I show my tits on Christmas Day.

I woke up before my baby did and laid in the cool pre-dawn light with the purring breath of my child beside me. My mom’s noise maker imitated some kind of happy meadow somewhere. I wished I was there.

Not because I didn’t want my baby pressed against me like a warm rag-doll and not because I didn’t want to be with my parents who love me, but because the pain of my new life often overwhelms me and I wanted to get away.

The man I love is states away with a family who doesn’t know I exist and likely never will and my ex-husband is surrounded by his new girlfriend and her family making their own traditions, steeping their own new love together. I am pursuing a career I’m uniquely suited for, but the runway for launch is getting shorter and shorter and I am terrified. I rarely sleep for worry is the elixir I can’t seem to refuse.

I feel so very, very alone.

And so I got up and had a quiet cup of coffee with my stepdad and waited for Peyton to arise.

I also sent a racy collage to The Neighbor. It’s the only thing I’m allowed to give him. I’d much rather have sent a text that said, “Merry Christmas, honey. I love you and am so very grateful to have you in my life. Wish you were here.” To which he’d naturally respond, “I love you, too! You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Give Peyton a kiss for me.”

But I can’t. And he will never.

I’m forced to express all my feelings, all my affection, through sexual means. I have painted the beigest version of me — Hy = sex — when there are so many other colors to add. Oh well.

And he has barricaded himself behind some kid of voodoo that prevents him from ever either a) loving me or b) admitting to it. Oh well again.

Today I’ve cooked and drank and eaten cookies made by my exhusband’s girlfriend — I’m fairly certain they weren’t poisoned. Then like a slap I realized he didn’t get me anything.

No gift “from” Peyton and not from him, though he got my parents a bottle of wine and I even told him both Peyton and I were giving him gifts.

I sat on the couch trying not to be butt hurt because that’s just bad form, but I admit (ashamedly) I’m not sure I succeeded. It’s just another reminder of my loneliness.

I am not important to him anymore. As it should be, but fuck, it burns. Worse than my foot that was doused in boiling water last night.

It all seems so accidental. Love, pain, life. I’m going to drink more champagne, kiss on my sweet baby love, and think about Saturday night. That should be enough to get me through the rest of the day.

If not, there’s always a hot bath and some wine once I get home.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone! I love you all

I bruised my hand from spanking.

Wine glass in hand I lay on Tina’s bed.  She was touching up the paint on her toes and we were talking life, love, and threesomes.  My phone chimed.

“It’s The Neighbor, isn’t it?”

I picked it up.  “Yep,” I said smiling.  It was his cock.

He knew I was over there.  I’d asked him to send me a cock pic earlier and he’d asked for a minute or two to clean up from the gym.  I’d told him, “Good boy,” and sent him a picture of my cleavage with Tina’s cool hand in the cleft.

“Jesus Christ,” he’d texted.  “I appreciate you so much.  I’ll be home in a few minutes, unless I crash while looking at that picture in which case I will die smiling.”

TN has been body-snatched, y’all.

“I’ll be home soon,” I’d replied.  “Leave your door unlocked.  What a sweet boy.”

Fifteen minutes later he sent the perfect Bat Signal: the image of him buck-ass naked holding his giant erection.

My response was immediate to him.  “Wow. Got the pic.  Leaving this second.”  I turned to Tina.  “I gotta go,” I told her laughing.

“Yeah, you do. Damn, that guy has it bad for you.  What the hell did he say to you just now?”

Nothing,” I smirked.

He answered the door glowing white and naked and let me in.  I walked back to his bed and sat down, but he begged me to get up.  He still hasn’t been able to stabilize it since we broke it last week.  “Just go next door.  I’ll be right there.  I promise.”

I complied and no sooner had I hung up my purse and things than he walked through the door, sadly clothed.  We sat on the couch and found each other with our mouths.  My hands ran up his shorts and found his arousal.  I peeled off my sweater and glowed under his appraising eyes.  I have never felt more beautiful with this man than I have in the past 48 hours.

I sucked and kneaded and kissed and nibbled.  He sucked and kneaded and kissed and nibbled.  “Lets go in your room,” he said.

