing.

photo 1

First, I don’t feel pressure to expose myself because, by nature, I am an exhibitionist. Call me slutty, trampy, easy, whatever, but the fact remains, I enjoy showing off my body for no other reason than the thrill of it.

My traffic is the same whether I post nudie pics or not. In fact, some of my most-commented-on and/or popular posts are image-less (Sometimes, I want to shut it all down, I fucked a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched., He takes me for granted, and I know how to squirt) or rated PG (Holding my breath, Please excuse my vanity, and Neither of us could resist), therefore I feel as though exposing myself is entirely my choice, not something I have to do to feel taken seriously or to increase my traffic.

And second, I suspect I am no less respected or shown less interest from the sex-blogging community because sometimes I choose to keep it wrapped up; some of my favorite blogs on the planet use only their words (You Linger Like a Haunting Refrain, Leah Lays London, Theo Black, and Story of Alice).

I share my body with you, the world, most simply because I can and want to. It’s naughty, it’s dangerous, it’s exhilarating, liberating, and a big, fat turn on. It may also come as no surprise that I need the feedback.


What I get from posting pictures of my body is a sense of self outside of my own head. I see who I am to others reflected in comments and positive words and a passionate kiss from a man who was lucky enough to see the pixels of me earlier that day on his phone. I admit that this is an unconventional approach to a self-esteem, but it works for me.

I reject the notion that I must be all I need to myself, that I should feel beautiful and desirable all on my own. I believe it’s a personal equation for all of us of self and other. It may be that my “other” is a bigger portion than your other, but I’m ok with that. It’s working for me.

I am hanging out to dry every last stitch of my dirty laundry and it is cathartic, titillating, and never-endingly fascinating work. It feels natural to be this open. It’s who I am. Therefore I share my body, in part I suspect, because I am an “attention whore” as N. mentions in his Top 10 Reasons Sex Bloggers Blog Sex. Perhaps that’s the easiest way of categorizing myself — I did just admit to needing attention, after all.

N. could be onto something:

9) We’re exhibitionists who get off on revealing in public what usually is private.

8) We’re attention whores.


Which brings me to a larger issue in general about exposing oneself online: it is regarded as negative, full stop.

I have used the words “attention whore,” admitted to knowing I may be regarded as “slutty, trampy, easy, or whatever,” and it is implied that I may not be taken as seriously as a real writer because I remove my clothing.

Keeping our bodies hidden from public view is culturally normal in most industrialized countries, but we’re not “culturally normal” here, are we? We read and write about sex when we’ve been raised to believe it is a private act between one woman and one man.

Current cultural mores of our time mean we never express ourselves outside a hetero- monogamous cisgendered norm — or the bedroom — but around these parts, that’s not what we are and it’s certainly not what I am. I am a bisexual, relationship-flexible, sex-positive woman, writer, and exhibitionist. And I show lots of T and A.

I find it odd that a politician can survive sketchy political behavior, even illegal, but if his penis is found on the internet, he is ruined. I shudder to think what would happen to a female politician in a similar situation. She would be labeled “whore” (as if that’s such a bad thing) and every smart, intelligent thing that ever came out of her mouth would be ignored in the shadow of her naked tits because we are uncomfortable with anyone sharing their body with someone outside the confines of a bedroom.


The message we’ve received about nudity is that it is bad.

It’s partly why I started the Boobday project, to show other people out there that sharing your body with others is a powerful statement of choice, power, and sensuality, that it is a compelling instrument of personal emotional change and acceptance and it doesn’t have to be regarded with such side-eye. It’s not trashy.

I am a size 12, have stretch marks and cellulite and I enjoy exposing my body to strangers. Why a person’s life should be ruined because they express sensuality via an image is completely beyond me.  And why nudity somehow devalues the work it resides next to also escapes me.

To all the politicians of the world, I say, “Just make sure the recipient is trustworthy and don’t include your face or any defining markers!”

But I respect anyone who chooses not to — it works for them — and even I am not so open and free as some. I have hard limits, too: I never show any part of my pussy or pubic hair.

I reserve that for trusted lovers only, men who have seen it with their own eyes. I need to keep something forever hidden from the internet’s prying eyes. I share so much with you all here, I need something of just my own and I have decided it’s explicit photos of my naked body, my vagina, in particular. It’s mine, not yours.

New-ish, with some hyacinth blooms.

Sharing naked images is whatever you make of it. For me, it bolsters my self-esteem and empowers me, delivers me attention I crave and provides a platform for discussion of body image, lust, and creativity. I feel no less a creative because I use my naked body in posts. It’s another level of expression, a different kind of art.

And I find those who choose to keep their bodies private for their own lovers no less delectable or interesting. Different strokes for different folks and all that. My only wish is that we could all feel wholly comfortable with our decisions, never pressured and never judged.

I’m curious to learn why others post pictures. Is Liza alone in feeling pushed to post nudity or am I the anomaly? The results will be skewed, I’m sure, since I participate in a fairly nekkid community of writers (and readers) these days. I wish I could put this out to the world at large to see what they would say, but alas, only a certain portion of the population would ever Google “How to squirt” or “I want to fuck my neighbor.”

[Ed. Note: I chose those snippets of Liza’s post because I didn’t relate to them at all. I don’t believe she’s deliberately implying anything about those of us who post pics, but it reads that way each time I go over her entire post.

I have no issue with her feelings about her own blog and herself in it; her piece just inspired me to clarify my own motivations for being such an exhibitionist and why I post naked pictures of myself.

I also wanted to make clear that I felt like my writing was strong enough on its own and that the pics are purely for my emotional benefit, not for traffic’s sake.

I think she’s a talented writer and she shares a rare writing point of view with a smaller number of sex-bloggers, but she certainly doesn’t speak for all of us — not that that was what she was trying to do.]