He unzipped my boots with his teeth and tossed them on the floor with a laugh.  I was in black lace panties and knee-high socks with white stripes at the top.  “Jesus Christ, you’re hot,” he moaned and fell on top of me, crushed me with his mouth and muscles and warm, creamy skin.

“I want to turn your lily-white ass red,” I moaned back.

He stopped short then kept kissing me, dipping into my mouth and looking into my eyes.  I stared back at him, bold and unafraid of my own passion.  “Yes.  Get on your belly.”

He rolled off of me and lay quietly below me.  I spread his knees and positioned myself between them and struck his right buttock.  Hard. “What do you want to tell me if you’ve had enough?” I asked him, too shy to say “safeword.”

“You mean a safeword??”

“Yes.  I’m going to hurt you, but I’m no sadist.  You have all the control here.  What’s your word?”

“Kiwi.”

“Good.  Thank you,” I said and cracked my hand down on his right flank.  I struck and wailed and rained my hand down upon him.  He writhed and tried to crawl away from me.  I wrapped my arm beneath his hips and pulled him back to me.  Asked him if I ever tried to get away from him?

I pressed my thighs into his and kissed his inflamed skin, crooned to him, told him he was a good boy.  I told him how hot he was.

He whimpered and tried to curl up with each blow, but it took no effort for me to pull him closer back to me, to my warmth and love.

I concentrated on one space of his canvas only occasionally breaking to the left.  My hand stung and my pussy dripped.  I felt time freeze and my heart swell outside of my body.  I could see every hair on his body and smell his pleasure and his fear and his contentment like fresh-baked cookies.

I paused as he laughed and cried into the mattress.  I felt a strange kind of remorse for what I’d done, but also a sick sense of pride.  I needed to care of him.  “I’ll be right back,” I told him.  “Don’t move, honey.”

I ran and grabbed an ice-cube and returned to the glowing ember of his ass.  He started when I put the cool rock on his skin, but relaxed as it slid beneath my palm.   As the water ran down his hips and between his buttocks I caressed the heat and pressed my lips to him.

“Is that better?” I whispered against his bottom and kissed it tenderly.

“Yes,” he answered and then my hand cracked down on the wet spot.

I fondled his soft cock and gently tugged on his balls as I brought the heat back to his backside, then slid my hand to his crack and pressed at the little starfish in the center.  He tried to retreat.  “I won’t hurt you.  It’s ok.”

“But what if I’m dirty?”  he worried.

“You’re not dirty.  Your ass is beautiful and I want it.  Come here,” and I pulled him back to me and spread his knees further.  “Arch your back,” I said softly.  He arched and I pressed just one slender finger inside of him.  He was so tight I felt my own center quicken.  Oh, how I wished I had a cock to slip deep inside of him, all the way to my hips, to feel him tight around me and writhing.   Men are so lucky.

I felt for the invisible scar on his lower back with my free hand and kissed its raised skin, wishing all the reasons it was there never existed.  My poor friend.  He never deserved any of that.  My breasts pressed into his soft ass.

I barely wiggled around inside of him, only one knuckle, and continued to spank him.  I was afraid of going too far with my fragile new toy; my finger one little thread holding the beautiful puppet before me.

“I want to leave a mark on you, like you do me.” I told him.

“Do it,” he agreed.  “Let’s see how you’re doing so far.”  I let him get up and he swung his bottom into the light of the bathroom.  There were broken capillaries, but no deep, blooming welts like he leaves on me.  With a quick hand I struck him again.  He winced, but remained still.

My hand stung and throbbed and I suddenly knew we were done.  I couldn’t think straight, my memory of minutes before was blurry.  I’m not even sure I have the lead up to this right.  I could be writing complete fiction.

I next remember laying with him and him asking me, “When did this happen, Hy?  I didn’t know you had this in you.”

I thought for a second.  “It’s always been there, but this trust you give me, it sets it free.  It’s so hot, so beautiful.  It turns me on so much. You have no idea.  Do you like it??”  Suddenly I was unsure, worried I’d hurt him, terrified him.

“Yes,” he answered.  Maybe he said he loved it or thought it was fucking hot.  Again, I can’t remember, my brain was scrambled and I still can’t sort it all out.

He stroked me, kissed me, touched me, dipped his fingers inside and exclaimed at my wetness.  He started to slam his hand inside of me and a climax came up and washed over me and right out my pulsing hole, a river of emotion and arousal bounding down a mountainside of flesh.

Then he pulled me into his arms and held me and kissed me tenderly.  “Do you ever have to think about it when you spank me?” I asked him.  “Does it come naturally to you?  You’re not just doing that for my sake, are you?”

“No, not at all.  I love it.  It just happens to me, too.”

He rolled into me and spooned me warmly, wrapped his arm around me and squeezed and kissed my neck.  I began to talk gibberish and found myself awakening in mid-sentence as I struggled to maintain consciousness.  He giggled at me and I flushed at my own vulnerability — the only thing worse would be to be caught drooling in my sleep.

He rose then and tucked me in.  I muttered something — incoherent, perhaps — and I’d like to think he kissed me somewhere before leaving saying he’d lock the door behind him, but I don’t remember.  I was already fast asleep, my hand scalded and bruised from abuse.

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I will never shake hands cavalierly again.

 

 

I have sweater puppies.

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Fuzzy cafe latté swells in a dressing room.

I treat my pseudo-boyfriend to my breasts daily: barely awake breasts, lusty lunchtime boobs, sexy snack time tits, breasts while shopping, chatting, working. I supply cleavage to this man like a dealer with a soft spot.

He said he liked to play with sweater puppies. Naturally I spoke on their behalf, “And they like getting played with. Wanna give ’em kisses later tonight? Like at 10?”

He sadly couldn’t commit, “I may not have time,” he texted. “But I’ll be in touch later tonight.”

I smiled and moved throughout my day wondering why he insisted on vague responses. I attended meetings, mothered, made a creamy thyme risotto for me and my little one.

My last meeting, with Peyton in tow, caused us to climb the stairs at a little past 9 pm; a long day for us both.

I read books and snuggled and kissed, started a fire, removed my bra which had been doing its best to deflate my right breast with an errant underwire, and changed into my own pajamas.

I texted The Neighbor again. “No puppy-kissing tonight. But if you want to just hang out, I’m down.”

I was surprised by his swift response, “I’m at work :-( Why no puppy-kissing, though?”

I couldn’t ignore the truth: I was simply not in the mood. But instead of responding with that, I sent him a picture of my breast bathed in firelight.

“What the fuck?!?! Why can’t I have that??”

I smiled wickedly and tapped out the truth. “Oh, I dunno. Just tired. Got a long, busy day tomorrow. :)”

The other piece to this is that if I am to remain safe from myself I have to deny him, deny us. I must become unavailable so I may be available to other things: quiet time, my career, my baby, my sexual escapades with different men.

I am launching a new Hyacinth, one more like the old. This one will be a “cheater,” though no vows or promises have been made. This one will protect her home and body for herself and her young lover, but will use the world and others as her sexual game preserve and her prey, respectively. Two lives, one woman.

And then I sent him another shot of me bare-breasted in front of the crackling fire. I felt bad for him working so late. “You can come over and lay with me in front of the fire. Maybe kiss the puppies if it’s not too late.”

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Naked puppies.

But he’s still stuck at work and sent a picture of a very sad man saddled with headphones glowing under fluorescent lights. “It’s gonna be a long time still,” he texted.

It’s just as well.

The thing is, I want to get to a place with him where he can’t hurt me. Not believing in forever is the theory, but the practice is much different. I don’t want it to sting when I learn he’s made Thanksgiving plans and didn’t include me, though he hinted at us spending it together before. It’s pointless and it will corrode the shine on what we’re doing with each other now.

In a couple of weeks, we’ll have been together for a year. In another year, I suspect our affair will have ended completely and I will be in another quagmire with a different man. It’s the cycle of things.

I’ve learned, suffered, loved, hated, laughed and cried rivers. It’s been a lively life the last year. Colorful and passionate. It’s been brilliantly stupid and wickedly smart. I’ve learned I crave a certain amount of abuse and rejection: it’s my greatest failing and my biggest embarrassment. It’s still a lesson.  I know I make it seem all pretty, but really, I’m just a fantastically huge idiot.

Regardless of all of it, I’m going to keep sending sweater puppies to my man-puppy.  It makes us both feel better.

Even I can’t stop the seasons.

Love and interest are fickle friends.  For months I was moon-eyed over my young lover.  I noticed when his car was home, if his lights were on.  I held my breath when his door slammed shut — would my door rattle from his knuckles 2 seconds later??  Seeing his boyish face made my day, hearing his deep, news-broadcaster voice tickled me, and seeing his fit, hair-dusted body made me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present and pounce.

But something has changed.

It is the autumn of my affair with The Neighbor.  Spring brought passion and bursts of colors; highs were the only notes on the breeze.  Summer was long and arduous — I barely survived the heat of my own emotions, his refusal of me, and our irrefutable chemistry.  Today, it is fall.  The leaves of my love are turning and will soon waft to the ground like so many dizzying streaks of gold.  When winter comes, the blanket of cold will insulate me as I rejuvenate away from him and our strange, misshapen relationship.

I don’t know when or how it happened, but it did.  His glorious, meaty cock still haunts me and I admit to lusting after it, but my conquering of it is no longer tied to my heart.  If I get to wrap my fingers around hot pinkness, then so be it.  If not, oh well.  I will live without sex.  A piece of Hy dies as I write that.

Saturday night was a dazzling night in our hobbled relationship.  As asked, I woke him up in time to get ready.  It wasn’t my fault that calling his name and gently shaking him didn’t work and my only option was to slip my hand beneath his puffy white comforter and find his sleeping manhood with my hand.  What else should I have done?  Honestly.

I stroked him slowly while I watched his face, his eyes covered in the black mask that had come with his bondage kit.  His breathing was even and ignorant of my presence.  I increased the pressure of my hand and he jerked awake.

“What the hell??”

“Wake up, TN,” I said smiling.

He pulled the mask off and looked at me bleary-eyed.  He rolled onto his back so I could get full access to his erection.

“Can you wake me up like this every day?”

“You say that nearly every day.”

“Well, I mean it.”

I ignored him and continued my ministrations.

It wasn’t long before I swung a boot clad leg over his waist and slowly slid down on him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ridiculously tacky sequined wolf shirt sparkling in the candlelight.  His cock hit me in my throat and I flushed with warmth as I rocked on him.  He gripped my waist and I increased my tempo.  Tremors skittered across my skin as a climax snaked its way through me.

He reached for my breasts, but pulled his hands back with a laugh when he got nothing but sequins.  I laughed, too, and bent over and kissed him just as I released around us both.  “I guess I’ll have to take a shower now before the party,” he murmured into my mouth.

“I guess so.”

At the party he was attentive and hovering.  He encouraged me to eat off his appetizer plate, refilled my glass, and was sure to be shoulder to shoulder with me whenever another man came within my orbit.  I was amused and smiled to myself.  Silly Neighbor, I thought, tricks are for kids.

Our chemistry ultimately belied our ruse of easy, close friendship when an old friend of mine cornered him and asked if he and I had ever dated.  His “No comment,” clearly an admission of guilt, her smile of satisfaction an admission of her pride of sniffing us out.

Our dance continues, but the song is ending.  How many loving, connected conversations can we have?  How many tiffs easily repaired?  How many mind-blowing sexual encounters?  How many tears, hugs, kisses, games, and parries before we admit it will never be more than this?

He thinks we will be friends in 10 years.  He thinks we’ll be close friends in 10 years.  How do I tell him that it might not happen?  That I see no such future between us?  That things are winding down?

He came over last night because he was sad.  I rubbed his chest, made him laugh, and finally slipped my hand into his shorts to grip his pretty, pretty penis and rub it to a big, full handful.  He flipped me on my back and filled me to the brim.  The lights were on and I struggled under his steady, smirking gaze as I slowly, embarrassingly lost my shit beneath him.

I drenched my bed and us, climaxed and orgasmed around him, heaved and sobbed little dry sobs and then we talked some more.  He was back to being sad and anxious about an upcoming trip home.  I told him he’d do great, that he had this.  He’d be back before he knew it.  He lazily traced lines on my arm with the pads of his fingertips.  It was close to 2 am and my yawns came more frequently.

We joked about the sexy pics we’d exchanged lately.  The one of him with his fat cock hanging out of his jeans and poking up past his t-shirt-covered belly button and the one where I’m stretched out on my side pulling down my pj shorts.  I wanted him to make that his phone wallpaper and vice versa.  I’m going to stump for it.

Good morning.

“What do you do with the pics I’ve sent you?” I wondered.

“I keep them all.  They’re on my phone,” he paused for a beat then said, “And I appreciate every single one of them.  Very, very much.”

Words like those from him are like cool drafts of water on my parched throat.  “Well, I’m glad.”

More yawning.  More snuggling.  More laughing.

Then he realized the time and dressed.  I called him over to me before he left, “C’mere.  Let me give you a hug.”  I stood on my knees on the bed, letting the sheets drop, and held out my arms.  He walked into them awkwardly.  I kissed him on the cheek and squeezed anyway.  This is what friends do, after all: they support and love.  “You’re gonna do great.  I promise.  Good luck.”

He squeezed back and put his other hand gingerly on my hip before he pulled away.  “Thanks.”

He walked out of my room and I called out, “Safe travels!!” then, “And thanks for the fuck!”

I heard him laugh as he shut the front door behind him and I snuggled down into bed.  The towel covering the epic wet spot pleasantly rough on my bare bottom.

I remember the month of July as the month I couldn’t breathe and food tasted like packing popcorn.  I laid nearly comatose every spare second I had in bed watching Cheers in between fleeting hookups and interactions with him and going to work.  I knew then that it would pass.  I knew it.  I’ve been through worse and came out alive, after all, but fucking Christ was it unpleasant.

I had to let myself be a pathetic, sniveling shit for a few weeks in order to move to the next season.  I molted.  It wasn’t obvious then because I hadn’t fully emerged yet, but I’d like to think it’s more apparent now.  I forget about him most days and I check my libido at the door like a good, stoic German woman should.  She has better things to do than lead with her pussy all day.

I wonder what the future of this blog will be as I enter this strange limbo of autumn.  I am extremely busy — too busy to go hunting — but this is a blog about my dissolute life and I’m not feeling all that dissolute.  I’m beginning to feel like now Hyacinth is that best friend I made at summer camp, but I really, really don’t want to see her go.  Not just yet.

I still want to be dissolute.

I touch my tits to other tits.

Noodle’s, specifically. She made me take my shirt off for this.

I get spanked.

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I finally said NO.

I struggle with a very little word:  NO.

Its power, its simplicity, its implied worth of the owner all conspire to tangle me up, but last night I managed a very polite, No Thank You to The Neighbor.

This week has been an odd one for the two of us.  After the weekend he disappeared Monday, but kept popping up throughout the week.  He stopped by Tuesday night, popped out on the balcony twice Wednesday, and stopped by again Thursday.  Each time I had my hand on the doorknob I chanted to myself, “Sorry, now isn’t a good time,” and each time I found my hand twisting the metal and swinging the door open wide.

On the balcony, I just felt violated.  He knows I’m out there a lot; just leave me alone already.

I was tested — and failed — at every turn this week.  He was home alone all week.

And as I struggled to keep my hands off my body yesterday I found connections to my other struggles and a way to regain some power.  TN had been bursting into my space, so I was going to burst into his.

I buried myself in our nearly year-long text thread and dug up glorious cock pic after cock pic, found my favorite one of his giant erection glistening with pre-cum and sent it to him.  We bantered and laughed.  I told him why I was abstaining.

It’ll be good for me.  I’m gonna do a week at a time.  Never done this before. Want to test myself  Also, I made a pact with a fiend of mine in the UK.  He needs support to not wank 10x a day so he can finally cum in his wife :).  I offered support.

His response was, “Awww I feel for him.”

I said, “I know you do.  Made me think of you.”

Later, I asked him if he wanted to come over to play Scrabble some time after 9:30.  He said he’d likely pass because he was tired, crabby, and needed to recharge.  I told him if he changed his mind to just let me know.

I felt guilty for instigating contact on the one hand, blithely apathetic on the other.  Fuck it.  Fuck me.  Fuck him.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with a girlfriend in my pool drinking cheap white wine.  At 5, we got our kids from school and made plans to meet up for dinner at a local family joint.  Peyton and I got there early and I stood close to the jungle gym while I waited for our table.  Misters over the diners made the air thick and wet and children’s laughter and screaming mixed with the folk-singers on the makeshift stage.  The cacophony of vibrant sounds and colors poured through me.

I breathed deeply and felt anchored.  Happy.  Nothing else mattered in that moment except me and Peyton.

My friend and her kid soon arrived under twinkling stars and beaming smiles.  We laughed and talked and ate heartily for two hours before I began to sag with fatigue.  I begged off around 9 and Peyton and I made bedtime negotiations in the car on the way home.  As I wearily climbed the three flights of stairs with a little hand clenched in mine I noticed my bag of trash was gone.  I asked Peyton if it’d been there when we’d left. “Yes,” was the reply.

And then this happened:

My answer was, “Nope.”

One of the things I’d noticed by revisiting our old text thread was that in the beginning of our tryst I was very unavailable.  I was either too tired or busy, and somewhere along the line that changed.  I’d given all my power of NO away.   I didn’t want to pass up a single chance to see him and so exhausted, cranky, whatever, I would let him spend time with me whenever he wanted to.  In the end, he was calling all the shots.

Last night, I finally did something I could be proud of.  I said, NO.  I listened to my body and my heart for a change, my body and heart, not Hy’s.  Hyacinth would have bent over backwards to accommodate this man.  She ignores the fact I’m run down and heart-weary, but I don’t.  I’m going to look out for the both of us.  And my reward was a long night’s rest, a minor power shift, and a little peace of mind.

The only drawback to this whole thing was falling asleep at 10 pm meant I woke up at 6 am horny as hell.   Not a bad trade off, really.

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.

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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 promise not to orgasm or fuck for a week.

You read that shit right.

My wet lips, my moist panties, the tightening in my cunt as I walk, sit, feel my short cotton skirt stretch across my thighs all must be ignored and beaten out of my mind.

A small exercise in control; a muscle flexed to prove a point; running in knee-deep water at sunset with a cocktail in my hand.

It’s possible, though unenjoyable. I’ve joined the other team, it seems. I’m part of the Peanut Gallery to pulse-thumping fucking and a compatriot to self-restraint.

I’m no longer the main event in these parts.

And I’m ok with that.

This is a new Hy, I suppose. For a week. It will steel my resolve for every time The Neighbor stops by for no reason for 3 minutes or pops his head over his balcony bars on a muggy morning while my baby and I are eating breakfast high above the palm trees.

I have made a promise to a friend — sweet, pervy AM — to not release myself. I can keep a promise to him. Not myself.

Sad, yes, but true.

So today, Wednesday, marks the first day of one whole week of abstaining from both orgasm and sex. A week from today I will post pics of me writhing and cumming with glee. Hopefully. Cross your fingers my partner in this gets laid because then I can at least touch myself.

The deal is, I won’t fuck anyone and AM won’t wank. And since we both find it unlikely he’ll have sex in the next week, I’ve decided to be a sister in arms and give up jerking off, too.  It’s only fair.

I will be a pulsing, whinnying mare in heat in seven days, guaranteed. I might also shit epiphanies and giggle rainbows. Regardless, whatever you do, don’t send me cock pics, ok?? (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com).

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Kiss me I’m drunk or Irish or whatever.

And PS:  Holy fuck! The ubiquitous Rincewind featured me today! I’m so honored and humbled!  Wowza!

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.

 

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